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Table Of Contents
J.J. Cale 0003 0017
Cream 0017 0022
Blind Faith 0022 0041
Eric Clapton 0041 - 0107
The Beatles 0107 0375
The Doors 0375 0427
Hubert Sumlin 0427 0431
Jimi Hendrix 0431 0456
Janis Joplin 0456 0490
Led Zeppelin 0490 0590
The Faces 0591 0668
Creedence Clearwater Revival 0669 0719
The WHO 0720 0973
King Crimson 0973 0984
The Kinks 0984 1055
The Animals 1056 1082
The Band 1082 1162
T-Bone Burnett 1164 1169
Jethro Tull 1175 1177
Crosby Stills Nash & Young 1178 1179
Chuck Berry 1180 1181
Bob Dylan 1182 1183

boring, or at least drift out of the listeners

consciousness, but the mix deftly keeps shifting the
focus. One minute the words become clearly
audible, the next a guitar break flutters in a space.
Its like those TV close-ups at a party, where the
camera is trained on a face which begins to lose
focus, and the eye is guided to another face,
beyond, which has now come clear. Significantly, in
the lists of personnel under each track on Really,
the first name is always the engineer.

J.J. Cale
J.J.Cale: Really
Charlie Gillett, Let It Rock, May 1973

It is arbitrary and unnecessary to pick out particular

tracks. If you accept J.J.s approach, the whole
album is a luxurious pleasure; if you dont, there
isnt one song that could convince you more than
the others. Lies was chosen as a 45, and was
specially beefed up with horns to add emphasis for
US radio; but Ridin Home or Mojo would have
done J.J. more justice.

If J.J. Cale were told to climb a mountain, hed

probably ask to be blindfolded and then start
walking up backwards. He likes to make things hard
for himself. And he also makes things hard for
anybody who would like to explain what a great
man he is.
Geoff Lane made a valiant effort on J. J.s behalf in
the April issue of Let It Rock, describing J.J.s
Oklahoma upbringing, his self-effacing character,
his utilization of Southern session musicians. But all
of that helps only when the reader has heard the
music, has been intrigued by a singer with less
body than a ghost and a music which seems
instantly familiar and yet is like nothing else. Really.

If Tony Joe White had inherited the musical instincts

of Jimmy Reed, he might have matched J.J. Cale.
As it is, musicians for years to come will listen to
this man who seeps music out through his pores,
vainly hoping to be as relaxed as him while flicking
a little guitar solo off. And anybody who comes into
possession of either Naturally (J.J.s first LP) or
Really will smugly sympathize with the poor sods
who dont have such a magical alternative to Radio
One.

As with too many other outstanding records, the

reviewer comes to Really uncomfortably aware the
readers wont have heard J.J. on the radio. Yet the
music has universal appeal, the authenticity of 50s
rock n roll presented with sophisticated studio
techniques. Comfortable, yet modern: an unusual
combination.

Charlie Gillett, 1973

J. J. Cale: Really

A soft voice, husky at the edges, murmurs words

that feel right in their moment and are then
forgotten, over soothing guitar, bass, and drums
whose sound is varied from track to track by piano,
fiddle, steel, even banjo once. It could become

Robot A. Hull, Creem, 1 August 1973

J.J. CALE just loves to mumble. Like, if he were

peeking over my shoulder right now, watching me
write this, and I suddenly asked him if he's pleased
with the results of his new album, well, he just might
fumble his sandpaper hands thru that brush crop on
his head and dribble an ant twitch like: "Yup." I
mean, what else could he say??

who could look kool like Elton John but didn't have
to kool ya out to prove it). But this is nothing more
than a collection of songs which just don't make an
album. Sure, it's got the same laid back atmosphere
and the crap is all recorded in the usual downhome
grooveout joints like Muscle Shoals and Bradley's
Barn, but I fell asleep before the first side was over
(which really don't mean shit cause I been snoozing
at McLaughlin and Cactus concerts lately).

Cause if you really listen to J.J. Cale ya got no

choice but to fall asleep. Goddamn, kidz, this dude
is dead!! Not only does he just soul screw around
and say "Sheesh," but he's the laziest sonuvabitch
since Michael Hurley hit the jackpot. That's right
just another lazy southern drunk.

Nevertheless, it's a great LAZY album that ya can

relax to when ya don't feel like doin' nuttin' but sittin'
around doin' nuttin'. And if bland southern drone
elpees like this keep pouring outa Rebel territory
then the South definitely will rise again. Like, take
yer overalls off and settle into a warm bubble bath
and let yer thoughts swirl away with J.J. Cale, a true
southern bum.

Which ain't a myth neither. Every one of us

southerners gets a kick outa simply puttering
around with the lawnmower or dipping snuff and
chomping on chaw tobacco or greasing rifles or
guzzling grits or scraping off peach fuzz or fucking
loose cows. Yeah, we know how to play it kool
naturally, but J.J. Cale best of all cause he can do it
without playing like a yukyuk rocky raccoon (along
the lines of baloney bladder like Goober Pyle,
Festus and Little Luke).

Robot A. Hull, 1973

J.J. Cale's Cooking a

Low-Burner Affair

And on stage this creep is even more obnoxious

than John Fahey. Well, Fahey would often run thru
a six-pack of Colt 45 before he'd even say anything,
then he might just start tuning up. You had to be
pretty goddamn patient to sit through one his ragas,
too. But J. J. Cale is even worse! I'll be doggone if
he don't bring a portable TV out with him as he
gooses onto the platform, and then he turns it on
and starts watching it in front of his audience (which
would be some kinda heavy statement if it weren't
J. J. Cale) and begins yakking about all of his
favorite shows from wayback then to now (with
such a detailed monologue that you'd swear you'd
just entered Sherman's Wayback Time Machine).
He likes what you and I like best McHale's Navy,
The Beverly Hillbillies, The Paul Lynde Show,
Tugboat Annie and especially Amos 'n' Andy.
Usually after about two hours of TV chatter, the
audience starts yawning and jeering and pleading
for Little Rock Willie (an old blues coot who tags
along with "Boss Man" Cale) even tho they know
he's gonna be just as boring and dull.

Don Snowden, Los Angeles Times, 16 October 1979

J.J. Cale: Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, Los

Angeles
J.J. CALE'S DISTINCTIVE blend of country and
blues stylings has been a highly influential force in
rock. Both Lynyrd Skynyrd and Eric Clapton have
recorded the singer-songwriter-guitarist's songs,
while Dire Strait's entire instrumental approach
owes a great debt to his economical style.
Cale's distaste for touring is well known and that
attitude was evident throughout his briskly paced
45-minute set at the three-quarter-filled Santa
Monica Civic Auditorium Friday night. It's impossible
to assess Cale's performance in terms of a "normal"
rock concert because the laconic Oklahoman
simply ignores any semblance of standard show-biz
trappings.
There were no spotlights during the performance
and stage lighting was minimal. Standing at stage
right, Cale cuts such an unobtrusive figure that,
when the first chords of his 'Cocaine' rang out after
an opening instrumental, many in the audience
were still waiting for him to walk onstage.

And, in any articles/interviews on J.J. Cale which

I've come across, in every fucking one of 'em, he
just dadblame don't talk. Somebody asks him a
question and he just nods or wiggles his ears. He'd
make a fantastic talk show host.

That left the focus entirely on the music but, despite

the jazzy swing provided by a three-man horn
section, the set was hampered by an inordinately
low sound level which deprived a willing audience

Therefore, there's absolutely nothing to this album.

It's not as good as the first cause at least on the first
ya knew you were on the threshold of a childhood
fantasy (and it was also a surprise to see someone

of the opportunity to move and respond to the

undeniable rhythmic swing of his music.

because you can't sneak into Tramptown and draw

a crowd. I try to keep as low a profile as I can and
still try to sell records, but if nobody knows you got
a record out, you're out of luck."

That Cale dislikes playing live and refuses to cater

to traditional notions of a rock performance isn't
terribly important. But his inability to present his
music in the best possible light cheated, to a certain
extent, an enthusiastic audience. Neil Larsen's
quintet opened with a moderately enjoyable set of
melodic, instrumental fusion music that worked best
when tied to Latin-tinged rhythms.

Cale is sitting on his couch, in the middle of a living

room, in the middle of his house, in the middle of
nowhere, in the middle of ... "Don't mention where I
live," he swiftly tells me. "Just say Southern
California." He pauses, then adds politely:
"Appreciate that." He is 55 years old, and we are
discussing his career.

Don Snowden, 1979

"I stopped a lot of people who wanted to shove me

into the real big time and that's great when your
ego wants you to say, Hey, I'm somebody, man. But
when I knew there were many days I just wanted to
be John Cale." The man whose mid-'60s
namechange to "J.J. Cale" came courtesy of
original Whiskey A Go Go owner Elmer Valentine
("It'll look better on the marquee," he assured Cale)
draws deeply from his cigarette. "So I kept all my
photographs off the albums. I looked at what I did
more as a craft or a trade than a career. That was
probably the smartest thing I ever did that and
getting into the songwriting business. Songwriting
pays real good if you're successful at it."

J.J.Cale: No Name, No
Number, No Pack Drill
Dave DiMartino, Mojo, July 1994

HE IS THE MOST unrecognizable man in pop

music; success, it seems, comes to him only when
he wants it. And a major part of the charm of J.J.
Cale is that his definition of success is unlike any
other performer's.
Example: As I pull my car in front of the gated
house where he's lived now for nearly five years, I
wonder how to alert the man inside that I've arrived
no easy task in view of the barking dog eyeing me
from behind the fence and the lack of any apparent
doorbell or gate intercom. I'm relieved when a
geezerish friend of his finally emerges, motioning
for me to ignore the noisy pooch and simply walk
around, past the large camper van ensconced in
the driveway, to the front door. By the time I get
there the man is gone and the door is closed. I
knock, and the same man reappears, opening the
door and warmly extending his hand.

That last sentence may yet to be chiselled on J.J.

Cale's gravestone, when and if he decides dying
might be worth the effort. Though his own sole
brush with the American Top 40 was 1972's 'Crazy
Mama', which ambled up to a Number 22 on the
Billboard singles chart, the Oklahoma-born guitarist
has essentially been set for life courtesy of three
other songs in his repertoire. Two of them 'After
Midnight' and 'Cocaine' can be found on Time
Pieces/The Best Of Eric Clapton, a collection by
another guitarist which even now, 12 years after its
release, remains one of the best-selling albums in
America. Radio airplay of the third, 'Call Me The
Breeze', covered by Lynyrd Skynyrd on their 1974
set Second Helping, "is actually probably about to
overtake 'After Midnight' and 'Cocaine'", says a
mystified Cale. "And you've gotta remember, that
thing's been around for 20 years."

The lanky, greying man I'd assumed was one of

Cale's cronies was in fact the same man I'd met
four years earlier and enjoyed a lengthy discussion
with; the same man I'd profiled for a magazine that
ran a large picture of him, his face deliberately
obscured by a down-turned baseball hat and much
tree shade; the same man who in the course of
making 11 albums has seen fit to include his picture
on their covers precisely once. His success? I
forgot what the hell he looked like.

In fact, of the three songs that have bought J.J.

Cale his fine, secluded house and his dazzling
array of recording equipment, 'Cocaine', the most
recent, appeared on his Troubadour album of 18
years ago. He continues to make fine albums of
which Closer To You, his first for Virgin Records, is
the newest though in some respects he really
needn't bother. What may be most fascinating about
this sweet, disarmingly-egoless man, is the fact that
he actually does bother.

"I prevented myself from becoming tremendously

famous," he remarks proudly, after he'd offered a
Coke, a beer, some bourbon, or any of the other
refreshments he'd purchased for the media guests
like myself, whose arrival he faces with stoic
resignation. "Interviews and photographs aren't
really my style," he says, drawling, "but I do it

Cale and I first spoke in 1990, about Travel-Log, his

first release on Andrew Lauder's Silvertone label,
marking the guitarist's return after a seven-year
retirement from record-making after an unsatisfying
stay at Phonogram. "I owed them a couple more
albums," he explained at the time, "and it seemed
like they wasn't selling, and it seemed like I was
tired. They was paying me a lot of money to make
the records, and I felt like I was giving them art
back, you know? And they can't really sell art. I was
kind of giving 'em my bag and they wanted hits. And
so I really felt uncomfortable, and that's one of the
reasons I asked to put out of my contract." Part of
the appeal of Silvertone, he then added, was its
small, independent status: "A big corporation has to
have hits more than a little corporation, because
their overhead's so high."

crowds that were going to nightclubs were generally

younger.
"So I had a band and, you know, Leon has a little
kind of band. And we all just kinda played in each
other's band. You working on Friday and Saturday
night? Would you like to play guitar for me? I've got
a gig over here at the Elks lodge. It was kind of a
trade-off. You'd be leader of the band if you could
get the gig, and then maybe the next week you'd be
playing with some other friend who had a gig and
you'd just be a sideman. That's the way that kind of
thing went on. Everybody was kind of even you
just traded it around."
But then Russell left for Los Angeles in the early
'60s, and returned raving about the financial
opportunities there. "You could actually play music
for a living there, he told us," says Cale. "In
Oklahoma, it was five bucks and all the beer you
could drink." It sounded good enough for Cale
along with a drummer and bass player to
accompany Russell for a second, longer stay in L.A.
Following a significant number of "Dream Gigs Of A
Lifetime" ("I'm talking six nights a week and nobody
in the joint," he remembers cheerlessly), Russell
graduated to union gigs with Ricky Nelson, while
Cale slogged it out in the nightclubs, eventually
landing a regular trio gig at the Whiskey A Go Go
during Johnny Rivers' off-nights. A singles deal with
Liberty Records ensued, courtesy of Hollywood
producer (and Russell familiar) Snuff Garrett. Cale
no longer has a copy of his third and final single
with the label, but it was released in 1965 and bore
that not-insignificant B-side 'After Midnight'.

Four years later, we sit in his living room discussing

Closer To You, recorded for a label no longer tiny
nor independent, Virgin Records (or "Thorn-EMI",
as Cale refers to them, "that's who owns the deal").
What's changed his perspective? "They're all alike,
the little guys and the big guys," he says with a
mild, lazy grin. "They want stuff to sell. You can call
it art, or hip, or not commercial or whatever but
still, everybody's in the business. The difference
between now and the last time I talked to you is I
learned to accept that I just can't turn anything in. If
I wanted to do that I guess I ought to form my own
record company and say, I like all 12 of these things
and I don't wanna change 'em."
Still, big label or small label, Closer To You, as he
himself is the first to admit, sounds exactly like all
J.J. Cale's other albums and, most importantly,
exactly like nobody else at all. "I tried like hell to
make them not sound the same," he attests in all
sincerity, "but when I go through and listen to 'em, I
go, Well, that's that thing I do, and I can't really get
away from it. And that's what I sell."

That single alone gave J.J. Cale his major brush

with pop immortality. But equally collectable is the
1967 treatise, 'A Trip Down Sunset Strip' by the
Leather Coated Minds, a one-off group of which
Cale was not only a member, but band leader. Just
hearing it mentioned, Cale snorts. "It's terrible," he
says, his eyes rolling upward. "Snuff Garrett come
to me one day and he says, John, psychedelic
music's really big. Make a psychedelic album of
cover tunes of all the hits of the day. 'Over Under
Sideways Down' was one of them. So I got all my
cronies in that meant we all could get session pay,
right? and I put it all together, went down and
bought all of the latest hits, the dope songs of the
day, and just did cover versions of them. It was
hideous, right? So Snuff sells it to Liberty and it
comes out. They couldn't have printed up more than
10 copies, and I think all 10 of those copies went
directly to England because when I went there 20
years ago, that's the first thing all those guys
brought up. Leather Coated Minds, Leather Coated
Minds."

CALE'S SPIT-AND-POLISH PERFECTIONISM, the

spirit that drives him to sometimes spend months in
his home studio fiddling with a tune that took only
minutes to write, would likely astound anyone who'd
seen him in his early days whether with his
late-'50s band Johnny Cale & the Valentines in
Nashville, or in Tulsa, Oklahoma, bar-banding it
with Okie pals like Leon Russell. "There was about
200,000 people who lived in Tulsa in the late '50s
and early '60s" Cale recalls. "And out of a town that
size, there was always about three or four
nightclubs that was happening, and about three that
weren't happening, and that's it, right? And then out
of that, there's the older musicians, the old swing
guys, saxophone players but that music had
faded out and rock 'n' roll was coming in. The

When that album failed to displace Sgt. Pepper

from the top of the charts, Cale who found himself
playing "gigs where they'd just pay you in dope"
high-tailed it back to Oklahoma to play lead guitar
for Don White, a local country singer who offered a
heady salary of 10 dollars a night. A year and a half
later, he was awakened by a late-night phone call
from an enthused Bobby Keys, who swore up and
down that he'd just emerged from a session in
which Eric Clapton had covered one of Cale's
songs.

Do you now?
"No, I don't," he says.
Why not?
"Oh, you know," he sighs. "It's a very accounting
kind of a job, and you start having to collect money
you collect money from Belgium, it's a whole
industry in itself. I'd just as soon give somebody 50
per cent and let them do all the paperwork and just
send me my share. And that's worked for me all
these years. I want to spend time making music; I
don't want to spend time collecting money."

"I said, Oh, man, don't call me in the middle of the

night. And I forgot about it," says Cale. About three
months passed and I turned on the local pop radio
station and there was Eric Clapton doing 'After
Midnight'. I had enough savvy in the business to
know that this particular station was programmed
not in my home town that whoever owned that
station owned a bunch of stations in the United
States, and it was a mass programmed thing. And I
went, If they played it on this station, they were
playing it in New York and LA I'm going to make
me some money."

I nod towards the beautiful California mountain

landscape outside his back window, sip at one of
those beers he has kindly provided, and tell Cale he
doesn't strike me as a desperately unhappy man.
"No, no," he says, shaking his head reassuringly. "I
figure if they give you any money at all in the music
business, consider yourself real lucky. And that's
from a guy who's been in the music business now
for 40 years. It's a cut-throat business and going
back to the old rhythm and blues guys, a lot of
people have been screwed royalty.

The song opened doors, and allowed Cale and his

publisher/producer Audie Ashworth to spend
$3,000-4,000 on an album that by 1971 would
emerge on Russell and Denny Cordell's new
Shelter label. Appropriately dubbed Naturally, and
featuring a memorable cover portrait of a welldressed racoon perched next to a sleeping hound
dog, the album boasted Cale's only hit single and a
rare smattering of tiny pictures of the singer on its
reverse.

"Uh," he corrects himself, "royally."

Dave DiMartino, 1994

J J Cale at the
Hammersmith
Apollo

SITTING ON HIS COUCH, dutifully recounting his

zen-like ascent to peculiarly invisible stardom, J.J.
Cale is like no other performer in pop music. He
tells me that Shelter were certain in 1971 that
'Magnolia' would be a huge hit. "I told them, The
only problem with 'Magnolia' is it's a ballad. You
want something more catchy. So they flipped it over
and some DJ in Little Rock..." He pauses,
remembering. I eventually chirp up, "Bill Clinton?"
and he looks at me blankly. "See," he says, "You
know more than I do." Umm, no, I reply. I'm joking.
He's the president. Cale pauses again, oddly,
seeming embarrassed as if he genuinely didn't
know the fact before continuing his tale.

Sylvie Simmons, Mojo, December 1994

WHISPERING BOB HARRIS introduces him "very

simply a legend", this grizzled geezer who's just
spent the intermission onstage with his back to the
audience impersonating a guitar roadie. He stops
fiddling with his amp and turns to face the audience,
who are as raucous as he is placid, looking like a
lollystick with a worn-out Brillo pad on top. The
legendary J.J. Cale.

Cale is a man who continues to earn a living from

songs he penned ages ago songs for which he'd
make twice as much money were he to own their
publishing rights. But he doesn't. "I didn't sell the
songs," he clarifies, "but I don't own them. The
publishing company owns them. Most songwriters
today own their own publishing."

The man who invented Mark Knopfler starts out

alone with an electric guitar, as his five-piece band
percussion, bass, keyboards, guitar, and drums
joins in one song at a time. There are spare,
unhurried songs that cover the whole spectrum
from shuffle blues, with chewy, swallowed vocals
and three-note guitar. Simply brilliant. The band
(apart from guitarist Christine Lakeland, who plays

more notes in one solo than the maestro does in a

night) stand like statues, as a constant waft of dry
ice wisps around their elbows to give a misty
swamp effect and mute the already soft edges even
more.

Cale acknowledges the concept of plugging the

new album about as much as he does the
audience, ie. not very much at all. Only two songs
are from Closer To You (including the gentle, lyrical
title track) while the largest selection is off his 22year-old debut album Naturally. It's all as effortless
as a hammock in a warm breeze. 'The Old Man And
Me', 'Call The Doctor' and 'Magnolia' occupy a
plane several light years beyond minimalism; a
crowd clapalong started for 'Crazy Mama' quickly
fizzles into silence, as it rightly should. Cale's guitar
is exquisite, seeming like his singing to be a natural
extension of the air oops, a note just landed on
my guitar. Several minutes later oops, here comes
another one. 'Nowhere To Run', 'Everlovin' Woman',
'Call Me the Breeze', 'Don't Cry Sister' (a duet with
Lakeland) and ("here's a song you might
recognise") 'After Midnight' are as lively as it gets.

Cale acknowledges the concept of plugging the

new album about as much as he does the
audience, ie not very much at all. Only two songs
are from Closer To You (including the gentle, lyrical
title track) while the largest selection is off his 22year-old debut album Naturally. It's all as effortless
as a hammock in a warm breeze. 'The Old Man And
Me', 'Call The Doctor' and 'Magnolia' occupy a
plane several light years beyond minimalism; crowd
clap-along begun for Crazy Mama quickly fizzles
into silence, as it rightly should.
Cale's guitar is exquisite: like his singing, it seems
to be a natural extension of the air oops, a note
just landed on my guitar. 'Nowhere To Run',
'Everlovin' Woman', 'Call Me The Breeze', 'Don't Cry
Sister' (a duet with Lakeland) and ("here's a song
you might recognise") 'After Midnight' are as lively
as it gets. Which is exactly why we came.

Which is exactly why we came.

Sylvie Simmons, 1994

J.J. Cale: Anyway the

Wind Blows

Sylvie Simmons, 1994

J.J.Cale: Hammersmith
Apollo, London

Colin Escott, Mercury Records, 1996

COINCIDENCE OR NOT, the phrase "laid back"

crept into common use right around the time of J.J.
Cale's first album. Nearly everyone but Cale missed
the point. "Laid back" wasn't a synonym for "slow";
it was a frame of mind that applied to any tempo. A
fast song could be "laid back" as easily as a slow
one. It all hinged on the approach.

Sylvie Simmons, Mojo, December 1994

WHISPERING BOB Harris introduces him as "very

simply a legend", this grizzled geezer who's spent
the intermission on stage with his back to the
audience impersonating a guitar roadie. He stops
fiddling with his amp and turns to face the audience
we're as raucous as he is placid a lolly stick with
a worn-out brillo pad on top, the legendary J.J Cale.

Cale arrived at a time when entire sides of LPs

were consumed with suites, and the suites had
paragraph-length titles. In the midst of this, Cale
took his cue from old pop records which said what
they had to say in three minutes. His concession to
the new world order was to stretch the occasional
song to four minutes. It wasn't that he couldn't play
all those notes or write a 20-minute suite; he just
couldn't see the point. In a world given over to
excess, he made a virtue of economy. Even the LP
titles had the same laconic terseness. Really,
Naturally, Shades, 5.

The man who invented Mark Knopfler starts out

alone with an electric guitar, as his five-piece band
percussion, bass, keyboards, guitar and drums
join in one song at a time. Spare, unhurried songs
that cover the whole spectrum from shuffle blues to
slower shuffle blues, with chewy swallowed vocals
and three-note guitar . Simply brilliant. The band
(apart from guitarist Christine Lakeland, who plays
more notes in one solo than the maestro does in a
night) stand like statues, as a constant waft of dry
ice wisps around their elbows giving a misty swamp
effect and muting the already soft edges even
more.

It seems that Cale's greatest source of pride is that

he has prevented himself from becoming
tremendously famous. "I stopped a lot of people
who wanted to shove me into the real big time," he
said recently. "Your ego wants to say, 'Hey, I'm
somebody, man,' but I knew there were many days
when I just wanted to be John Cale." Someone he

knew from school painted him as a sly raccoon on

his first album jacket. He slips out at night and
makes a record. You catch him sometimes in your
headlights, then he's gone. Back to the lake. Back
to the desert. Back to the trailer park.

1964. "When I got to Los Angeles," he told Philippe

Garnier, "I decided no matter how bad the pay [as a
musician], it was better than that straight jive. I don't
like to get out of bed too early." Cale worked at
Leon Russell's home studio on Skye Hill Drive, and
it was there that he met Snuff Garrett, once the
head of A&R at Liberty Records. Garrett had
discovered Bobby Vee and was then an
independent producer working with Gary Lewis,
Brian Hyland, and several others. He placed Cale
with Liberty in 1965, and set him to work
remodeling his Amigo Studio. Around the same
time, Cale was a quasi-regular at the Whisky A-GoGo, working when Johnny Rivers' wasn't. The
owner of the Whisky, Elmer Valentine, suggested
the name change to "J.J." Cale.

J.J. Cale has been interviewed rarely over twentyfive years. Someone likened a Cale interview to the
appearance of Halley's Comet. Only technical
questions about guitars and studio hardware elicit
detailed replies, and, as a result, the core of the
man is known only to himself. The songs are often
wry, ironic little observations, but they aren't deeply
revealing. As a result, Cale has--by his own choice-become the Howard Hughes of rock 'n' roll. If it's a
pose, it's one that has fooled everyone who has
worked with him over twenty-five years. If Cale
could write his songs, make his records, and never
show his face, he probably would.

In 1966, Garrett started Viva Records. There's a

cult market (mostly in Europe) for Cale's Viva
album, Take a Trip Down Sunset Strip by the
Leather-Coated Minds. You can just about get a
sense of Cale's feeling for the experimental edge of
music and technology, but that hardly redeems the
album. It is, as Cale is always the first to say, a
dreadful record. Perhaps the only good thing to
emerge from it was 'After Midnight'. According to
Cale, it was originally an instrumental track for Take
a Trip Down Sunset Strip, but it was jettisoned, then
recycled into a "B" side for Liberty later in 1966.
Cale was playing in Atlanta when he heard
someone in the crowd shout out, "Let it all hang
out." The lyrics fell into place from there.

Cale was born in Oklahoma City. The date was

probably December 5, 1938. He's listed with the
Musicians Union as John W. Cale, rather than John
J. He was raised and went to school in Tulsa. "It
was a good nightclub town," he said later. "Lots of
bars. They don't pay no money, but you have such
a good time you forget you're poor." His earliest
musical influences were rockabilly records from
Memphis, and single string blues players like
Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown, and Billy Butler. He
tried to figure out how to play like them, and like
Chet Atkins, Les Paul, and Chuck Berry, and, as he
said, "In trying to imitate them I missed it, and came
up with my own kinda thing."
No one's certain when Cale made his first record.
The best bet is that he started in the mid-1950s.
The nutters who collect bad '50s rock 'n' roll records
on podunk labels have found a record by Johnnie
Cale Quintette on Chan Records cut around 1958.
It's less certain that the "Johnny Cale" who cut
some instrumentals for Mercury in 1958 was our
man, but it's possible. He admits to five or six jobs
outside music. He worked for a sheet metal
company when he got out of school, and stayed
about eighteen months. He was in the Air Force
Reserves for a while, and had a job as a short-order
cook at a root beer stand.

It was probably 1968 when Cale first went to

Nashville. He had been working in New York and
Los Angeles for Garrett, producing Brian Hyland,
Blue Cheer, and other acts. All the while, he was
bugging Garrett to send him to Nashville, so Garrett
entered into a joint deal with Hubert Long, who
owned a booking agency and Moss-Rose music
publishers. Audie Ashworth worked for Moss-Rose
as a song scout, plugger, and demo producer. He
persuaded Long to install a demo studio, using an
old console from Bradley's Barn. According to
Ashworth, Snuffy said, "I'm gonna send somebody
down there to help you. I got this guy, J.J. Cale. He
can work in the studio with the players. You can
work in the control booth." Cale drove into Nashville
in the '65 Mustang that Garrett had given him, and
took an office in Hubert Long's building.

Others floating around the Tulsa rock 'n' roll scene

at that time included David Gates, later the founder
of Bread; Russell Bridges, who reinvented himself
as Leon Russell; and Carl Radle and Jimmy
Karstein, who later joined Cale's band. Everyone
ended up in Los Angeles. Russell went first, and
came back with the news that you could actually
make a living playing music there. Cale went in

"Cale had a different sound," said Audie. "A different

approach to the guitar and songwriting. We tried to
produce some records. Then Snuffy went with Dot
Records, and we tried some projects for him, but
nothing worked. Next thing I know, Cale said,
'Snuffy's unhappy. He wants his car back. Hubert's
unhappy, so I guess I'll go back to Oklahoma.' He

split, went back to Tulsa and started working his

club gigs again."

night. Pulled a group of players together. Carl Radle

was in town with Clapton and he played bass. I
said, 'This track needs something. How about a
slide guitar?' I called Mac Gayden, and he came out
and set up, but he wasn't feeling too good. He went
to take a nap in the lounge area, and an hour or so
later we went to get him. He ran it down with the
tape. J.J. said, 'That's it! Let's go home.' Mac said, 'I
can do it better. I'm just wakin' up.' Cale said, 'You
can't do it better.'"

There are several accounts of how Clapton came to

cut 'After Midnight'. At the time, Clapton was
working with Cale's buddy Carl Radle in Delaney &
Bonnie's band, and in one version of the story
Clapton heard it on a tape that Radle had made.
Garrett, though, says that Jerry Ivan Allison, once
Buddy Holly's drummer, had heard Cale's Liberty
record. Allison was hanging out with Clapton, and
offered to get the song, now three years old, to
Clapton on Garrett's behalf. Cale says that his mom
might have sent it to Clapton for all he knows.
According to Clapton, "Delaney said someone
should cover it. He said if I didn't, he would.
Delaney actually did a version with the same track
with his voice instead of mine. We argued about it,
and he gave in."

Ashworth ended up with twelve songs. He didn't

even try pitching the album to the Nashville labels.
Out in Los Angeles, Denny Cordell had launched
Shelter Records in January 1970 as a partnership
with Leon Russell. Originally from Ireland, Cordell
had started out in England producing the Moody
Blues and selling Beatles merchandise. Then he
started Regal Zonophone Records to record The
Move and Procul Harum. He came to the United
States with Joe Cocker's revue, eventually selling
out his share of Regal Zonophone to start Shelter
Records. Shelter was headquartered in Hollywood,
but Russell was planning to start an office in Tulsa.

Bobby Keys, who had worked with Cale in Los

Angeles and was working with Delaney & Bonnie
then, phoned Cale to tell him that Clapton had
recorded it, but Cale had heard what he called "that
kind of jive" before. He didn't pay much attention
until 'After Midnight' came on his car radio when he
was driving around Tulsa. He had never heard one
of his songs on the radio before. 'After Midnight'
was on a lot of other stations as well, and became a
Top 20 hit in the Fall of 1970.

"Carl Radle got us the deal with Shelter," said

Audie. "He called Leon. He said, 'This album that
Cale and Audie are working on is pretty good. I
think you ought to listen to it.' Leon said, 'Send me
a tape.' We ran off a reel-to-reel and sent it with
Carl. I always thought that Leon got us the deal, but
I heard later that he didn't care for the tape, but it
got onto Denny Cordell's desk, and Denny loved it."

"I phoned Cale," said Audie Ashworth, "and I said, 'It

might be time for you to make your move. Do an
album.' I kept after him. I said, 'Let's do it. You're
hot. This is an entry thing. Get your songs together.'
He said, 'I'll do a single.' I said, 'It's an album
market.' He said, 'I don't have that many songs,' so
I said, 'Write some.' Three or four months later he
called me. He said, 'I got the songs.' He drove in.
He was driving a Volkswagen this time. He came in
with his dog, Foley. He played me all those songs."
It was a very different J.J. Cale that Ashworth heard
this time. Cale had got sick of loud music, and he'd
been working on a quiet mix of country, blues, and
rockabilly. He figured that he'd blown his brains out
for ten years and no one had noticed, so maybe it
was time to be true to himself. Rock 'n' roll was still
figured to be a young man's game, and Cale was
now 33.

The first Shelter single, 'Magnolia' b/w 'Crazy

Mama', was released on July 5, 1971. It didn't make
many waves, except in Little Rock where a dee-jay
kept spinning the "B" side. Just before Christmas,
Shelter reissued 'Crazy Mama' as an A-side backed
with 'Don't Go to Strangers'. The new coupling got
into the charts, peaking at No.22--Cale's all-time
highest placing. The first album, Naturally, was
released soon after. Rolling Stone came to call, and
Cale monosyllabled his way through his first major
write-up. Cordell got him on a Traffic tour. Every day
off, Cale would fly back to Tulsa to get his bearings.
Already, the mantle of stardom was sitting uneasily
on him. Ashworth remembers him saying, "Send me
the money and let the younger guys have the
fame." Naturally created enough of a stir to present
Cale with the option of going for it, but he made a
conscious decision not to.

"He and I went in the Moss-Rose studio and we cut

'Call Me the Breeze,' 'Crying Eyes,' 'River Runs
Deep' and 'Crazy Mama,"' said Ashworth. "He
played everything and we used a drum machine.
We needed to add some stuff to 'Crazy Mama,' so I
called Jerry Bradley, Owen's son, and said I needed
the multitrack. He let me in there at a demo rate.
Promised him full rate if we sold it. We worked at

"Columbia approached us after the first album,"

said Audie Ashworth. "I asked Cale about it, asked
him if he wanted to go meet Clive Davis. He said,
'No I don't want to talk to anyone in New York.' We

10

had a chance to go for a better deal because

Shelter hadn't exercised their option. I'd caught 'em
sleeping. He said, 'Well, you go, see what they
want.' So I went to New York, got limo'd down to the
Columbia offices. They asked what we wanted. I
said, 'One million dollars.' They said, 'What are you
going to give us for one million dollars?' I said, 'Four
albums.' I think we were pretty much in agreement,
so I came home, talked to John, told him about the
million. He said, 'Aw, let's stay with Shelter. I like
Cordell. We might not have that relationship with
Clive Davis.'"

recorded on Cale's porch, and several others had

been recorded inside the house. 'Cajun Moon' was
pulled as the first single. As a quick reality check it's
worth noting that Grand Funk Railroad's 'LocoMotion' was No.1 on the day it was released.
Nashville session ace Reggie Young, a veteran of
the Bill Black Combo, took the solo. 'Any Way the
Wind Blows' is an object lesson in just how little you
really need. It's one chord, a fifty-dollar Harmony
guitar (albeit one customized with hundreds of
dollars worth of hardware), and the simplest of all
blues riffs. Cale paid a drummer for the session, but
it's probably a drum machine on the track.

Work began on the second album in April 1972.

"We started it at Quadraphonic in Nashville," said
Audie, "and we did some work in Muscle Shoals,
and we put some horns on at the Barn. Cale liked to
visit different studios and pull pickers from different
locations." There was more commercial gloss to
Really, but it was still clear that Cale had a very
different notion of how to make a record. He
reversed the Nashville equation in which everything
was factored around the vocal. In a Cale mix, the
soloing instruments and the voice just barely rise
out of the bed track, and never stand apart from it.
The overall sound is muddy and surprisingly dense
for so few instruments and so few notes. "Cale
always wanted the voice mixed down," said Audie.
"We'd be sitting at the board and both of us were
trying to get our hands on the knobs. He was
always pulling back the fader on the vocal. He said
he didn't want to sound like a country singer. He'd
mix his voice back in the bed. He said it made you
want to lean into the music instead of leaning back
from it. It would pull people in. He was an engineer,
and he came with chops. He had definite ideas
about mixes."

After Cale moved to Nashville in 1975, he and

Ashworth set up their own studio, Crazy Mama's, in
Ashworth's house. "John said we'd rented enough
studios and paid enough rentals that we could own
our own equipment," said Ashworth. "I brought the
board and he bought a 16-track Ampex. He picked
out a bedroom, and he'd stay here occasionally. He
was very insistent on not making the studio too
fancy. He moved another console out to his house
on the lake, and recorded out there by himself."

Cale bought a house near Andrew Jackson's old

home in Hermitage, Tennessee. It was far enough
out that people wouldn't be dropping in on him, he
said. The purchase was probably made easier by
the fact that Lynyrd Skynyrd put 'Call Me the
Breeze' on their mega-platinum Second Helping.
There was plenty of work to be had in Nashville, but
Cale rarely did other people's sessions. He played
on an album by French singer, Eddy Mitchell, and
he worked on Neil Young's Comes A Time and Art
Garfunkel's Angel Clare. He produced Chicago
bluesman Jimmy Rogers for Shelter, but otherwise,
as Ashworth says, "Cale was busy being unbusy."
He bought an Airstream trailer, and he'd park it in a
KOA trailer park near Opryland, and live there from
time to time. He hated the Nashville winters, and
drove the trailer to Florida or out to California.

The advantage of being with Shelter was that there

little corporate pressure to meet album
commitments. The albums came when they were
ready. Cale mostly wrote alone. "When the first
album was a success, we needed some more
songs," said Audie Ashworth, "and he said, 'I had
thirty years to get that first group of songs
together.'" There was a steady stream of tapes from
people wanting to get a song on a J.J. Cale album,
but Cale usually rejected them. According to
Ashworth, "He'd say, 'You know, I only have a onenote range. I can't do that song. It's gets too high in
the bridge.' He tried to keep it simple so people
would understand it. He'd play in various keys that
no one else was using. He'd say, 'I need to find a
little slot that's just me.' He was very conscious of
trying to be different."

There were two years between Okie and

Troubadour. 'Hey Baby' was the first song pulled
from Troubadour. It spent three weeks in the Hot
100, peaking at No.96--the last Cale single to dent
the charts. The flip side was 'Cocaine'. Cale had
brought the song to Ashworth as a Mose Allisonstyle jazz piece. "I said, 'You want to make some
money?'" said Ashworth. "He said, 'Yeah.' I said,
'Well, let's make a rock 'n' roll song out of it. Can
you do that?' He went home and changed it the
arrangement." In the studio, Cale overdubbed the
riff three times, single string at a time, then did the
bass part. Reggie Young took the solo.

The third album, Okie, was much more a backporch

record than Really. The title track had literally been

11

In April 1976, Cale overcame his fear of flying and

went to Europe to promote Troubadour. "I was
touring with Carl Radle," he told Nicky Horne on
UK's Channel 4. "We all went down to the studio,
and Eric Clapton had just cut 'Cocaine.' My version
had been out for a year, and I couldn't get anybody
to play it. The ironic thing was that for about five
years after, you'd walk into a bar and hear
everybody play it." Clapton's version was issued on
Slowhand, and then on the flip side of 'Tulsa Time'.
There's simply no telling how much Cale has made
off that song. Most writers would kill for one Clapton
cut; Cale has had three.

Angeles when he was broke, and he'd always

wanted one. All in all, though, Garnier thought that
Cale radiated contentment, and seemed to have. no
regret for the career for that might have been.
The final Shelter album, Shades, was issued in
1981. The situation with Shelter was deteriorating.
Tom Petty had started with the label, then switched
to MCA. Shelter was suing MCA, but, at the same
time, was being distributed by MCA. Cale was just
about the last major act left on the label, and,
according to Ashworth, he'd have been happy to
stay. "I went to MIDEM [the music industry's
schmooze 'n' booze fest in Cannes]," he said. "I got
J.J. signed to [Mercury Records' parent corporation,
Phonogram, in Holland]. John was happy at Shelter,
even though there weren't any huge advances. Bas
Hartong was instrumental in pushing through the
Mercury deal. I said to Cale, 'Let's take this. It's a
chance for you to make some decent money.' He
reluctantly agreed. We made a deal for four albums.
He felt pressured by the money. He was more
comfortable delivering the records when he
wanted."

Cale and Don Williams were having a strong

influence on Clapton at this stage in his life. Clapton
once said that 'Lay Down Sally' was as close as an
Englishman could get to being J.J. Cale. For his
part, Cale never saw Clapton's success as success
that should have been his. "Eric Clapton was just
picking up ideas," he said later. "He picked up some
of mine like I picked up some from the people
before me. It's very flattering that people of that
caliber are listening to what I do. It's always kind of
nice when people cut my songs and turn them into
something that people really like. For a lot of
people, it's hard to listen to my version because it's
very raw."

Cale finally quit Nashville in 1980. He got sick of the

winters. His sister lived in southern California, so he
sold his boat to Audie Ashworth, packed everything
into his Airstream and moved to a trailer park in
Anaheim. For a while, he stayed put in the trailer.
Anyone wanting to talk to Mercury Records' new
star would have to leave a message with Ashworth
and wait for Cale to call in. Cale might have had the
latest digital gizmos, but he didn't have a phone.

The success of 'Cocaine' meant that Cale was once

again at the crossroads. He could have toured on
the strength of it, and rushed out another album. He
found what he called a younger "boogie crowd" at
his shows, and noticed that his shuffles didn't seem
to be going over. "They wanted someone up there
bustin' them one," he said. He could have picked up
the tempo and gone for it, but instead he went back
to Nashville and worked on installing a studio in his
home. The next album, 5, didn't appear until 1979.
Audie Ashworth saw some AM potential for 'The
Sensitive Kind', and overdubbed strings. "I was
hoping for Top 40 airplay on that," he said. "I was
digging for ideas to change it up." Top 40 radio
ignored Cale's version of 'Sensitive Kind', but
Santana covered it and took it half-way up the Hot
100.

The first Mercury album, Grasshopper, was a fine,

varied, and neglected album, and so was its
successor, #8. If nothing else, #8 was remarkable
for the fact that Cale finally allowed a photograph of
himself to go on the front of the LP. There was a
slightly heavier cast to the music, almost as if he
was taking a cue from his disciples in Dire Straits.
The similarity was almost unnerving on some
tracks, almost as if the disciples were influencing
the prophet. Cale has always spoken in the politest
terms about Dire Straits, but, as someone who is
acutely aware of the business aspect of the music
business, it couldn't have escaped his notice that
Straits were selling millions of records with a sound
that owed a lot to him. On one level, Cale knew that
he couldn't or wouldn't do all that Dire Straits had
done to sell those millions of albums, but their
success must have rankled a little.

In 1980, New Musical Express in London sent a

journalist, Philippe Garnier, to interview Cale out at
the lake. Cale seemed totally immersed in studio
hardware. "We kinda grow the flour to make the
cake," Cale said, trying to explain why he now
needed to master studio technology. He wanted his
records to be wholly his from the ground up. It
seemed to Garnier that Cale had spent every cent
he'd ever made on guitars, hardware, and the
Airstream trailer. Oh yes, and the Porsche. Cale
had worked near a Porsche dealership in Los

By the time #8 was issued in 1983, Cale and

Mercury had become mutually disenchanted, and
the deal ended half-way into a four-album deal.
Cale insisted that he felt guilty taking money for

12

records that weren't selling, and said that he felt lost

on a roster that he calculated at 275 artists. In the
meantime, Denny Cordell had wound up Shelter
Records and sold Cale's entire back catalog to
Mercury, so Mercury became the owner of virtually
his entire oeuvre at the very moment that he was
making plans to leave. There was a six-year hiatus
between #8 and Travel-Log. Cale himself sent out
demo tapes and landed a deal with Silvertone
Records in England, a company started by Andrew
Lauder, the founder of Demon/Edsel Records.

to stay in the business you got to find a way to

bypass all that."
His records still seem remarkably fresh, untainted
by fads and rock music's urban frenzy. He once
remarked that his records were demos, and that
they were deliberately bad so that another musician
would take pity on them and cover them, then he'd
make more money. You can't believe that, though.
This is the art that conceals art. Plenty is going on
here. As always, Cale is very busy appearing to be
unbusy. The texturing, tweaking, and fine-tuning are
hallmarks of the craftsman. These are hand-made
records, rich in nuance and detail. More
individualistic music cannot be found.

Cale toured to support Travel-Log. What had he

been up to the last six years? According to an
interview he gave to Dave Hoekstra at the Chicago
Sun Times, he had been cycling, mowing the lawn
every Saturday, and listening to rap and Van Halen.
He'd only accumulated fifteen or twenty songs in all
those years, and he'd only recorded once or twice a
year. The years in Los Angeles had made his music
"more rattly...more uptown," he said. Hoekstra
remarked on Al Capps' very full arrangement on
'New Orleans', which pitted a Dixieland parade
against a string section. "Al Capps knocked me out
on that," said Cale. "I liked it so well I was going to
take my voice off it and make it an instrumental." As
always, he was happy to talk about which model
bass was patched into what amp, but beyond that
his conversation was couched in generalities.

Bibliography
Tim Cahill, "J.J. Cale Talks A Little Bit," Rolling
Stone, March 2, 1972
Craig Fisher, "Dialog: Denny Cordell," Record
World, May 26, 1973
Edward Jones, "Natural Man," Melody Maker,
March 6, 1976
Edward Jones, "Just Playing Natural," Melody
Maker, April 17, 1976

In 1994, Cale signed with Virgin Records, or

"Thorn-EMI" as he calls it in deference to the parent
corporation. By that point, he had bought a house
and several acres in the semi-desert of southern
California. The first Virgin album, Closer to You,
came with unexpected quickness. Cale had ordered
a new customized Martin guitar. "A good guitar will
inspire you," he told Paul Trynka. "I wrote eight
songs in one day. Then I rented Capitol Studio in
Hollywood and recorded the album in two days with
all the vocals cut live. Then I brought all the stuff
home and started muddying those tunes up." Cale
was more visible than ever when Closer to You was
released. Interviewers were shuttled out to his
place. Cale was trying as hard as he knew how, but
he knew his primordial music was a tough sell in the
post-modern era.

John Grissim, "Avoiding the Spotlight," Rolling

Stone, January 13, 1977
Steve Pond, "The Mystery Man Speaks," Rolling
Stone, December 13, 1979
J.J. Cale Guitar Styles & How To Play Them
(Columbia Pictures Publications, 1980)
Philippe Garnier, "Welcome to Cale Country, NME,
April 26, 1980
Dan Forte, "After Midnight with J.J. Cale," Musician
Player & Listener, July 1981.
Jas Obrecht, "Taste, Tone, Tenacity," Musician,
November 1990

It's been almost twenty-five years since a dapper

raccoon, looking like a refugee from a Lewis Carroll
story, introduced us to J.J. Cale. He has probably
lasted by pacing himself so well. Twelve albums.
Fifty shows a year; less if there's a big check from
Eric Clapton. Cale knew what he was up against
from the beginning. "Americans are the ultimate
consumers," he said in 1979. "They eat their own
art, especially popular music. They suck everything
they can out of one guy, then say 'Next.' If you want

Mark Cooper, "Busy Doing Nothing," Q, #50.

Dave Hoekstra, "J.J. Cale" Chicago Sun Times,
April 15, 1991
Dave DiMartino, "No Name, No Number, No
Packdrill" Mojo, July 1994

13

Jasper Rees, "J.J.

October 8, 1994

Who?" The

Independent,

Seated in these improbably formal surroundings,

one has a sudden and jolting sense of what Peter
Guralnick once termed the "journeys and arrivals of
American musicians". Almost 40 years ago,
Johnnie Cale and his band the Valentines were
playing the exact same honky-tonk circuit around
Texas and Oklahoma as The Bands Levon Helm,
then drumming with rockabilly renegade Ronnie
Hawkins. Four decades later, both men have
somehow parlayed their canny, roughhewn
Southernness into an art form that makes the grade
in a concert hall that usually reverberates to the
sound of Brahms and Mozart.

Audie Ashworth interviewed by Colin Escott, April

21, 1995
Colin Escott, 1996

25 Years From Tulsa:

J.J. Cale
Barney Hoskyns, The Independent, April 1996

"The geography has something to do with my

music," Cale tells me in his hotel room on the day
before the show. "Where I grew up in Tulsa,
Oklahoma, it wasnt the south-east and it wasnt the
deep south and it wasnt quite the south-west either.
For many years, too, America was so migratory:
people would uproot and move, and with them
would come their musical culture, which theyd
blend with the culture of wherever they landed.
Thats kinda what happened to me: I listened to
jazz, country, RnB, rocknroll. And when I sat down
to write a song, I had all these influences comin
through."

FIFTEEN MINUTES before J.J. Cale is due to take

the famous stage of Manhattans Carnegie Hall, a
wiry, hobo-ish figure can be seen wandering across
the varnished floorboards testing the guitars and
amplifiers.
People are still milling around the auditorium, most
of them here to catch a rare show by headliners
The Band, but a fair number have already taken
their seats. Some of them, one assumes, must be
familiar with the recorded works of Mr. Cale, which
at the very least inhabit the same musical hinterland
as that of The Band. Yet almost nobody appears to
realize that the grizzled figure on the stage is Cale
himself.

When Cales smoky, seductive first album Naturally

appeared out of nowhere in 1972, few of the people
who bought it and thus began to make up the
mans considerable cult following realized that
the singer was already 32 years old. The swampy
stew of soul, blues, and downhome country funk
was effectively a distillation of twenty years
immersion in the roots music he loved, and it slotted
right into place alongside the non-generic
Americana of The Band and Ry Cooder
Americana with a distinctively steeped flavour, as
black as it was white, as gnarled as it was
emblematic.

Its all part of the effect, of course. For the best part
of 25 years, Jean-Jacques Cale has assumed the
role of American rocks anonymous drifter a
shadowy Everyman, a figure you might have
spotted once at some roadside diner. As he falls
into a subdued, cursory version of his signature
song After Midnight, he isnt giving very much
more away. The famous voice that gave new depth
to the 70s phrase "laid-back" is barely a parched
whisper now, testimony to the diffidence that Cale
brings to the business of live performance or at
least to the dilemma of presenting himself as any
kind of star.

Like so many Okies before him, Cale had headed

west to the promised golden land of California,
following in the tracks of such fellow Tulsans as
Leon Russell and David Gates. I ask him if he
remembers Gates, who later wrote a famous song
that shares its title with that of Cales new album
Guitar Man. "Oh, yeah, I knew David way before he
went to California. He mainly played fancier gigs,
school functions and the like, whereas Id be playin
bar dives and what have you. His music was a
little cleaner." That should be no surprise to
anyone familiar with the saccharine sound of Gates
group Bread.

He becomes more animated as, one by one, his

band members join him on the vast stage; but he
says almost nothing, and never once mentions the
fact that he is about to release a new album. And
yet Cales very recalcitrance is mesmerizing, as
though the implicit distrust of overt emotion itself
induced a higher level of emotional engagement. A
sleepy Sensitive Kind, a loping Crazy Mama, an
exquisite Magnolia each Cale classic takes its
place in the steady-rolling flow, each one
accompanied by his fluid, opalescent guitar picking.

In the Los Angeles of the early-to-mid-60s, Cale

found work not only as a for-hire guitar gunslinger in
the bars of the San Fernando Valley but as a studio

14

engineer in the employ of Leon Russells Texan

boss Tommy "Snuff" Garrett. Garrett was the
mastermind behind such West Coast pop fluff as
Bobby Vee and Gary Lewis & the Playboys, with
Russell doing most of the hard graft in the studio.
When psychedelia struck L.A. with the force of an
earthquake, Snuff suggested Cale round up a
posse of his cronies and cut an album of
"psychedelic hits of the day" Eight Miles High,
Sunshine Superman and the like.

sound of those hip Nashville pickers of yesteryear;

if anything, theyre closer to the sound of latterday
Dire Straits, the band who made a stadium-filling
career out of Cales sound. "Ever since 1972,
theres always been a coupla tracks Ive done by
myself, and this is kind of the apex of that. I pretty
much manufactured it by myself. I got rid of my
analogue stuff about six or seven years ago and
moved into the digital realm. My live performance is
different I dont even try to emulate anything I do
in the studio. Makin records is one art form and
playin live is another. Its like the difference
between makin a movie and doin theatre."

Released under the unforgettably dumb name The

Leather-Coated Minds, the 1966 album Trip Down
Sunset Strip inadvertently spawned the song that
would later change the course of Cales destiny.
"After Midnight was originally an instrumental that
was meant to go on that album. Later on, I pulled
the track back out, put words to it, and overdubbed
a vocal." Released by Garrett on Liberty, the single
later found its way into the possession of Eric
Clapton, whose bass player Carl Radle was another
of the Okies whod made L.A. their home. "If Eric
hadnt cut that song," Cale grins, "Id probably still
be playin bowling alleys in Tulsa."

One thing that hasnt changed and almost

certainly never will is that spooked, mumbling
voice. I ask Cale where on earth it came from. "I
knew that if you wrote songs you had to sing em to
somebody. But I didnt want to sell em to the public,
I wanted to sell em to more people like Clapton.
People said my records were funky and muddy,
but the truth is they were just demos. I figured if you
polished em up too much, people wouldnt wanna
sing em."

By a neat coincidence, the phone rings at this point

in the conversation and turns out to be Audie
Ashworth, the Nashville DJ turned record producer
who first suggested Cale capitalize on Claptons
cover of After Midnight and "spec" his own album.
Cale and Ashworth are in the process of putting
together a box set that will be released by
Phonogram tracks and outtakes from vintage
masterworks like Naturally, Really, Okie and
Troubadour. "Audie picked all the hip musicians
who played on those albums," says Cale. "They
were the demo players in Nashville, and they had
more of a rocknroll feel about them. We hit
grooves that maybe any one of us wouldnt have hit
the whole was greater than the sum of the parts."

And the famous J.J. Cale mystique?

"It just happened that way. I did not try to figure out
a good marketing ploy. People said I stood over in
the corner with my back to the audience, but that
was because we didnt rehearse and the band
didnt know the tunes. See, Ive just tried to live
normally. I dont jive myself. I play the guitar and
write songs for a living like the maid cleans this
room. If Im original, its by accident it comes
from not being able to do what other guys can do. I
tried to sound like Chet Atkins but I couldnt pick it
all out. And not doing that, it started to sound like
me."
Barney Hoskyns, 1996

Ironically, Cale has spent much of the ensuing

decade and a half trying to shake off the
"downhome, laid-back" tag affixed to him in the
70s. "People would always say, yknow, J.J.s got a
kind of hummin mud sound, and Ive tried to clean
some of it up. Now people ask me why I dont cut
one o them Unplugged albums, and I go, well,
thats what I did first, and I had to move on. Seems
my audience preferred me as the old acoustic guy,
but when I went back to L.A. in 1980 it was a
cultural shock, and that changed the way I made
my records."

J.J. Cale: Guitar Man

Andy Gill, Mojo, June 1996

THERE'S SOMETHING IMMENSELY comforting

about Cale's stubbly resistance to musical fashions,
and that warmth spreads easily through this album,
which has the same intimate feel, the same
preference for mid-tempo jogging shuffles, the
same imperviousness to PC attitudes, and the
same laid-back, lazy simplicity achieved, of
course, by diligent application of the latest
technology as any of his previous releases. Not to
mention the same type of so-dull-it's-barely-worthbothering title.

Listening to Death In The Wilderness, the ecoconscious opening track on Guitar Man, one is hard
pressed to recognise the J.J. Cale of Call Me The
Breeze or Same Old Blues. The hi-tech
programming and digital feel are very far from the

15

J.J. clearly recognises the strength of his intimacy,

addressing himself directly to his listening chums
several times: On Days Go By he bums a toke or
two off your spliff, and on the title track he sidles
over to borrow a Gibson before peeling off one of
those magically fluid runs. Stylistically, he runs
through a few variations on his basic method, most
of which work just fine: Low Down floats another
liquid break upon a throbbing Jimmy Reed-style
shuffle, Perfect Woman adds an eccentric
percussion bed to a ragtime blues, and the
standard Old Blue features grass every bit as blue
as that used on The Byrds' version. Only on Death
In The Wilderness does he overreach the hypnotic
twinkle of his guitar. Otherwise, it's another stressfree interlude all the way.

Troubadour, Guitar Man off this one. The songs

that I have to perform every time I go out and play
the ones made famous by Eric Clapton do get
jaded, but some of my more obscure stuff I actually
like.
Andy Gill, 1996

Does making albums get harder or easier with

time?
I don't know I can't remember how I did the old
ones. There's a whole new technology now, so you
tend to mess with it more. I don't know if it makes
anything sound better, but it does take more time.

J.J.Cale: Q&A on
Guitar Man

Are you always conscious of keeping to the

celebrated laid-back J.J. Cale style when you're
making a record? In other words, have you ever
thrown out a track because it was rock or
reggae or simply not J.J.-ish enough?

Sylvie Simmons, Mojo, Spring 1996

Not really. I always start out trying to do something

different, and it always ends up sounding about the
same. Most of my stuff is medium-, slow-tempo, not
really in-your-face. When I was a real young fellow
and played in bands just as a guitar player, I played
a lot more aggressive rock'n'roll. But when I got into
songwriting and had to sing, it was easier to do
mellow stuff, since I only have about a two-note
range.

MOJO: Does making albums get harder or easier

with time?
JJC: Well, I dont know I cant remember how I
did the old ones. I guess its about the same,
although the state of the art is a bit advanced from
when I first got into making records, so I guess I
pay a little more attention than I used to though it
probably doesnt sound like it. Theres a whole new
technology now, so you tend to mess with it. I dont
know if it makes anything sound better, but it does
take more time.

Was there any particular significance to calling

this album Guitar Man?
No. Just couldn't come up with anything else. The
last two or three albums I've tended to take the title
of one of the songs on the album.

Are you always conscious of keeping to the

celebrated laid-back JJ Cale style when youre
making a record? In other words have you ever
thrown out a track because it was rock or reggae or
simply not JJ-ish enough?

Looking back, what would you say was your

best album?

Not really. When I start making recordings, I always

try to get away from what it is I normally do
quote-unquote, my style.But you cant be
something youre not. And with my quirky voice and
my guitar style and the way I make records, Im
never surprised when I get through. I always start
out trying to do something different, and it always

Well, there's flaws in every one. I at least tried to

get two things on every album that I thought were
good. But you don't always get it right. If I took two
of my favourite songs off each of the 12 albums I've
made and put those on a compilation album, that
might be all right. I don't know, Thirteen Days is a
song that I like, Downtown LA and Hold On off

16

ends up sounding about the same. Most of my stuff

is medium-, slow-tempo, not really in-your-face.
When I was a real young fellow and played in
bands just as a guitar player, I played a lot more
aggressive rock n roll. But when I got into
songwriting and had to sing, it was easier to do
mellow stuff, since I only have about a two-note
range.
Was there any particular significance to calling this
album Guitar Man?
No. Just couldnt come up with anything else. The
last two or three albums Ive tended to take the title
of one of the songs on the album.
Do you still use your home-made guitar?
I still have it, but I wore it out. That was a cheap
acoustic guitar that I turned into an electric. I had to
keep gluing it back together airlines and
baggage handlers would mess it up, so its pretty
much in a shambles now and I dont take it on the
road. I basically have a new guitar every couple of
years and play that.

After years of admiring each others musical

masterworks and Clapton covers of Cale songs
such as "After Midnight" and "Cocaine," guitar
greats J.J. Cale and Eric Clapton have teamed up
for the first time to create an original album
together, The Road To Escondido. The 14 track
CD was produced and recorded by the duo in
August 2005 in California. The resulting music
defies being labeled into any one category, but
instead finds influence across the spectrum of
blues, rock, country and folk. A hybrid sound that is
unique musically, while still bearing the signature
styles of Cale and Clapton recognized by fans
around the world. The songs are warm and rich,
with deep flowing rhythms, yet use an economy of
words to express much.

Looking back, what would you say was your best

album?
Well, theres flaws in every one of them. I make
albums more or less from a song to song
standpoint, and I at least try to get two things on
every album that I thought was good. But if youve
been doing it as long as I have, you dont always
get it right. I dont know of any one album, but if I
took two of my favourite songs off the 12 albums
Ive made and put those on a compilation album,
that might be all right. I dont know, 'Thirteen Days'
is a song that I like, 'Downtown L.A' and 'Hold On'
off Troubadour, 'Guitar Man' off this one. The songs
that I have to perform every time I go out and play
the ones made famous by Eric Clapton do get
jaded, but some of my more obscure stuff I actually
like.

In a true collaboration, Cale and Clapton jointly

produced and recorded the album, each playing
and singing on the tracks. Cale wrote 11 of the
songs, Clapton wrote "Three Little Girls," John
Mayer wrote "Hard To Thrill" and the duo cover the
blues classic "Sporting Life Blues." J.J. Cale's
touring band accompanies them on the album as
well as guest musicians including, Taj Mahal, John
Mayer, Derek Trucks, Doyle Bramhall II, Albert Lee,
Nathan East, Willie Weeks and Steve Jordan.
Particularly special is the involvement of Billy
Preston, who donated his classic keyboard talents
throughout the album. The album is dedicated to
Preston and Clapton's late friend Brian Roylance.

Sylvie Simmons, 1996

Guitar Legends J.J. CALE AND

ERIC CLAPTON Unite For
an Epic, Soulful CD
Release THE ROAD TO
ESCONDIDO

"Eric and I have known each other for a long time

and it was a great experience to finally make a
record together - he's a great musician and it was a

17

pleasure to work so closely on this project with

him," said J.J. Cale.

Skynyrd, and The Allman Brothers to Bryan Ferry,

Deep Purple, Santana and more recently jam bands
like Widespread Panic.
Cale grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma and cites Chet
Atkins, Les Paul and Chuck Berry as some of his
earliest influences. He is often quoted as saying, "In
trying to imitate them, I missed it. And I came up
with my own kinda thing." And so, Cale began
playing the local Tulsa club scene in the early
1950's surrounded by other natives such as David
Gates (Bread) and Leon Russell. After moving to
Los Angeles in the mid-60's, he recorded the song
"After Midnight."
Already an accomplished guitarist with bands such
as the Yardbirds, Cream and Blind Faith, Clapton
ventured to a solo career with the release of his
1970 self-titled Eric Clapton album. Mutual friend
Delaney Bramlett had given Clapton a copy of
Cale's song "After Midnight." Clapton decided to
cover the song and it was the first single from the
album. The song became a chart-topping success.
Clapton was quick to offer praise for Cale's work
while promoting the album. Cale had been told of
the cover but has said that he didn't pay much
attention until the song came on the radio in Tulsa.

"This was the realization of what may have been my

last ambition, to work with the man who's music has
inspired me for as long as I can remember, there
are not enough words for me to describe what he
represents to me, musically and personally, and
anyway I wouldn't want to embarrass him by going
overboard, for he is a truly humble man.....I think it's
enough to say that we had fun, made a great
record, and I for one already want to make another,"
said Eric Clapton.

Years later, in April 1976, Cale was performing at

London's Hammersmith Odeon in support of his
Troubadour album release. Clapton sat in on the
performance and later during that trip surprised
Cale in the studio with a version of "Cocaine" that
would appear on his 1977 Slowhand release. Again
becoming a chart-topping success.
In the years to follow, the two would occasionally
cross paths, but would largely carry on with their
respective musical careers. Until 2004 when
Clapton was organizing a Dallas-based guitar
festival called Crossroads. The 3-day festival
featured the world's most elite guitarists. Clapton
invited Cale to perform at the festival and Cale
agreed to attend. In turn, Cale invited Clapton onstage for the set and Clapton gladly joined,
unannounced, for the entire set as a member of
Cale's band. The set was a highlight of the
performances from the festival.

Clapton has often said that he has tried to achieve

the J.J. Cale sound and has credited Cale with
singular influence over his style as a solo artist.
Mojo Magazine asked Clapton in 2000 which other
musician he would most like to be, his response
was quick: "I don't model myself on him but I like
J.J.
Cale,
his
philosophy, writing
skills,
musicianship. He's a fine, superior musician, one of
the masters of the last three decades of music."
J.J. Cale is known for being reclusive. He lets his
music speak for itself and by his own choice has not
become famous in the conventional terms of the
word. Instead, preferring to shun the spotlight for a
more simple existence based on his musical
creations. Ironically, doing just that, and focusing on
his music, has turned him into a guitar legend over
the past four decades. The depth of his influence
can be felt in artists such as Clapton and Mark
Knopfler, but the sheer breadth of his appeal is
made clear by the diverse group of artists who have
covered his songs from Johnny Cash, Lynyrd

Crossroads gave Clapton an opportunity to ask

Cale to consider producing an upcoming album for
him. If Clapton had been seeking to replicate the
trademark Cale sound, having him as producer on
an album would surely achieve that unique musical
quality. As the two worked on the project, creative
ideas took flight and they decided to take the
project further formulating a true co-produced
album. The Road To Escondido marks the first
full-length album the two have created together.

18

Cale's entire 40-plus year career has produced only

13 albums. But most critics agree that each effort is
well worth the wait. Lauded by his peers and
completely unfazed by musical fads, J.J. Cale is an
American icon, a craftsman like no other.

"There's no compromise," he assured me. "We're

playing exactly what we want it just happens that
what we wanted turned out to be very commercial
in this case.
"Of course, if I get any more popular I shall have
plastic surgery and get myself a Dr. Kildare face,
but by that time they'll probably have Scott Engel
rubber masks for everyone anyway."

Clapton's career, also spanning more than 40

years, has resulted in 18 Grammy Awards and the
distinct honor of being the only triple inductee into
the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

The musical policy of the group is described as

being a fusion of all three of their musical styles
blended to create something original and often
improvised.
"I'm a blues guitarist," obliged Clapton "and Jack is
a jazz man and Ginger is rooted in rock 'n' roll. I say
that of him because he is at the bar and cannot
hear it!"
Jack Bruce, who wrote the music for their hit,
'Wrapping Paper' with a friend, Andy Brown who is
a recognised beat poet, hotly disputed this label of
a jazz musician.
"I got my influences from playing with Alexis Korner
and Cyril Davis in the early days," he said. "I don't
like labels.
"The object of this group is to exploit ourselves
musically," declared Bruce. "There is a lot of
developments to come out of all of us and we think
it's going to be successful."

CREAM

Cream Are The Very End!

Ginger Baker was unanimously appointed "group

leader" in his absence due to the fact he was
buying and returned to give his views on the
Cream.

Keith Altham, NME, 28 October 1966

"THE First is last and the last is first but the first, the
second and the last are the Cream," so reads the
perplexing handout on a new group which
comprises three musicians Eric Clapton, guitar
(ex-Yardbird, ex-John Mayall Blues Breaker), Jack
Bruce (ex-John Mayall, ex-Manfred Mann) and
Ginger Baker (ex-Graham Bond Organisation).
They enter the NME Chart this week with their first
disc 'Wrapping Paper' having only been formed
three months.

"We do a few Howling Wolf numbers on stage and

some of our own material. We're old bottles in new
wine!"
In the few sane moments I discovered that the
group have already completed the first LP which is
a compilation of their stage numbers like 'Rolling
and Tumbling' and 'Dreaming'. An EP has also been
cut which includes 'Spoonful', another Howling Wolf
number.

All are reputable musicians on the group scene and

Clapton's walk out on the Yardbirds is still regarded
as something of an example of a man sacrificing
fame for musical principles. How does he regard his
new-found fame as a pop person?

The group has a predominantly male following

although Messrs. Baker, Clapton and Bruce are
working on that one and this is largely due to their
reputation as musicians.

Commercial
Riotous

19

This, of course, has nothing to do with any visual

appeal they may have. After one particularly riotous
performance they were rumoured to have a similar
stage approach to the Who.

two years ago that Ginger Baker rang me to say:

"Me and Jack are forming a group with Eric."
Then came the denials. Eric was the star of John
Mayalls Bluesbreakers, Jack was with Manfred
Mann and Ginger was with Graham Bond. Nobody
wanted to lose their key man. But Cream were not
going to be turned off. Soon they were rehearsing
together in a London church hall, a thunder of blues
startling their first audience some Brownies, a
caretaker, and manager Robert Stigwood.

"That's not true," said Clapton. "What happened

was that at one performance we did at Leeds
University I placed a huge firework on the stage and
informed the audience that it was a bomb which
would blow up the drummer and band if lit. And if
anyone wanted to light it they could someone did.
But it just happened that way it was no act.

They made a sensational debut at the sixth National

Jazz and Blues Festival in pouring rain at
Windsor. They had their first hit with Wrapping
Paper in November 1966, then came I Feel Free,
concerts at the late lamented Saville Theatre, and
this year they conquered America and became
superstars.

"Sometimes I feel a little sorry for the Who whom

we admire incidentally they are now expected to
do this 'destructive' bit at every performance."
He also declared he had an unique plan for when
their scene cooled.

They had their successes and failures. Eric got

hung up on the pop scene for a while. The result of
that was Anyone For Tennis, a nice enough record
but one that didnt impress Cream fans. It flopped.
Sometimes the Cream in full cry were as
exhilarating as a Lightning jet screaming past at
ground level. Jacks soulful singing and harmonica
wailing on Train Time, Gingers great solos on The
Toad and Erics Stepping Out thrilled fans across
the world. Sometimes they were tired and played
badly, and fans complained their music was taking
the wrong course. Most of the time they were
idolized.

"I'm going to bring in the Harry South Big Band to

augment the group and have Carmen Dragon
directing it."
Baker also saw into the future for the Cream.
"I said all along that if England won the World Cup
we'd be all right and they did and we will be."
On that strangely prophetic note they climbed into a
white saloon car and sped off.

Eric told me last May that the Cream were breaking

up. But it was to be kept secret until business
problems had been sorted out. At the time he said:
"I went off to a lot of different things since the
Cream formed. I went off in a lot of different
directions all at one it seems, but I find I have
floated back to straight blues playing. Ive returned
to what I like doing as an individual, and that is
playing exploratory blues. You get really hung up
and try to write pop songs or create a pop image. I
went through that stage and it was a shame
because I was not being true to myself. I am and
always will be a blues guitarist."

I must remember to ask Ginger Baker where he got

that Davy Crockett hat with the brass skull badge
except that I'm frightened to death he'll tell me he
was at the Alamo!
Keith Altham, 1966

Cream: Background
to a Break-Up
Chris Welch, Melody Maker, July 1968

CREAM ARE breaking up. The world-famous trio

that features Eric Clapton, Ginger Baker and Jack
Bruce are to go separate ways in the autumn. Said
Eric at his Chelsea home this week: "Ive been on
the road seven years and Im going on a big
holiday."

In the bedroom of Erics pad he played a fascinating

Bob Dylan tape while we lit cigarettes, drank quarts
of tea, and attempted to talk about the future. But
the oppressive heat of the day often reduced the
conversation to about three sentences an hour
while Dylan sang his Wheels On Fire and Mighty
Quinn.

It was two years ago, in July 1966, that three of

Britains
most
outstanding
instrumentalists
electrified the blues world by joining forces. It was

"They were recorded in his basement with friends at

Woodstock," said Eric. "There is some really great

20

music coming out of America. I think we are due for

a whole new spate of Sgt. Peppers.

fans can look forward to a great new group in

replacement.

"Ive got another tape here of Bob Dylans band. I

think this music will influence a lot of people.
Everybody I have played it to has flipped. The band
are releasing an album called Music From Big Pink
by the Group. Since I heard all this stuff, all my
values have changed. I think it has probably
influenced me."

"Ill start work on the new group in November. I want

a piano, bass, guitar and drums. Yes, I was
disappointed with the Cream on record. I dont think
we took the right direction. The tours we did meant
being on the road for such a long time we couldnt
rehearse and try new things. That was the strange
thing."

When and why are Cream breaking up?

Chris Welch, 1968

"In a couple of months. Well probably be doing a

farewell performance, maybe at the Royal Albert
Hall, plus 15 farewell dates in the States. The
reason it is breaking up is a change of attitudes
among ourselves more than anything. Also we have
all been on the road a long time, before Cream
started. That is a big hang up. We went to do things
now that require some privacy. We want a holiday
anyway.

Nobody can replace

Cream Ginger Baker
Steve Turner, Beat Instrumental, April 1972

It seems that its not only the record-buying public

that consider Ginger Baker to be the worlds top
drummer. "I havent ever heard anybody whod
cause me any worry," said the man himself. "The
only time I did begin to worry was when I walked
into a club and heard an album playing with a
drummer who I thought was incredible. Then I found
out it was me." All this was said without any trace of
a smile across his sunken cheeks.

"Also, I just want to perform contemporary blues.

With the Cream solos were the thing, but Im really
off that virtuoso kick. It was all over exposed. We
died the death from playing exposure. I think the
Cream reached its peak last year at San Francisco.
From that we all went on such a huge ego trip.
Making it in the States was a bang in the head."

"Ive heard a lot of people copy me but it just didnt

flow with them," he continued, always seeming to
find something to distract his attention when a
question was answered. He fiddled around with a
slide viewer and slotted in some shots taken of
himself and his new protg, Fela Ransome-Kuti.
He mumbled something about the fact that he was
only interested in seeing the ones of himself
anyway.

What will Ginger and Jack do, and what are Erics
plans?
"Jack will probably go into recording, and Ginger
will probably get a group together. I want to be in a
group where I can control the music, but I want to
be at the back. Ive already had plays with a few
people, and I know the musicians I want. Listen to
this."

"There arent many drummers who can do a drum

solo and excite the audience," he said, peering into
the viewer. "When I do a solo Im very conscious of
the audience. At some point or other the audience
turn me on. Eventually the audience plays the
drums through me what the audience wants
comes out."

Eric produced a small spool of tape threaded it on

the machine and we allowed our minds to be
blasted. "You cant say who it is," said Eric. The one
number on the tape rocked along for several
minutes. It was a backing track without the vocal,
including a very funky piano, and two guitars. The
most outstanding feature was some tremendously
driving drums.

After a while Ginger seemed to relax and began

talking about his early days. "I was just very lucky,"
he explained when I asked him where his talent
was derived. "The first time I ever sat down at a
drum kit I could play it. I played my first gig after five
weeks! That was with the Storeyville Jazzmen I
told them Id been playing for three years and they
believed me. After that I joined Terry Lightfoots
band which was a trad jazz outfit."

I have no idea who the musicians were, but from

the styles they sounded remarkably like Nicky
Hopkins on piano, George Harrison on rhythm
guitar, Eric on lead, and Ringo Starr on drums. But
this is just wild surmise. The number was called
Sour Milk Sea, and if this is any indication of the
sound Eric wants in the future, disappointed Cream

21

The story in between is well known by now but for

todays generation I knew that it was his role in
Cream that hes missed for. I asked him whether
hed ever heard Grand Funk, one of the groups that
took advantage of the vacuum created by the
Cream break up. He answered in a negative, and in
such a way that I knew it was going to remain that
way unless he accidentally walked into a room
where E. Pluribus Funk was blaring.

things. Technically Id become far more involved. I

can play with the technique I have now."
"My practise is playing now. When, I play, I play
something Ive never used before." He even went
as far as to say that a lot of people who practise
and then play, very often fall down on gigs because
of this. They become proficient on their own but
arent able to play off the musicians theyre working
with.

Ginger doesnt think its possible to replace Cream.

"I dont think anybody ever will," he says. "Cream
were three excellent musicians who, for a period of
time, worked so together. There was a sort of ESP
between us." Did the ESP vanish? Was that why
Cream fell apart? Ginger didnt want to say. He
feels that enough has been said about that subject.
"No one will ever replace the Beatles. Cream
played Cream. Beatles played Beatles. Its that
individuality and originality that made it popular."

Towards the end of the interview Ginger told me

that he had to break it off now. Hes got to go
somewhere with Fela Ransome-Kuti. Its to do with
the African film. The situation reminded me
somewhat of a quote Id taken down from him
earlier on: "Its my life. Its my laugh too. I dont like
staying in one place too long."
Steve Turner, 1972

One thing that he was most persistent about was

the fact that I was not to put a tag onto his music. In
fact, I couldnt even call Cream a rock group. "We
were always having rows with reporters because
they wanted to name it," he explained to me. "Ive
never put a name to music. You play yourself. I just
play what feels natural for me to play. If music is
enjoyed by the people then Im happy. It was just
our music." Hasnt he got any influences then? "Ive
got about two million influences," he answered.

Live Cream
Volume II
Metal Mike Saunders, Rolling Stone, 27 April 1972

IN THEIR GLORY DAYS of 1967-8, Cream

singlehandedly spawned the whole genre of aloof
heavy rock egomania, not to mention a whole
school of insufferably self-centered lead rock
guitarists.

He now intends to get a band together by this

autumn. The difference between this band and his
previous set-ups will be that the musicians all be
reading music. "It will be a case of people playing
what I feel, he said. The stimulation behind all this
is that hes just completed a film with Tony Palmer
for which he did the musical score. "It has been ten
years since Ive actually written music and I began
to enjoy it again," he said.

Technique oblivious to any content: That's what

Cream live were all about. Never mind that their
fabled improvisations consisted of playing around
one chord (or, often, one note) for 20 minutes
they did better than anyone else.

Hes also been involved in the building of The

Ginger Baker Studios in Lagos, Nigeria. I had been
under the impression that this was soley for use by
local musicians but Ginger stepped in and corrected
me. "Anybody can record there. Im hoping to fly out
a few friends. Its right next to the airport." All the
equipment will be custom made by Dick
Sweatenhan of Helios Electronics at Teddington.
The studio itself was designed by Sandy Brown.
Although hes busy constantly he considers himself
to be relaxed at the same time. He rarely listens to
records and never practices. "I think that if I was to
practise I would frighten the life out of everybody,"
he told me. "I can play things that are impossible to
most people now and I havent practiced for six
years! If I did practise Id be playing impossible time

22

Well, it's here again, just as I remember it.

Deserted Cities Of The Heart, White Room, and
Tales Of Brave Ulysses might as well be the same
song: after a half-hearted stab at a couple verses of
the tune, in each case Cream goes into their
characteristic one-chord solo and don't budge until
the ending of the song. Politician demonstrates for
the nth time just what an awful blues (blooze?
bluze?) singer Jack Bruce was. For such reportedly
speeded up guys, the tempos drag unmercifully on
every song.

R&B scene then dominated by groups like the

Yardbirds and the Rolling Stones. Baker's backing
had an urgency and authority that pushed along the
soloists in the band and underscored the main riffs
or ensemble passages with a clipped precision.
When it came to fill-ins, four-bar breaks and,
eventually, full-blown solos, Ginger unleashed a
whirlwind of bass drum, tom-tom and snare drum
beats in attacking style.
The main weapon in his armoury was the triplet, a
basic enough rudiment of three beats played in
rapid succession. Clusters of triplets, played
extensively on the tom-toms and cascading over
onto the twin tom-toms he later employed with
Cream, set up a whirlpool pattern that he could
build up, bring down and alter in complexity.

Side Two really brings it out front: an abysmally

leaden seven-minute version of Sunshine Of Your
Love, and then, god forbid, 13:42 of Steppin' Out
(not Hideway, as the jacket incorrectly states). In
comparison to Eric Clapton's powerful versions on
both What's Shakin' and the first Bluesbreakers LP,
Steppin' Out here is totally vacuous.

In the early days, there were quite a few examples

of Baker's work on record which enable us to chart
his progress. It is particularly interesting to hear the
Baker of 1963 when he was playing a busy, Elvin
Jones-inspired style with Bond, Bruce and
McLaughlin at Klooks Kleek. These sessions, which
were released by Warner Brothers in 1970 as a
double album called Solid Bond, produced fast
pieces in 3/4 time such as 'The Grass Is Greener',
on which Ginger can be heard keeping time on a
hard ride cymbal and breaking up the beat with
flurries of furious snare-drum beats. But his three
sets of drum breaks are rushed and betray anxiety
the curse of the fresh young drummer trying to
prove himself.

In recent years, Third Generation heavy-metal

groups have gotten down to business and produced
some fine heavy - metal rock. Cream were in large
part an antecedent (sound-wise, at least) of the
whole style, but it all seems so far in the past now
strange as it may seem, Black Sabbath's concise
efficiency makes the whole Cream era look as selfindulgent and ludicrous as it indeed was.
The truly amazing thing about Cream Live Volume
II is that Cream live sound every bit as boring as
they did four years ago. In that sense, and in about
every other possible as well, this album is a true
artifact.

By the time Baker was in the EMI studios with the

Graham Bond Organisation to cut the bluesoriented The Sound Of '65 album, however, his
playing had become much more disciplined and
direct. He stripped away much of the verbiage and
concentrated on socking home the beat, his snare
and single bass drum operating like a well-oiled
pivot on such tunes as 'I Want You'. Also on this
album was included what many feel to be one of the
most exciting instrumental performances ever cut
by a British group, the Graham Bond version of
'Wade In The Water'.

Metal Mike Saunders, 1972

Ginger Baker
Chris Welch, The History of Rock, 1982

PETER 'GINGER' BAKER had an enormous and

profound effect on the course of rock drumming
when his playing and personality first began to
make an impact in the mid Sixties. A unique,
passionate player, he took the study of percussion
much more seriously than his 'wild man' image and
temperament suggested and had been playing a
mixture of jazz improvisation and rock as far back
as 1964 with the Graham Bond Organisation.

Of all the records Ginger made over the years, this

was his finest hour. His drums cut through quick
and sure, just controlling the rising excitement
generated by the tune and its treatment. Ginger
played like a big band drummer, ripping into snaredrum rolls, gliding on his ride cymbal and finally
delivering drum breaks that exploded with a
presence no British drummer has achieved on
record before or since.

With Bond, Baker was given his head to experiment

and blossom forth in the company of bassist Jack
Bruce, guitarist John McLaughlin, sax player Dick
Heckstall-Smith and Bond himself. Together, the
group moved away from the bop-influenced modern
jazz clubs of the early Sixties towards the blues and

The Sound Of '65 also contained 'Oh Baby', Baker's

club circuit showcase, when Graham invariably

23

introduced him as "Europe's greatest drummer".

Ginger's solo on the number commenced on snare
drum (tuned high with the snares off) and tom-toms
(tuned low). He set up a Latin-based rhythm and
created a flawless solo which reached its climax in
thunderous fashion, the bass drum pulsing through
with previously unheard-of violence. Ginger insisted
on getting as lively a sound as possible in the studio
at a time when most engineers tried to keep drums
buried in booths and blankets. It was this
stubbornness that undoubtedly helped win the
drummer his rightful place in rock recording and
shaped the future of the music; his emphasis on the
'big beat' reached its apogee in heavy metal.

Rock 100: Cream

David Dalton,Lenny Kaye, Cooper Square Books
(reissue), 1999
CREAM WAS THE FIRST OF A NEW SPECIES
the high-voltage superblues group. By channeling
their "amplified heat" through traditional blues, they
created a clean, lean, sensual sound which fused
their audiences together in a virtual cult of
electricity, with Eric Clapton as its god. Clapton was
the nucleus of the group with his genius for
exploiting the technology of the electric guitar and
his ability to sustain notes to the breaking point.
Cream's audience became so addicted to their
massive doses of current that at their final concert
their devotees screamed "God save the Cream!"

The commercial failure of The Sound Of '65 led to

the break-up of the Bond Organisation and the
subsequent formation of Cream in 1966.
Thenceforth Ginger was allowed full rein, and his
solo on 'Toad' became one of the group's highlights.
The first recording of 'Toad' was a relatively short
affair on the trio's debut album Fresh Cream.
Ginger had, by now, worked out his 'story-lines' to
maximize interest, although they became stretched
on the more self-indulgent version of 'Toad' on the
'live' segment of the Wheels Of Fire double LP.

Formed in 1966, when the Stones were still into coordinated casuals, Cream presented themselves as
flamboyant bohemians: Ginger Baker in his old RAF
jacket; gnomelike Jack Bruce in antique market
silks; and Clapton with his homage to Bob Dylan
hair and psychedelically decorated guitar. Their
stance was that of the pre-Haight Ashbury English
underground whose attitude toward blues was
purist. They demanded that their music be taken
seriously. Cream's esoteric leanings were
responsible for excavating a legion of forgotten or
obscure American bluesmen, names which would
be recognized before 1966 only by avid blues
aficionados: Big Bill Broonzy, Robert Johnson, B.B.
King, Buddy Guy, Blind Boy Fuller through them
became part of rock mythology.

But the latter was the solo which turned on

thousands of young kids. Virtually all the top
drummers in rock today will confirm how inspired
they were by the vision of Baker, head down and
long hair flowing, as his sticks flashed across his
array of tom-toms, accompanied by the roar of the
crowd and the thundering boom of the player's
double bass drums.

Cream's mastery of their instruments brought a new

complexity to rock. Jack Bruce's whirlwind bass
configurations, borrowed from Bach and jazz, were
so sophisticated he could often sound like a lead
guitar. Baker's drum dynamics and multiplication of
African-based rhythms made it possible for him to
play the first tolerable extended drum solo in rock
on 'Toad'. Finally, Clapton's mastery of a variety of
blues styles, most notably his "twinging" borrowed
from B. B. King, earned him the title of "god" of
English blues musicians.

During his years on the road with Cream, and later

Blind Faith and Airforce (the huge group that
included his old mentor Phil Seamen), much of the
sharpness and invention in Ginger's playing began
to erode. His lifestyle, intensified by success, riches
and drugs wore him down, and he experienced a
steady musical decline. Curiously, a trip to Africa
the source of inspiration for so many drummers
only served to introduce an uncharacteristic
sloppiness into his playing.
He modernized and updated his style and renewed
his vigour for a 1975 comeback with the hard rock
outfit Baker-Gurvitz Army. After a period of
retirement to concentrate on playing polo, he
returned to the music business with a new band,
Energy, in 1979. A couple of groups later, he retired
to live and teach in Italy. He can look around at a
music scene that has learned and benefited from
his example all the way from the Mahavishnu
Orchestra to Adam and the Ants.

While still in his teens, Clapton had been in the

pioneering English R & B group the Roosters,
playing Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and John Lee
Hooker. But as their approach veered toward top 40
material, Eric's tastes became more refined, and he
left in 1963 to join the Yardbirds. Two years later he
was playing with John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, with
whom he recorded the classic album of the same
name. John Mayall's somewhat purist group was a
breeding ground for young blues musicians (Mick
Fleetwood and Mick Taylor, among others, came
out of it) and it was through Bluesbreakers that Jack

Chris Welch, 1982

24

Bruce and Eric Clapton got to know each other.

Before joining the group, Bruce had worked with
Ginger Baker in the seminal R & B band, Alexis
Korner's Blues Inc., and they both stayed with it
when it evolved into the Graham Bond
Organization. "I had thought about a tie-up with
Jack and Ginger for months," Clapton said on the
formation of Cream in July 1966, "but I thought it
wasn't likely to come off. For a start I felt Ginger
was just too good for me to play with, too jazzy.
Then he approached me, and to my surprise I found
that he was a really solid rock drummer at heart."

controlled energy characterized by Clapton's icy

soaring leads and apparent detachment from the
waves of high voltage blues he was beaming at his
audience. If their playing often seemed to lack the
expressiveness of blues musicians like Hendrix,
what they were conveying was the beauty of the
form of the blues, and it was an intuitive feeling for
this form that they perfected. As Jonathan Cott
wrote in Rolling Stone: "Bruce, Baker and Clapton
purified their approach to their music as far as they
could, went as far as they went, and wound up
repeating their perfections like a snake swallowing
its tail."

Although they had a couple of successful singles

('Sunshine Of Your Love', 'White Room'), Cream
was the first group to make it with albums rather
than hit singles, and the albums sold furiously
based on a word of mouth reputation and exposure
on the new underground FM stations. Cream was
possibly the most influential hard rock group of the
late sixties, and their departure left a vacuum that
was obsessively filled by a host of heavy metal
groups. So consuming was the demand for the
superblues they had created, that Clapton, Bruce
and Baker often found themselves in groups that
were virtually parodies of Cream: Ginger Baker and
Clapton in Blind Faith; Jack Bruce in West; Bruce,
Laing and Baker in his Baker Gurvitz Army.
Their sound was structured around a repeating run
of heavily syncopated ascending and descending
chords. While these three superstars were able to
create stunning raunchiness on their first two
albums, Fresh Cream and Disraeli Gears, their
deliciously indulgent jams soon became destructive
as they began to dissolve back into their separate
spheres. Bruce's ability to play lead lines on his
bass, which had created an exciting tension and
counterpoint with Clapton, had become destructive
by their third album, Wheels of Fire, where on live
tracks like 'Spoonful' he steps all over Clapton's
lead in an effort to outdo him. By 1968 it had
become obvious that this group of leaders could no
longer hold together under the strain of ego
clashes, and in the same year they dissolved.

Blind Faith
Eric Clapton: Another Crossroad
Keith Altham, Fusion, 6 February 1970
MANY PEOPLE THINK that Eric Clapton is the best
guitarist in the world. A veteran of the Yardbirds,
John Mayall's Bluesbreakers and Cream, all that
remained for him was Blind Faith and Life
magazine. Somewhere along the way Blind Faith
stumbled and fell. It now lies twitching on the studio
floor, Although individual limbs react spasmodically:
Winwood working on a solo album with ex-Traffic
drummer Jim Capaldi; Grech working with George
Harrison and Clapton; Ginger Baker busy being
Ginger Baker. The question lingering in the mind:
did Blind Faith fall or was it pushed?

With the exception of Clapton's classic 'Layla' with

Derek and the Dominoes, none were as effective in
their subsequent roles as they had been in Cream.
Bruce cut solo albums and joined Tony Williams'
Lifetime jazz quartet with John McLaughlin; Baker
formed Airforce and rejoined Clapton briefly in Blind
Faith: and Clapton has settled for a somewhat
anonymous career as a solo artist after numerous
group collaborations (Plastic Ono Band, Delaney
and Bonnie, etc.).

What was the first intimation you had that Faith

might not last and can you enumerate some of
reasons for its apparent collapse?
As soon as I got on the plane for America I realised
that it was pretty well bound to fold soon because
we were being exploited. We were doing it

In spite of Ginger Baker's thrashing possessed fury,

Cream, even at its most ferocious, gave off a cool

25

ourselves, in as much as we agreed to all those

gigs and exposing ourselves so we have no one to
blame but ourselves. If you get a group together,
hype it and send it out on the road it will succeed to
a certain extent but it has capitulated you don't
expect a group like that to last long. If a group really
wants to get together to play for a long time they
have to be left alone to do it and they have to
ensure they are left alone. With Blind Faith we knew
we were going to make a lot of bread and that could
have become the reason for its existence it
probably did become the reason and the group
became secondary.

respected me more. What happened was that we

both went into our shells. Stevie is a very natural
guy and he shies away from anything which could
be regarded as musical "professionalism" he
doesn't like people who set out to prove themselves
as musical professionals. Most of all he likes people
who play lots of instruments without being
particularly brilliant on anything he likes
"unskilled musical labour", to use one of his own
terms. That is something which everybody can
understand that has quite a low common
denominator something that people can join in
and play along rather than anything which might
appear to have a high artistic level.

Was Blind Faith ever intended as a long-term

proposition?

The reports of Faith's first American tour were

ecstatic in the British Press but were those first live
appearances as satisfactory as you had hoped?

There was really no planning behind the group's

formation at all. It was simply an idea that Stevie
and I had to form a band it was a miracle to me
that we ever got it together to make, an album.
Originally I thought that Stevie and I would make
powerful front behind which Ginger could settle
back behind us but unfortunately Stevie is a reticent
musician, as I am myself in many ways and when
he hears someone trying to come through he just
steps aside. The whole band was much too polite
with everyone waiting for each other to take the
initiative. The group existed just as long as the
individual members wanted it to be.

Madison Square Garden was the first gig and the

reaction really excited us but it wasn't until later that
I realised it was purely a political thing there
were the cops, the audience and us and it wouldn't
have mattered if we had gone on and played 'Knees
Up Mother Brown', they would still have flipped out.
We played a few places that were half-empty but
that was our own fault too because we deliberately
played down the use of our own names. People
heard on the radio that 'Blind Faith' were in town
and thought "who's Blind Faith for crying out loud never heard of them." We had specifically said not
to use our names but if we had there would
probably have been a lot more people who would
have come to see Winwood, Baker or Clapton.

Are you saying that it is because of individual

apathy that the group is dying if so why do you
not choose to get them together again yourself?

There were really three different phases with Blind

Faith. It was a totally different concept when just
Steve and I were getting it together down at his
cottage in Berkshire with our friends and to my way
of thinking that was probably the best phase which
produced the best results because we were just
playing for ourselves we were not trying to prove
anything or achieve anything just playing to have
a good time but when we got together with Rick and
Ginger in the studios for the album it changed there
completely and when we went on stage it changed
again.

The simple truth is that since we returned from

America no one has bothered to contact me and I
don't really feel that I can take it upon myself to play
leader of the group I'm not. If someone gets on
the phone like for example they did recently to invite
me to play on the Plastic Ono 'Cold Turkey' single
then I just go along with my guitar. If someone rang
me tomorrow and said you're in the studio with
Faith tomorrow I'd probably go along. But the
situation is now that everyone is doing their own
thing I'm involved with Delaney and Bonnie until
the New Year and so if anything is to be done, it
won't be for sometime.

Several critics seemed to think that Faith were

missing the kind of guiding hand on the production
of the album that there was with the Cream. What
do you think?

Are you personally upset or disappointed by the

lack of communication from the other members?
Yes I am a little but that's my own fault if anything. If
I had wanted more respect from Stevie I could have
gone about doing things which would have earned it
instead of which I withdrew and just played lead
guitar. I mean if I had written a few more songs or
written songs with him, tried more, he might have

That could be true but it should be understood that

Jimmy Miller was called in at very late notice half
way through the album because we had such an
incredible deadline to meet and we only had a third
of the album finished. Jimmy had the unenviable job
of cleaning up after us and getting together what we

26

had already cut and then trying to find out what we

were trying to achieve. I think he was really
confused through most of the sessions because
nobody seemed to know whit we were doing
everyone was guessing and improvising on the
spot. We should have had someone to say "what
we are doing is country rock and roll with a bit of
electric church on the side" but no one did and we
just told him to sit down and produce it.

and my music and so I had to force it through a

guitar. It's the same now except I have the guitar
better controlled. But I feel the same frustrations.
Why have you never made the attempt to form your
own group and write more of your own ma-terial if
you feel the limitations of working within the
confines of other groups?
I need someone to give me a good kick up the arse
to get me going. I'm a lazy sort of person and I need
incentive. I keep thinking, well, next week I'll sit
down and write ten songs and that keeps me going
because I don't have to worry about making money
any more I can live off what I have earned. I
suppose I am a musical drifter to most people but I
have always intended to do my own thing
eventually its just that every time I get around to
it something else crops up. My life is really my work
I don't think I can do anything of which I would be
a hundred per cent proud but it keeps me going. As
a guitarist I am seeking refinement that is the
simplest and most effective way of saying the thing
exactly as you want to. But as an individual I am
seeing self expression on more totalitarian lines, I
would like to be able to make my own albums and
be able to promote them myself go on television
and do shows myself with my own group that's
my goal if you like.

One critic in Life magazine wrote that Faith were

comprised of three rock and roll stars and one rock
and roll clod Rick Grech. What's your reaction to
that?
Oh my God, what a fucking pathetic thing to say!
I've had people say that kind of thing about me.
What can I say? Rick plays versatile country violin,
good classical violin and can adapt to a rock and
roll idiom and still make it sound palatable. He plays
'cello, and electric bass and if that is the work of a
"clod" you can bracket me with him. I take very little
notice of what the majority of critics say because
even the most informed usually put their foot in it
and show themselves up for complete naivety when
it comes to music. I heard one self-styled critic on
the radio recently playing The Band's 'Cripple
Creek'. After he had played it he said, "Oh well, I
don't know who that is and I'm sure you don't and
it's a bore anyway so we won't bother to buy it, will
we?" That's all you need to know about him from
there on in you disregard most everything he says.
Most critics are competitive-minded and they can't
say something good without comparing to
something else they're always saying let's take
the Blind Faith album and compare it with Humble
Pie and say one is good and the other is not it's
not necessary and it's hopelessly inadequate.

It would appear that possibly your closest friend

within the business is George Harrison. Can you
explain what it is that has promoted that
association?
It's a question of mutual respect. I have a great deal
of respect for him because there have probably
been a thousand times when he wanted to quit the
Beatles and do something on his own but, he never
has. In fact he is probably the one in the Beatles
who has done most of the patching up he is their
mediator and his philosophical outlook has been
one of the primary reasons that has kept them
together. Paradoxically he respects me for having
the courage to walk out on groups because I don't
like what I am doing. He has often said to me that
he does not see me in any band for very long and I
think he has a strange regard for my facing up to
impossible situations arid just cutting out I try to put
my restlessness behind me when I get involved in a
new group but it always seems to reappear and
defeat me in the end.

In view of the 'comparative' failure of Blind Faith to

motor on, do you have any regrets in retrospect
about leaving so successful a unit as the Cream?
The Cream were a source of great confusion to me
it had to end and I don't think I could be a part of
something like that now. Musically its significance
was rather like Pete Townshend said "a product
of that time" symbolic of en era. It became a very
heavy virtuoso thing without any one really
contributing to a whole. I don't think there will ever
be another group to take its place for success, you
know, unless it invents a new formula because we
were the first trio and the first kind of virtuoso
people to do it. The strange thing about Cream was
that every time we went into the studios to record
we formed another group adding violins or another
guitar or something. The virtuoso thing was a
substitute for the fact that I wasn't singing myself,
that I wasn't expressing myself through my words

Having worked with Lennon on the Plastic Ono

Band what kind of an association do you have with
him?

27

I have certain ideas in sympathy with him but he

has the single-mindedness which can help him say
things he believes and put those convictions in his
work. I admire that but I avoid that kind of
responsibility because I don't really think it is
necessary for any musician to be a leader of the
people if you are going to do it, then his way is
probably the best.

It's what you share with people that matters. I try to

share my music with people.
Keith Altham, 1970

On the last occasion I saw you we were at the

Dylan Isle of Wight Festival what was your
reaction to Dylan 69?
I don't think he's stepped back and he seems very
conscious of his own influence still people have
lived their lives by his songs and his latest songs
still govern attitudes. People seemed to think that
Nashville Skyline was some kind of copout but he
was still giving good advice you couldn't give
better advice or more simple advice than "Throw it
all away".
Blind Faith: Born Under A Bad Sign

Would you like to restate your position over the

question of drugs and their use it seems as
though a number of influential musicians, namely
both Donovan and Townshend, have come out of
the drug thing at the other end actively opposed to
any form of drugs including alcohol In
Townshend's case.

Johnny Black, Mojo, July 1996

IN THE EVENING COOL OF JUNE 6, 1969, almost
7,000 people made their way to Hyde Park, where
they slept under stars to be sure of the best places
in the natural amphitheatre of The Cockpit for the
public wetting of a baby's head. The next morning
dawned bright, and by lunchtime the weather was
perfect for the 100,000 curious attendees of the
christening.

I haven't actually had anything which has told me

otherwise. I'm not going to believe what someone
else says about it and if someone says don't take
em I'm not going to simply take their word for it. If I
took something which reacted adversely or
unpleasantly upon me and I would stop taking it. It
is a very escapist thing and something which I
personally would not indulge in during time when I
need to concentrate heavily. But when I've got
nothing to do then it's a strong temptation and one
which I do not resist. Pot to most people is a kind of
crutch but what really requires stronger definition is
the word "addiction" and the word "habit-forming"
I mean I'm addicted to this rocking chair I'm in.
People escape with pot and who says that they
have no right to do so because someone points
out that life really is beautiful is not going to stop
some poor soul rotting in a cellar, waving his hands
in disgust and rolling a joint. People should be
instilled with hope it's a thing you can't live
without but there's no guarantee that you will get
anything from hoping! The dangers of over-using,
misusing or abusing drugs should be obvious
simply by looking at those people who get
themselves in the state where they think it all
happens in your head and ends there, whereas in
fact the manifestation of all those fantasies are the
important things and pot is often obstructing that.

The baby had been born a shade prematurely, but

to proud parents. They'd named it Blind Faith. Mr
Eric Clapton and Mr Steve Winwood had simply
wanted to make something good together and their
union had seemed a match made in heaven. The
young couple, both recently divorced, got along
famously, respected each other's talents and, best
of all, each supplied what the other had lacked in
his previous relationship. Steve had the voice and
keyboard talents while Eric had the guitar side
pretty well taped.
It should have been The Golden Child but, instead,
it was Rosemary's Baby.
CLAPTON AND WINWOOD HAD KNOCKED
AROUND together for years. While Clapton was still
God, playing with John Mayall's Bluesbreakers, he
frequently turned out to jam with Winwood during
The Spencer Davis Group's Thursday night
residency at London's Marquee Club in 1966. The
pair would also get together whenever possible at
blues festivals and even appeared on record as

28

Powerhouse, a short-lived studio-only combo which

had contributed several tracks to What's Shakin', a
blues-boom cash-in compilation.

happened. He never said why, he never said he

was splitting. We found out from Chris Blackwell."
Aside from such lingering resentments from their
old bands, the prospects looked good but, insulated
from the harsh realities of the music business by
their status, neither Clapton nor Winwood could see
that the seeds of their destruction were already
sown. Robert Stigwood, keeping his promise, was
now overseeing Clapton's career. Similarly as a
legacy from the days when Island Records boss
Chris Blackwell had found and nurtured The
Spencer Davis Group, Winwood was under his
management wing. For his shrewdness in making
deals, Ahmet Ertegun, founder of Atlantic Records,
dubbed Old Harrovian Blackwell "the baby-faced
killer". Today, with his wallet bulging to the tune of
110 million, he ranks as the 145th richest man in
Britain, a position shared with Mick Jagger.
Stigwood, an Australian immigrant who'd arrived in
Britain nearly penniless, then guided Cream and
The Bee Gees to success, is now ranked 96th with
a personal fortune of around 160m.

The possibility of working together in a full-time

band, however, seemed remote. Mayall's
Bluesbreakers, The Yardbirds and Cream kept
Clapton busy and, after the demise of The Spencer
Davis Group, Winwood was more than fully
occupied with Traffic. By the middle of 1968,
however, neither man was happy with his lot. "In
Cream, there was a constant battle between Ginger
Baker and Jack Bruce," explained Clapton later.
"They loved each other's playing, but they couldn't
stand the sight of each other. I was the mediator
and I was getting tired of that." And, when Clapton
conveyed these feelings to the band's manager,
Robert Stigwood, the response was comforting. If
Cream split, Stigwood assured him, Clapton was
the one he would stick by. Even so, Clapton was not
yet ready to quit. Cream had one foot in the grave
but he felt the band might yet return to rude health if
only Steve Winwood could be brought in on
keyboards. "I'd heard the tapes of Music From Big
Pink by The Band and I thought, This is what I want
to play, not extended solos and maestro bullshit but
just good funky songs." Clapton reasoned that
Winwood's presence might stabilise the group by
adding an element of song composition and a shift
of emphasis towards vocals, rather than the
endless instrumental improvisation which Clapton
now found so tiresome.

Back in 1969, their combined financial might was

already impressive but, unfortunately according to
former Pink Floyd manager Andrew King of Blackhill
Enterprises: "As far as anyone could make out,
Stigwood and Blackwell absolutely despised each
other. They had different priorities. Chris was
devoted to Stevie and Stigwood was devoted to his
cheque book." Winwood denies knowledge of any
animosity between the management duo: "I've no
idea what their personal relationship was, but in a
business sense it almost certainly wasn't to our
benefit. It never came to fights between us and
them, but they wanted a supergroup and we didn't."
Clapton has put it rather more strongly: "I can see
now that we were very foolish to have two
managers, but our relationship with Stigwood went
back to my days in The Graham Bond Organisation.
I realise now that he took advantage of my trust in
him even in Blind Faith we didn't have a good
deal financially. I think that if Blackwell had
managed the whole band, we might have survived."

But before Clapton could approach Winwood, the

final nail was knocked into Cream's coffin. "Rolling
Stone called me 'the master of the cliche' which just
about knocked me cold. At that point, I decided to
leave Cream." Destroying a band because of the
opinion of a single journalist might seem drastic, but
Ginger Baker confirms that Rolling Stone was
Clapton's bible. "As soon as he got it, he would
read it from cover to cover. From the day he saw
that review, he wanted to be in the background. He
didn't want to be the focus of attention any more."
By the time Cream played its farewell concerts at
the Royal Albert Hall on November 25 and 26,
1968, Clapton and Winwood had begun their first
tentative steps towards working together. Although
still a member of Traffic, Winwood spent that
Christmas with Clapton at his home, Hurtwood
Edge, where they jammed long into the night.
"When I left Traffic in January, I knew I was going to
work with Eric," says Winwood. "We'd talked about
it for ages. He'd just quit Cream and I'd gone
through a lot of changes with Traffic, and we were
keen to do something." Drummer Jim Capaldi
remembers Winwood's departure from Traffic as a
bolt from the blue. "He just split. I don't know what

BY THE BEGINNING OF 1969, THE MUSIC

PRESS WAS speculating that Clapton and
Winwood might form a band, but early guesses
about the rhythm section went wide of the mark
because during Cream's farewell tour, Clapton had
suggested to Al Jackson and Duck Dunn, legendary
rhythm section of Booker T And The MGs, that he
might like to work with them. Anxious to keep the
project low-key, Clapton told Melody Maker that any
new group might be short-lived, possibly even a
stopgap until Cream re-formed with Winwood on
board. He added that his real intent was to "drop
out of it completely publicity wise, press wise."

29

Meanwhile, rehearsals continued at Winwood's

cottage in Berkshire throughout a cold February.
Feeling that Winwood had the better voice, Clapton
continually encouraged him to take most of the
limelight. That March, Ginger Baker drove down to
Hurtwood Edge only to find Clapton on his way out
to Berkshire. Ever sociable, Clapton invited Ginger
along although, as he later put it, "I love Ginger very
much but, at that time, I didn't really want him
around."

to record it. I blew up at him, and Jimmy Miller took

over the next day." Baker makes light of his studio
outburst, but DJ Jeff Dexter who was there that day
vividly recalls Baker grabbing a microphone from
the front of his drum kit and screaming out a torrent
of abuse that continued for what felt like 15
minutes. "If the tape op who forgot to switch the
machine on had walked into the studio, Baker
would have torn him limb from limb," reckons
Dexter. "After about five minutes there were girls
crying and people were leaving the studio to get
away from him. It was as if the room was
reverberating with it."

"We got to Stevie's cottage in the middle of a field,

and I settled down at Jim Capaldi's drumkit and we
just played for hours," remembers Baker. "Musically
Stevie and I got along wonderfully. He was one of
the greatest musicians I've ever worked with. What I
didn't know then was that Eric would probably
rather have worked with Jim Capaldi. It's a curious
thing with me and Eric. I regard him as the nearest
thing I've got to a brother, but we always found it
difficult to talk about personal things. He never
explained, for example, that he wanted it all to be a
much more low-key affair than Cream had been."

Otherwise, the sessions, under Jimmy Miller,

provided one of the few periods of relative calm in
Blind Faith's troubled history "They were full of
people hanging out," says Winwood. "Eric had a lot
of bohemian friends and liked to record with people
around. The only thing I remember not being very
pleased with was 'Can't Find My Way Home'. It was
only when I heard it again later that I realised how
good it was."

"I had to convince Eric to let Ginger join," explains

Winwood. "We'd played together before and he was
someone I really respected as a drummer and
enjoyed working with. It wasn't until later that I
realised how much Cream had been built round the
interaction of Ginger and Eric. I knew Ginger did
serious drugs but I didn't realise how destructive
that could be, because I'd never encountered it
before."

In the wake of Cream, the notion of all-star jamming

"supergroups" was in the air. There had been the
Super Session album featuring Stephen Stills, Mike
Bloomfield and Al Kooper. The Rolling Stones'
Rock'N'Roll Circus had brought together Lennon,
Clapton, Tull, The Who and more. The TV special
Supershow featured Clapton, Stills, Led Zeppelin
and Buddy Miles. Perhaps even more significantly
Crosby Stills And Nash were already one album
down the line and planning a tour. "Gradually
Clapton and I were both becoming acutely aware of
the hype building up," says Winwood now. "The
industry was waking up to the fact that The Beatles
and the Stones weren't just a phenomenon.

As he had done in Traffic, Winwood was playing

bass lines on his organ but it was obvious that, to
have complete freedom to play at his best, a bass
player was required. Clapton had admired Rick
Grech, bass player for Leicester art-rockers Family
since the days when that band was known as The
Farinas: "I knew he was a good singer and could
play great, and that was the guy we wanted."
Winwood: "We didn't even consider any other bass
players. Once Rick was around, and he seemed
like a nice guy, it was just very casually accepted
that he was in the band."

"There was the clear possibility that other bands

could achieve similar things. They could see spinoffs, merchandising, slices of pie to be had. It was
the dawn of corporate rock and we were among the
first victims. That's why we wanted to start off with a
free concert, to show that we weren't part of that
corporate business mentality."

Ginger and Rick were now on board but publicly

Clapton remained evasive. "We're just jamming and
we have no definite plans for the future," he told
NME, even though recording sessions were already
under way in Morgan Studios with Chris Blackwell
at the desk. As first sessions often do, this one
started badly with everybody taking hours to set up.
Then, fortuitously, former Moody Blues vocalist
Denny Laine walked in and picked up a guitar. "We
all started playing along with him, and he
completely lifted the mood," recalls Baker. "We did
a fantastic jam that day but Blackwell didn't bother

Before April was out, the rock press reported that

the as-yet-nameless combo would debut in Hyde
Park, at a free concert on June 7, and would tour
Scandinavia later in the year. "Never was there a
moment to develop the character of the band,"
reflected Winwood years later. "Who would let a
million-dollar-a-week potential in a band sit around
and rehearse? The management and the record
company joined our own greed. There was a multimillion dollar time bomb out there."

30

In fact, there was more than one time-bomb.

Although Rick Grech was now a member of Blind
Faith, he neglected to mention this fact to the other
members of Family. Roger Chapman, Family's
vocalist, remembers: "The first inkling I got that Rick
might be leaving was when I read an interview in a
rock paper where Jimi Hendrix was asked why he
thought bands changed. He said, 'People have got
to move on, these bands split, like Family.'
Obviously Rick had told him and hadn't told us. The
rumours are flying and these four berks at the back
know nothing about it." Grech waited for an
American tour to drop his bombshell. "He should
have fucking left before the tour started," says
Chapman. "He and Gilbert [John Gilbert, Family's
manager] obviously knew before we got to America.
They didn't tell us until the day before we opened at
the Fillmore East, where we died. Then we had all
our equipment nicked in New York, and I lost my
passport and it all sort of fizzled out." It was the
beginning of the end for Family; it was also the
beginning of the end for Grech's new band.

well-received by the throng at the front, then, with

the heady sweet aroma of dope wafting on pale
blue clouds from the audience, Blind Faith took the
stage at 5pm. Kids clambered on car roofs and
shinned up trees for a better look as the opening
chords of Buddy Holly's 'Well All Right' blasted out.
"We had basically the same set-up we'd have used
if we were playing to a hall with 3,000 people in it,"
points out Winwood. "We didn't have experience yet
of big outdoor gigs. It was our first gig and to do it in
front of 100,000 people was not the best situation.
Nerves were showing and it was very daunting. We
couldn't relax." In an attempt to lighten the mood,
Baker announced, "This is the first rehearsal."
Clapton, in jeans and T-shirt, and using a Fender
Telecaster with a Strat neck, lingered in the shadow
of his Marshall stack, delivering only one
memorable solo, in 'I'd Rather See You Sleeping On
The Ground'.
Baker, still evidently in Cream mode, was tending to
push the band too hard. "This was when I first
noticed something was amiss," he says. "In
rehearsals, and during recording, Eric had been
doing amazing stuff. But in Hyde Park I kept
wondering when he was going to start playing."
Rick Grech, who had the least experience of larger
gigs, simply kept his head down and ploughed on: "I
was nervous," he said afterwards. "Everybody was.
We knew the numbers, but not to the extent of not
having to think about them." Clapton remembers
how, even after three encores, "I came off stage
shaking like a leaf because I felt, once again, that
I'd let people down."

A NAME HAD BEEN CHOSEN BLIND FAITH. "I

KNEW IT WAS a hype as soon as it was called
Blind Faith," says Winwood. "I think the name was
largely Eric's idea, but I felt it had certain negative
implications. I went along with it only because, after
a while, if a band is successful, the name loses its
meaning and just becomes a label."

Cries of, "We want the Cream back" rang out from
disappointed die-hards and the subdued nature of
the crowd as they drifted quietly out of Hyde Park
can only have reinforced Clapton's dismay.
Stigwood, seemingly oblivious to the muted
response, continued to trumpet great things both for
the unwilling supergroup and himself: "They are
going to make a lot of money in appearance and on
records, and this concert was the best possible
beginning. I am going to make a great deal of
money out of it from the film and television rights all
over the world."

June 7, 1969 was a scorcher. By the time Blind

Faith got to Hyde Park the crowd was 100,000
strong. Jagger and Faithfull were backstage, as
were Donovan and Mick Fleetwood, along with
former Traffic members Jim Capaldi and Chris
Wood. "Stigwood stood out like a sore thumb at the
gig," recalls Andrew King, whose Blackhill
Enterprises promoted the event. "For a start, he
was the only man there in a suit, a very stylish dark
blue job it was. What rather spoiled the image was
that the shoulders were absolutely covered in
dandruff."

Immediately after Hyde Park, the band flew off for

the Scandinavian tour and it was not until their
return that they could check the reviews. Seeing
mainly criticism of their reliance on Winwood's voice
and keyboards, which Clapton himself had insisted
on, they turned their thoughts towards America,
where they would shortly embark on one of the first
stadium rock tours ever, supported by Island label
colleagues Free and little known American
Southern rockers Delaney And Bonnie.

The inevitable Third Ear Band took the stage at

2.3Opm for their woozy brew of sitars, tablas,
strings and oboes, followed by The Edgar
Broughton Band (also obligatory at outdoor events
in 1969). There was a brief foretaste of Woodstock
from Richie Havens, an unannounced spot by
Donovan, inaudible to the majority of the crowd but

31

IT CAN'T HAVE FELT LIKE A GOOD OMEN THAT

THE FIRST American date, a warm-up on July 11 in
Newport, Rhode Island, was cancelled after riots in
the city. Nor can it have brought Winwood, in
particular, any comfort to realise that they were
starting this most vital tour in New York's prestigious
Madison Square Garden with no warm-up, barely
an hour's worth of original material, a junkie
drummer and a guitarist who no longer wanted to
be in the band. As Clapton has subsequently
admitted: "I was looking for a way out,
subconsciously from the moment we hit the road."

going to beat me up, so some of them got hold of

my arm and my clothes and it ended up as a tug of
war with me in the middle. It took ages to get to the
dressing room."
For the 90 minute set, they earned $120,000 but for
Winwood the end was in sight. "Once we started
giving them old Cream numbers, it's like an
alcoholic having a drink. We started doing it every
night and it was so easy because that's pleasing the
crowd. Both Eric and I got unhappy but we didn't
have the strength to say, No, this is not right, and
pull it all back together."

"Like Stevie, we were managed by Blackwell," says

Simon Kirke, drummer for Free, "and he reckoned
the Blind Faith tour would be a great way to
introduce us to America. We did the Blue Angel in
Godalming one night, then we flew out and went on
in front of 22,000 people in Madison Square. I'd
never seen such a huge place, and the acoustics
were so horrendous we couldn't actually hear each
other. At one point, me and Andy Fraser were
playing 'I'm A Mover', while the other two were
doing 'Walk In My Shadow'. I was so disgusted I
ended up kicking my kit over."

For Clapton though, there was one glimmer of light

in the gloom that followed Madison Square
Delaney And Bonnie. "The first time I met Eric was
after the first show at Madison Square Garden,"
recalls Delaney Bramlett. "We passed the time of
day and got talking. We realised we both admired
the same people, particularly Robert Johnson, and
we both had an almost identical collection of
records." As Clapton remembers it, "Delaney looked
straight into my eyes and told me I had a gift to sing
and that if I didn't sing, God would take it away. That
night we started talking about me making a solo
album, with his band."

Blind Faith walked out to a 15-minute standing

ovation before they played a note. Once they did
start to play however; it was obvious that the sound
problems which had plagued Free were still in full
effect. "Despite all the problems, they played well
that night," insists Kirke. "It was lovely to see them
playing real songs rather than extended solos, and
we were blown away. But it wasn't what the
audience wanted."

Anxious to avoid another disaster; a more powerful

amplification system was brought in for all
subsequent shows, starting with the Kennedy
Center; Bridgeport on July 13. The American press
was not slow to make comparisons with Crosby
Stills And Nash. It was reported that Blind Faith had
negotiated a minimum guarantee of $31,500 per
show, or 65 per cent of the gate, making sell-outs
significantly more profitable. CS&N were collecting
a mere $15,000 a show.

What the audience wanted, as was obvious from

countless calls for old Cream favourites, was
instrumental pyrotechnics, and Ginger Baker was
the man to provide those. "That night is indelibly
inscribed in my memory" he says. "Right at the end
of my drum solo, I broke a stick and a chunk of it
rolled to the front of the stage. A kid in the first row
jumped up to get it and this security policeman
attacked him. I just completely forgot where I was. I
jumped off the kit and smacked the cop on the back
of the head with my open palm, but I had a lot of
heavy rings in those days. That's what started the
riot."

Clapton's relationship with Delaney And Bonnie,

who he now perceived to be a more genuine, more
talented and much more poorly paid band than his
own, progressed as the tour rolled out across
America. "Certain nights I'd get up there and play
tambourine with Delaney's group and enjoy it more
than playing with Blind Faith," he reported later. "I
started a rapport with Delaney and saw that I didn't
want Blind Faith. I wanted to be lead guitarist with
Delaney And Bonnie."

The audience's mood grew uglier as police overreacted. Seats, bottles, coins and handbags rained
down from the balconies. Winwood's electric piano
was hauled off the stage and smashed as the fans
rioted for 45 minutes after the end of the show. "It
was terrifying but it descended into farce," says
Baker. "The police, in a genuine effort to protect me,
were dragging me off the stage towards the
dressing room. The fans thought the cops were

Tour manager Ben Palmer remembers that the rest

of Blind Faith flew from gig to gig but Clapton
travelled with Delaney And Bonnie, "scrambling into
the bus with all the enthusiasm of somebody in their
first Bedford Dormobile going off to the Ricky Tick
club. We didn't see half of him, except when it was
time to go on. Travelling had become such a
disjointed affair that the whole entourage would be
spread over hundreds of miles rather than

32

everybody travelling together. Not because there

was any friction, but just because there was no
point. It wasn't alive; it never lived at all."

weeks on the road before we actually met any of

them. Steve Winwood came to our hotel,
somewhere in the Mid-west, and started talking
about how much he envied our freedom to do what
we wanted."

THE SPECTRUM IN PHILADELPHIA ON THE

16TH BROUGHT some cheer in the form of a much
better show. "I'm very pleased," reported Clapton
after the gig. "I feel good. This is a new group. This
isn't the Cream it's four different people playing
music. By the end of this tour we'll be four individual
musicians and each of us will be known for what we
can do on stage." For Winwood, unfortunately, by
the time they hit Baltimore, "I had begun to realise
what a problem Ginger was and I saw why Eric had
been against having him in the group."

Instead of doing what they wanted, Winwood and

Clapton found themselves churning out 'Sunshine
Of Your Love' against their will, obliged to play
much too loud simply in order to hear themselves
above the screaming. "I didn't have any control over
it and, what was worse, everyone in the group felt
differently about it," remembers Winwood. "I didn't
want to play coliseums. I was really fed up playing
in those places and to those audiences. It was very
false. We could play really terrible and get exactly
the same reaction as if we'd really played fucking
good. When it came down to it, we failed because
we couldn't resist requests for the hits. Ginger did a
drum solo and they thought it was Cream, so we
chucked in an old Cream song. Then I put in a
Traffic song and the identity of the band was killed
stone dead. If you have 20,000 people out there
and you know you only have to play one song for
them to be on their feet, you do it. We were only
human."

Even the American release of the album on July 21

with staggering advance orders of 250,000
guaranteeing an instant Number 1, turned out to be
a silver cloud with a black lining. On seeing the
album cover, featuring a naked pre-pubescent girl
holding a somewhat phallic silver aeroplane, almost
70 per cent of US dealers cancelled their orders.
Winwood can't have been surprised, having hated
the sleeve from the beginning but, once again, he'd
gone along with the general feeling that it was right
for the band. In the hilarious public debate that
followed, Rick Grech suggested that the sleeve
represented "a contrast between purity and
innocence and the great scientific progress of the
day." Photographer Bob Seidemann elaborated
Grech's line, explaining that, "The virgin with no
responsibility is the fruit of the tree of knowledge. As
man steps into the galaxy, I want innocence to carry
my spaceship." But somehow, Robert Stigwood's
explanation "It doesn't mean anything. We just
liked the design" is the one that rings true.

Towards the end of July there was a gap in the tour

schedule to give Blind Faith a break, but as Simon
Kirke recalls, "We couldn't afford to stop working, so
Chris Blackwell got us some dates at Ungaro's in
New York, sharing the bill with Dr John. One night
our roadie said that Clapton and Baker were in the
audience, which was amazing. Koss was knocked
out, and he played his heart out. After the set, they
came to our dressing room. Clapton made a beeline for Koss and started asking how he achieved
one of his effects, a particular kind of vibrato in the
left hand. If Koss could have died and gone to
heaven that night, he'd have been a happy man."

The real dilemma, of course, had nothing to do with

artistic merit or moral outrage. It was about seeing
record sales go up in smoke. Ahmet Ertegun, head
of Atlantic Records, quickly cobbled together a
damage limitation strategy. "We do not agree that
the original sleeve is offensive," he told the press,
"but if any dealers do not want that cover we will
happily supply them with an alternative." A shot of
the band was switched from back cover to front; a
note inside told purchasers who wanted the original
sleeve to write to Atlantic. The original was soon
back on sale with a 'Collector's Edition' sticker
strategically covering the maiden's not terribly
naughty bits.

The tour resumed on August 1 at Detroit's Olympia

Stadium, after which a party was thrown for the
band on an island in Lake Erie. "I was very late
arriving," says Baker; "but even when I got there,
Eric was nowhere to be seen. I asked Stevie where
Eric was but he didn't know. We just presumed he
was with Delaney And Bonnie. It was obvious then
that he had effectively left the band."
But, as Baker willingly concedes, Clapton was not
the only member whose behaviour was causing
problems. "As the tour went on, I got more and
more heavily into the drugs again. I was flying the
whole time. I think it was the way Eric was behaving
that drove me into it. I was hurt by him spending all
his time with Delaney And Bonnie but, of course,
with me doing drugs, he hated the kind of people I
was hanging out with. I became totally insensitive to

A week later, as the tour rumbled on, up into

Canada then back down again into Milwaukee, the
album was confirmed gold. "Koss [Paul Kossoff,
guitarist with Free] was totally in awe of Clapton,
and we were all thrilled to be on the same tour as
them," remembers Simon Kirke, "but it was two

33

what was going on around me, or to anybody else's

feelings."

was going to be trouble even before the fighting

started," remembers Baker. "The police were total
Nazis, with black jackboots and everything. They
despised the likes of us because to them we were
long-haired, drug-taking commies. When Eric tried
to go on stage to play tambourine with Delaney And
Bonnie, the cops hauled him off the stage. I've
never seen Eric so angry." The hall's revolving
stage broke down; half the crowd could see only the
band's backs. Road crew, security men and support
bands pushed it round manually.

After the Seattle Center Stadium date on August 8,

the tour swung up into Canada for a second time
and Baker drove manager Chris Blackwell through
customs. "Chris had come out to New York at the
start of the tour and bought himself a Pontiac
Firebird. Then he went home and left me in charge
of the car. He rejoined us just before Vancouver and
after we cleared customs, I said, 'Do you want to
know what you've just brought in to Canada?' He
threw up his hands and said, 'Please, Ginger, don't
tell me'."

"Delaney And Bonnie were having a hard time

through lack of billing and weird contract and
money scenes," revealed Clapton years later.
"Phoenix was their last night on the tour and, like
most nights, we jammed with them. Bonnie got
really into it and fell off the stage, down 10 feet onto
concrete. Pandemonium broke out. The cops
dragged her to an office and would not let us in.
After arguments, we eventually got in and took her
out with Delaney carrying her. There were more
hassles with the cops and Delaney dropped her
again onto the concrete and she ended up in
hospital with a broken vertebrae."

WHILE WOODSTOCK WAS ENJOYING THE

FIRST OF THREE days of peace, love and music,
Blind Faith arrived at the Los Angeles Forum.
Evidently lacking any sense of the irony inherent in
the band's name, a huge hand-made 'Clapton Is
God' placard was borne aloft by some fans. Word
was out by now that Blind Faith gigs could be
troublesome so, as soon as kids began to dance in
the aisles, LAPD's finest moved in with batons at
the ready The show was stopped twice as the
house lights were turned on and fans were dragged
out into the night. When a phalanx of kids surged
towards the eight-foot-high stage, so many police
formed a protective line along stage front that
Clapton had to move to the rear of the platform. But
the gig ended in triumph with 'Sunshine Of Your
Love', peace signs flashing in their thousands.

After a final, suitably triumphant, gig on the 24th at

the HIC Arena in Honolulu, the tour had cleared
$900,000. The others flew home to catch Dylan at
the Isle Of Wight, but Baker remained in Hawaii for
10 days, in serious need of rest and recuperation. It
was exactly the wrong place to be because Hawaii
was an important staging post on the heroin route
from the Far East into America. "I was trying to cold
turkey, but everybody around me was on drugs. I
had to get out of there or I was heading for the
graveyard." He flew down to Jamaica and spent five
more weeks cleaning up, then boarded a slow boat
back to the UK via South America. What he still
didn't know was that Blind Faith no longer existed.

However, word had reached the press that the band

would soon split. At the post-gig reception in LA's
Forum Club, Rick Grech denied the rumours. "We'll
be together as long as things are good, and tonight
they're way up there," he said. The same day the
album was released in the UK with a gatefold
sleeve, so that dealers could rack it inside-out to
avoid offending customers.

He was not alone. With the album at Number 1 in

America, the NME reported on September 6 that
Blind Faith was planning a European tour in the
autumn. Clapton, as ever, remained tactful, telling
NME on the 15th that "I am pleased with the album
and with a lot of the performances we did, but I
don't think the group is going to stay together very
long. Stevie is going to do something on his own
and I will too." By the end of month the album was
also at Number 1 in the UK.

The tour wound down through California and Texas

with relatively little incident, but Simon Kirke vividly
remembers Ginger Baker's arrival at The Palace,
Salt Lake City, on August 22. "It was blistering heat
that night and Ginger was incredibly late for the gig.
Everybody was getting nervous backstage that he
wouldn't show at all. He'd been out having some
kind of birthday party. Suddenly there was this
sound like a sledge-hammer battering on the big
metal doors. The security guys opened up and in
strides Ginger with a girl on each arm. He played a
great show that night and there was a party for him
afterwards in the hotel which he didn't even attend. I
guess he was upstairs with the girls."

By the time they landed back in England, Winwood

and Clapton had decided it was over. "We didn't
even have to talk the end of the band through,"
recalls Winwood. "It was perfectly obvious to Eric
and me on that tour in America that it couldn't last.
As we had put the band together, so we just split
up. In fact, we didn't split formally We just drifted

The disasters continued on August 23 at the

Memorial Coliseum, Phoenix. "You could see there

34

away." In Clapton's words: "I'd left The Yardbirds

because of success and Cream ended as a direct
result of its false success, or what appeared to me
to be a hypocritical form of success. So with Blind
Faith, I wanted no more to do with success. I
wanted to be accepted as a musician."
Robin Turner, Clapton's publicist in the '70s, has
noted that, "He becomes different people. When he
was with George Harrison a lot he bought a big
house like George's and a big Mercedes. When he
was with Stevie Winwood and Blind Faith, he went
back to jeans and wanting to live in the country.
When he met Delaney And Bonnie he gave up
travelling first class and just climbed into their bus."
On June 29, Eric returns to Hyde Park after a 27year absence. Steve Winwood has a new album
scheduled for release early next year. Ginger Baker
lives in Colorado, where he runs his Mile High Polo
Club and records sporadically. Rick Grech, after
working with Traffic, Clapton, The Crickets, Gram
Parsons and KGB, died in March 1990 of drugrelated problems.

Blind Faith
Ritchie Yorke, Rolling Stone, 6 September 1969

IN RETROSPECT, BLIND FAITH WAS CURSED

ALMOST FROM the outset. This was a band whose
members rarely seemed to tell each other anything.
A band at loggerheads with its management. A
management at loggerheads with itself. A heroin
addicted drummer. A guitarist who wanted out
almost from the word go. A stadium tour that the
keyboard player didn't want to be on. A record cover
scandal. Worst of all, though, they were mindnumbingly successful when they didn't want to be.

The four members of Blind Faith the instant

super group whipped up with two-thirds of the
soured Cream were entrenched in a plush 16th
floor suite of New York's Drake Hotel, just off Park
Avenue.
Stevie Winwood, the former leader of Traffic and the
Spencer Davis Group, sat in a corner, smiling and
smoking. Ginger Baker, never still, was making
paper hats on a sofa from a copy of the London
Times. Rick Grech, the former Family bass guitarist,
was perusing a collection of Blind Faith press
clippings. Eric Clapton, in a vest of many colors,
dilapidated blue jeans, bright blue suede boots with,
of all things, a white shirt, was sitting on a table,
gently picking an accoustic guitar.

The final irony was soon forthcoming. With the band

already a fading memory to its former members, a
still blindly faithful public voted them Britain's
Brightest Hope in the Melody Maker Reader's Poll.
Johnny Black, 1996

The controversial cover of Blind Faith's first album

with an 11-year-old pallid English girl, naked the
waist up, holding a model jet aeroplane lay on a
table. Copies of albums by B. B. King, Otis
Redding, Ma Rainey, the Bee Gees, Joe South, Joe
Cocker and Blind Lemon Jefferson were scattered
on the rug. The first pressing of the Blind Faith
album was vibrating forth from a portable stereo.
The phone kept ringing and a publicist kept
repeating: "No, Blind Faith are not doing any
interviews, they don't feel like it. Their music says it
all." There weren't many people there; two men
from Atlantic Records, two publicists, no groupies, a
man from Billboard and Robert Stigwood, the
band's dapper former Australian manager.

35

I've known Stevie on and off for several years, but

I'd never seen him more relaxed. "You know, Ginger
and Jack Bruce (Cream's bass guitarist) were the
first people I saw when I originally came down to
London. And I've always wanted to get together with
Eric. I think he wanted to work with me too. Over
the years, we've spent a lot of time jamming
together out in the country. But up until now, the
time hadn't been right for us to get together."

drag. With Blind Faith, there's going to be a lot of

changes going down all the time. I don't think we'll
get stale.

Clapton: "I was completely knocked out by Stevie

when I first saw him in Birmingham with the
Spencer Davis Group. He was really serious about
what he was into. It's very hard to be original within
the framework of what you're trying to do, but he
was already doing that then."

Baker, still creating headwear from the frantic Times

said that he really had nothing to say, and
suggested I talked to Rick Grech. "Blind Faith is
great. It's the best thing that's ever happened to me.
It's an incredible challenge."

"After Cream broke up, I had the first real rest I've
had since playing guitar. I'm feeling good now, and
I'm ready for whatever comes. I'm excited and I
can't wait for tomorrow and the next day and
everyday."

"Sure, it's going to be tough to replace Jack Bruce.

People are thinking that Blind Faith is just an
extension of Cream, but that's not true. Far from it.
When people come to talk to us, they go to Eric and
Stevie and Ginger. I'm always the last one. But I
accept that and I'm working on it.

"Blind Faith is not a blues group, I don't think," said

Stevie. "More of a folk-rock or a rock band. It's very
difficult to put us into any category. Our only aim is
to turn people on to our music. WE want to make
music with which people can experience something;
we want to interpret the way people feel. A common
bond of feeling.

"Musically, Eric, Stevie and Ginger were the only

guys I ever wanted to work with. I've always been
dissatisfied musically. This couldn't have come at a
better time. Blind Faith is only concerned with
music. We realize that we're in this as long as we
dig it. When that stops, so does Blind Faith. There
will be no reprisals, no hangups, nothing like that."

"But it won't be a set format. Change is very

necessary to keep things going. There must be
compromise within the group and there will be. With
some musicians, it's important just to be able to sit
down and make music. That is difficult to do with
most other musicians. I think we're making it here.

The long-awaited album was produced by Jimmy

Miller, rather than Felix Pappalardi, who'd done
most of the Cream sessions. Clapton explained:
"Jimmy is more into rock 'n' roll than Felix was. Felix
came from the other side. Jimmy is great, he's
helped us a great deal and I don't think we'd ever
have finished the album without him."

"Blind Faith is undoubtedly the most exciting thing

in my career. It's all a bit fantastic really." Winwood
wrote three of the six tracks on the initial album,
and true to form, he played organ, piano, guitar
(there were times at the session when he and Eric
couldn't distinguish who was playing what), and
sang on most of them.

The massive adulation, and the resultant ego

tripping, is still to come. That point was brought
home on the elevator taking Blind Faith down to a
waiting limousine and rehearsals for the first North
American tour. A middle-aged man came into the
elevator, leading an old man with a walking stick.
The younger of the two asked Clapton what group
he was in. When told Blind Faith, he said: "Wait 'til
my daughter hears about this. She'll be green with
envy!"

Rather unexpectedly, the Blind Faith album is more

of Winwood than Clapton or Baker, as far as
musical influence is concerned. You hear more of
Traffic than Cream in there. A friend explained that
Clapton had always resented the fact of having to
play a lead part, rather than wanting to. In many
ways Winwood is the leader of Blind Faith.
"I'm much more excited about the future of Blind
Faith," said Clapton, "than I was with Cream at the
beginning. But we went through the Cream thing,
and we learnt the lesson. This time we won't make
the same mistakes again.

Ritchie Yorke, 1969

"Now we're doing it all again from scratch. We have

a fresh approach, and we're going to keep ahead of
it all, whereas Cream got into the same things over
and over and over again. It all became a bit of a

36

feels like flashing for a while, but because the song

calls for a solo at that point.
The formula works nearly perfectly on this album
when it is followed. The music is phenomenal in
places, weak in others. Unfortunately, the weakest
song on the album is fifteen minutes long and takes
up almost a whole side.
By far the best song is Presence of the Lord, an
Eric Clapton hymn which explains in part how Blind
Faith ever came to be. The majesty of the organ
even makes it sound like a church song, until
Clapton wah-wahs off on a quick solo that's so good
it makes me want to apologize for every snide thing
I've ever said or thought about him. The first time I
heard this song, it brought me out of my listening
chair, mouth wide open in awe. It still does. Never
has a guitarist said so much so beautifully in such a
short time. The solo is so inspirational it can't help
but make the lyrics that much more believable.
Blind Faith: Blind Faith (Atco)

In fact, it's so good it tends to overshadow two other

very fine cuts on the album. Had to Cry Today
goes through several interesting changes, Clapton
always bringing it back to the main theme. The
choice of Rick Grech, heretofore almost unknown,
as bassist is fully justified by his work on this song.
Can't Find My Way Home, a pleading Stevie
Winwood tune, features Ginger Baker's highly
innovative percussion and the delightful line, Well
I'm wasted and I can't find my way home.

John Morthland, Rolling Stone, 6 September 1969

THE YEAR 1969 has not been a very good one for
rock and roll. Outside of Tommy and the Band's
decision to go on tour, we haven't had much to get
excited about.
But the other arts have suffered as well. Like Jim
Morrison in Miami and John and Yoko on their
album cover, the best of the novel Portnoy's
Complaint, film I Am Curious (Yellow) and theatre
numerous examples, have practically had to jerk
off to their audiences in order to draw attention to
otherwise-undistinguished products.
Art theorists have hypothesized that artists are
usually most inspired in times of crisis, that the
forces of history push them to greater personal
achievements. Perhaps the reason this does not
hold true today is that while crisis is one thing, times
are getting out of hand. With scientists calmly
packing away quart bottles of nerve gas that can kill
fifty people with one drop, military helicopters
staging air attacks on their own populations, and
atrocities bizarre beyond the imagination, the artist,
too, must eventually feel the strain. Art suffers at the
hands of Reality.

Do What You Like is a fine five-minute rock song

which is destroyed when it is dragged out ten extra
minutes by solos for the sake of solos. Baker's
lyrics state the Blind Faith formula (Do right use
your head/Everybody must be fed/Get together
break your bread/Yes together that's what I said.),
but the music then proceeds to obliterate it.
Winwood's solo is the only one worthy of remaining
in the song; he is the most consistent musician on
the album. Clapton's is perfectly competent, but
nothing new or exceptional. Baker confuses
quantity with quality; his solo starts out nicely
enough, but quickly falls apart despite his insistence
on continuing. Poor Ginger is bound and
determined to someday match the original version
of Toad; he is, at this rate, destined to retire a very
frustrated drummer. The bass solo is sheer selfindulgence.

Blind Faith can be viewed as an attempt to jar rock

out of these doldrums. The group is based on the
idea that if you take three of the best soloists
around and form them into a single smoothfunctioning unit, the result will be one incredible
rock band. Ego conflicts must be kept at a
minimum; solos are taken not because someone

I don't know what the explanation for this cut is, but
I could venture a calculated guess. Atlantic
President Ahmet Ertegun was recently quoted as
saying, If we'd known they were going to do this
well (on the American tour), we wouldn't have
rushed the album. I wouldn't be surprised if this
song falls into the throwaway solo rut because Blind

37

Faith didn't have enough new material to fill an

album in time to meet Atlantic's deadline, and
resolved the problem by extending a song they
already did have. If so, add avaricious businessmen
to the list of handicaps the artist must face.

likes of Nancy Sinatra and the Vogues, desperately

searching for something a little more substantial.
And then it happened.
I had tuned in too late to get the announcer's full
introduction, but when he snarled out the song title
(in the best tradition of bubble-gun sexuality) I knew
I'd come to the right place. 'Gimme Some Lovin' '
no pretty-please or coy avoidance of the question
the command was direct and unavoidable, and it
just had to be great rock and roll. It was: a bass line
that pounded primitive and didn't stop, organ
chording that was nothing short of overpowering,
and a singer so strong that it didn't matter that I
couldn't understand all the words (and this,
remember, was in the heyday of the all-important
lyric). The words were clearly of secondary
importance; the message was the emotion, and it
was transmitted perfectly in 'Gimme Some Lovin'.

This album is better than any of Cream's and about

as good as any of Traffic's. On the basis of the
potential shown in the best cuts, and writing off Do
What You Like as a fluke mistake that won't be
repeated, I'm already anxious for the next Blind
Faith album. If they ever get it together all at once,
rock and roll will never be the same.
John Morthland, 1969

My flash impression was that the singer had to be

black, and that the band was probably some sweaty
bar aggregation which, after suffering through a
thousand variations on the 'Peppermint Twist' just to
get by, had somehow managed to stumble upon the
secret of the Rolling Stones' success with the white
middle-class audience. Apparently somebody with a
certain amount of power agreed, because the next
time I heard 'Gimme Some Lovin'' it was a pallid
cover version by a group of distinctly white nobodys
(their name escapes me) who almost immediately
dematerialized into a much-deserved oblivion.
Boston radio having cowardly chosen to play the
watered-down version, I became reconciled to
getting the real thing only when I could pick up a
stray station in New York or sometimes Chicago,
but it was worth every inch of the effort. In the years
since, that kid who was singing has made his
presence unavoidable to anyone with even a
passing interest in the music of the counter-culture.
The Young Stevie
Birmingham lies in what is referred to as the Black
Country, and the rustic working-class people of this
area are purported to have served as the raw
material from which Tolkien fashioned his Hobbits. If
London was Carnaby Street, then Birmingham was
any one of a thousand faceless factories: it was one
of those cities whose birth was necessitated by the
grim demands of the Industrial Age. Writing on the
Move in the July '70 issue of Creem, I stated that
Birmingham is "roughly England's equivalent of
Detroit," and that analogy rings most true.

Stevie Winwood: Not Just A Singer In A Rock

And Roll Band
Ben Edmonds, Phonograph Record, April 1973
I MADE INITIAL contact with Stevie Winwood in
March of 1966, a weekend rebel still in the high
school clutches of suburban Boston. As was my
nature at that time, I'd slipped out to the parking lot
between classes to catch a smoke and a few
minutes of rock and roll in the front seat of a friend's
car. I cruised the dial, passing quickly through the

In Birmingham as in Detroit the diversionary power

of music is intensified simply because the need for

38

diversion is that much stronger; the measure of

music becomes its ability to carry the listener
beyond whatever reality is grating a little too
harshly. Music had power a power which was
central to everyone's lives and its importance
was past the point of question. It was in this
environment that Stevie Winwood developed.

render. It is also possible that whatever measure of

success they enjoyed may have been partly due to
the amazement which proceeded from seeing this
fragile kid, not yet old enough to frequent the pubs
they played in, playing so many instruments and
styles and playing them all so well.
Enter Spencer Davis

Stevie was born in Birmingham on May 12 of 1948,

the son of a man who worked long hours in a
chromium plant to support his family. Those long
hours, however, didn't preclude his after-hours duty
blowing sax with a local danceband, moonlight he
no doubt grabbed as much for the release as for the
money. (It is interesting to note here that the father
of Jim Capaldi participated in many such ventures
with the older Mr. Winwood.)

It is known, however, that this hand was playing an

engagement at a place called the Ale House on one
fateful day in late 1963. In the audience that night
was one Spencer Davis, a professor of German
from the University of Birmingham and a part-time
folksinger with higher aspiration, and he heard in
that band the means by which he could structure
some ideas which extended considerably beyond
the unamplifled limitations of folk music. His
ambition must have been right in step with that of
the three, because soon thereafter the trio was
rounded out to four and saw in 1964 as the Spencer
Davis Group.

The young Stevie industriously constructed a

crystal radio with the aid of a helpful uncle, and the
influences he absorbed through that box (probably
when he should have been tending to homework
and other related drudgery) were to have a
profound effect on the developmental stages of his
career. His scope of influence was considerably
wider than that of your average rock and roll kid. He
was touched almost immediately by jazz, the
smooth restraint of the Oscar Peterson Trio giving
way to the challenge and romance of bassist
Charles Mingus. His fascination with the blues
struck through the southside elegance of Muddy
Waters and the polished agony of Ray Charles.
(Charles, whose inspiration is carved most deeply
into the Winwood consciousness, has influenced at
least ten times as many people as have ever heard
him.) In many respects, the versatality which marks
his musicianship may be traced to the open
embrace of his early musical hunger.

The situation within the music industry was not at all

then as it is now. Generous contracts and
monstrous amounts of front money were not
awarded to any self-styled musician who walked
through the door wearing velvet and talking a great
album; bands in those faraway days were expected
to have achieved at least workable maturity before
they were ever allowed to see the inside of a
recording studio or their name on a contract. So the
Spencer Davis Group initially followed the earlier
path of Winwood's trio playing assorted jobs for
assorted sums of money getting along fmancially
(the band still being at this time somewhat of a
sidelight engagement) and getting themselves
together musically.

Winwood's insatiable love for music drove him to

pick up the instruments for himself, and he was
keeping after-hours company with his father by the
time he was nine. Apparently music was a staple of
the Winwood household, because when Stevie
joined up with his father's outfit, he found himself
playing alongside his older brother Muff. But the
excitement of playing Dad's music was only
momentary, and it seemed inevitable that Stevie
and Muff should form a band. Which, in 1963 with
the help of a friend named Peter York who played
drums, is exactly what they did.

By the time 1965 was preparing to close its doors,

the Spencer Davis Group and the music industry
were ready to make acquaintance. They ventured
into the studio that first time with Chris Blackwell
(who was their manager) and a dude fresh from the
States who was looking for his first big production
break. The dude was Jimmy Miller, and his name
and production brilliance have accompanied the
upward spiral of Stevie Winwood's career. Out of
that session came two important introductory sides.
'Keep On Running' was an elementary lesson in the
best rock and roll being produced at that time:
simple to the point of being skeletal, direct to the
point of dancing, and with any serious ego
subservient to the beat. In the standard two guitarbass-drum mold, it did its best to maintain a
smoothly driving surface. There was nothing
particularly spectacular about the band's execution
or Stevie's vocal, and it almost seemed as though

Not much is known about this band, except that

they played your usual succession of school gigs,
teen dances and bars; but it is thoroughly
conceivable that the trio format was an adequate
enough excuse for Stevie to throw in some tasty
Oscar Peterson licks between the dance jams and
standards which any small-time band is expected to

39

they (and especially Stevie) were holding back,

making sure that everything was perfectly geared
toward hit parade acceptance. Nevertheless,
without really trying hard, the song managed to be
better rock and roll than was being offered by many
of England's more experienced and prestigious
groups.

The result was Gimme Some Lovin, and it was not

only the record which liberated the Spencer Davis
Group internationally, but was a breakout in the
truest musical sense as well. Where the sound of
the previous single had been calculation and
restraint, this one leveled the walls of limitation with
tidal-wave intensity. The major alteration found
Stevie behind a Hammond B-3 organ, and the
authority he channeled through that instrument was
topped only by the strength of purpose in his vocal
performance. The point was, however, that
everybody was involved in the process; and this
feeling of communal frenzy was what carried the
excitement. This time, they were playing like they
meant it.

'Somebody Help Me' was essentially the same

song, just one short step away from the original
formula. It featured Stevie on guitar, but one is
constantly confronted by the impression that many
of his guitar lines were actually directed more
toward the keyboards. He was afforded slightly
more vocal latitude because the pace of the song
wasn't quite as forced, revealing just enough of that
Winwood trademark of emotional release needed to
bring the song off.

The production seems almost to border on the

crude, but this is not without explanation. In the first
place, nearly all available space was filled with
sound, with a fullness which sidestepped excessby
directing its energy towards thrust. And the song's
reliance on thrust dictated that it be recorded live;
overdubbing could never have captured that
unification of power. In the end, the rough edges of
the production may have worked in the song's favor,
reinforcing the earthy nature of its principal
command. The single was a resounding smash on
both sides of the Atlantic and several places inbetween.

These two songs are not even as interesting in

terms of Winwood as they are with regard to the
rest of the Spencer Davis Group. The roles which
the bass, drums and rhythm guitar establish here
define their contribution to the band, roles which will
remain static while the development of the band
becomes almost entirely the development of Stevie
Winwood. And this was precisely the source of a
tension within the group which increased each time
another record was sold.

An album with the same title appeared almost

immediately, but it told us nothing about the
Spencer Davis Group which we hadn't already
surmised from their singles. Not faced with forced
concentration on each song's chart potential, the
band could afford to just lay back and play their
favorite music; hence the album is a
conglomeration of singles, traditional material and
off-hand statements of influence. 'Goodbye Stevie'
for instance is an uncomplicated jam on some blues
fundamentals, written by the entire band and
featuring Stevie on piano and lead guitar. The song
is particularly luminous in the view it affords of how
easily Stevie was able to combine aspects of
tradition (the New Orleans-style piano) with trend
(the lead guitar which could have been copped from
the Yardbirds) into a uniquely distinctive amalgam.

The Big Time

The single pushed steadily toward the top of the
British charts but, for reasons still beyond my feeble
comprehension, it never made very much noise
here in the States. When later singles imprinted
their name on nearly everyone's tongue, those two
sides were always among the favorite album tracks
at the summer parties I attended; second only, in
fact to the indispensable bottle of Jack Daniels
procured when the right people had their backs
turned. And the two inevitably went so well together
that it hardly mattered anyway.
Following the success of the single, some muddy
contractual hocus-pocus left the group without a
recording company. While waiting for that little
matter to be resolved, the group utilized the time to
strengthen and develop their sound, capitalizing on
their hit to get them more bookings and the
consequent strength of exposure. When a new
contract was secured, and the group entered the
studio for a second time, they were far more
assured and prepared to deliver something which
would get a lot further in explaining what the
Spencer Davis Group was.

The Spencer Davis Group Must Die

In those days, tampering with the machinery of your
success could usually be equated with attempted
suicide, and far too many one-hit casualties dotted
a landscape which offered little security. It was
almost to be expected, then, that their next release
after 'Gimme Some Lovin'' would recognize the
formula and adhere to it; and that's precisely what
'I'm A Man' was all about. A few of the rough edges
were smoothed out and the percussion was beefed

40

up a bit, but the impressive list of cover versions

and interpretations which the song has seen in the
last six years only testifies that they actually
succeeded in outdoing the original theme. The song
rose to the uppermost reaches of the charts even
more speedily, and it seemed to have more than
adequate insurance on the future of the Spencer
Davis group.

performances by Al Kooper, the Lovin' Spoonful,

Tom Rush and the Butterfield Blues Band.) Listed
as Steve Anglo for contractual reasons, he was
unmistakable as Stevie Winwood by his
contribution. As evidenced by 'Crossroads', these
sides opted more for tradition than polish, but they
reflected a power of commitment, which would lead
both Clapton and Winwood into areas of music
which these songs don't even hint at.

Just when stardom seemed consolidated, however,

the group succumbed to tensions of an internal and
external nature. On the other hand, Stevie's musical
ambition was beginning to fight the formula of
commercial application, and he was growing at a
rate which threatened to leave the rest of the band
far behind. (Spencer Davis, having been a
folksinger, was more into tradition, while Stevie was
beginning to sense the possibilities of extension.)

Emerging Traffic
Stevie's own ideas ruled out the possibility of
traditional anything, but he needed the support of
other energies to bring life to his embryonic
concepts. And he had a pretty good idea where to
begin the search.
Jim Capaldi, whose father had been teamed with
Stevie's on several occasions, was performing with
a Birmingham band known as Deep Feeling. The
group did a lot of original material and was greatly
influenced by blues guitarist Davey Graham (and
particularly the cultural exchange which he carried
back from a visit to Tangiers), and Dave Mason was
also with this group for awhile. Chris Wood had
been part of Locomotive, a group that did its best to
sneak in some elementary jazz between the foxtrots
and waltzes. During the final days of the Spencer
Davis Group, Stevie could often be found at the pub
where Jim's band played; and more often than not
up on stage, the willing victim of his passion for
music. In playing with these musicians, certain
mutual gears locked into place and the idea of
something a little more permanent was just part of
the flow.

Once again an album was hastily assembled to

score on the power of a hit single and once again it
was revealed as a random collection whose several
ups weren't quite enough to counteract the down of
its opportunistic echo. Included in this set were
'Can't Get Enough Of It' and 'Stevie's Blues', the
former is great rock and roll and has implications
which Winwood further explored with Traffic, and
the latter evidences Stevie's emerging lyricism
(seen even more clearly when stacked up against
the earlier 'Goodbye Stevie'). It was obvious by this
time, however, that the Spencer Davis Group had
run its limited gamut, and that Stevie Winwood's
artistic hunger could only be accommodated in
different surroundings.
He packed his bags and headed for London leaving
the Spencer Davis Group to pick up the pieces and
re-assemble them in a new order. (The group did
manage to hit the charts with a song called 'Time
Seller', but that was still largely due to lingering
Winwood associations.) The first person he looked
up was Eric Clapton, an ex-Yardbird who was just
getting off on a hot streak which would take him to
heights perhaps rivaled only by Winwood. (Clapton
was fresh from a stint with John Mayall's
Bluesbreakers and an album which may still
contend is the finest white blues record ever to be
produced.) The two had jammed together on
previous occasion, and they had once even joined
forces in a loose alignment called Powerhouse.

The Berkshire countryside is only a bit more than

an hour in driving time from London, and the ghost
of history still breathes heavy in its hills and
hollows. The roots of English culture were driven
deep into this soil as far back as the Stone Age, yet
the nature of the country has remained remarkably
unchanged in the 8,000 years since. It was in this
countryside, in a rented cottage just outside the
miniscule village of Aston Tirrold, that Stevie
Winwood, Jim Capaldi, Chris Wood and Dave
Mason got down to the business of finding out what
they could become as Traffic.
There was another reason why Traffic should have
settled down in such a locale. Each of the members
had left "commercial" ventures of various sorts for
the promise of something more. They were
attempting to build a music which they had felt but
never heard, a coming together of our personalities
and distinct colors into a sound which had to be
new. They needed an atmosphere where they could
explore themselves, each other, and all which both

From all indications, Powerhouse was just a name

used to identify some friends jamming on their
mutual affection for the blues sometime in late
1965. The group might never have come to light
were it not for the release of an Elektra sampler
called What's Shakin some years back. (Released
in late 1966, this legendary collection also includes

41

implied. They traded the pace of man for freedom

and mobility of development, drawn by the
opportunity to devote more care to their music than
had ever been previously possible.

release of the album. The album finally arrived just

as signs of Spring were beginning to assert
themselves, and nobody was disappointed.
The cover of Mr Fantasy pictured only Winwood,
Capaldi and Wood, establishing an irregularity
which became all too familiar in the emerging Traffic
pattern. Dave Mason, although represented by
songs and performances, was nowhere to be found
in either picture or instrumental credit. Nobody gave
this oversight much of a notice
in the rush to get the album, because what
mattered was the music in the grooves. And it was
all there.

The first things Traffic recorded were some tracks to

score the film Here We Go Round The Mulberry
Bush (a score which they ironically shared with the
remains of the Spencer Davis Group), but these
didn't reach the public until a full four months after
the release of their first single. That single was
'Paper Sun', and for the English public it was a
matter of love at first glance.
I was studying art in Paris at the time that single
was making its way up the charts, and the British
pop weeklies (Melody Maker, Disc) which served as
my liaison to the outside world were filled with
pages of information and praise of Traffic. Travellers
from London regularly brought shreds of news, and
talk among those who knew in late night cafes
would make the rounds of Hendrix and Cream, but
somehow usually ended in high expectations for
Traffic. I traded one such traveller my copy of
Jefferson Airplane Takes Off (not having been
released in Great Britain, it was as much an item of
expectant curiosity to an Englishman as Traffic was
to me) for a battered copy of 'Paper Sun'. I have
never regretted the exchange, though I must admit
to at least small surprise the first time I played it on
the turntable of the battery-operated phonograph
which was the most important item in my European
survival kit.

'Paper Sun' proved only one part of the question

posed by Traffic and versatility was the key. The
sweeping aptitude which each conspirator exhibited
made the musical possibilities mathematically
endless, and every instrument functioned as a
vehicle toward creating a self-explanatory mood.
Coming precisely at the time when most of us were
more than willing to venture a look beyond
our accepted horizons providing, of course, that
we were furnished with experienced guides
Traffic was an instrumental tool in the expansion of
our mass consciousness. Mr. Fantasy was the first
journey away from home for a lot of people.
Mr. Fantasy seemed to dominate from the first
punch, and its arrival commanded considerably
more attention than was accorded the appearance
of either the Jimi Hendrix Experience or Cream in
the previous year. You could hear it all over
Cambridge blasting from the yards of Harvard or
mingling with the noise of the street from an open
window somewhere just off the Square and
Boston's fine FM outlet WBCN counted it a
programming staple for at least two months
afterward. Traffic's debut American performance
was given at the Boston Tea Party, sans Dave
Mason, and the reception given them, was a
mixture of loud excitement and quiet awe. They did
a lot of exploratory jamming that night, much of it
probably due to the fact that they hadn't really redefined themselves as a trio. When they arrived in
New York, however, they found Dave Mason waiting
for them with a smile on his face, and it appeared
as though their first major crisis had left them with
no scars that wouldn't heal.

I was expecting something with rock and roll power

cast in the mold of 'Gimme Some Lovin'' but 'Paper
Sun' was thinking along different lines. Dave
Mason's conspicuous sitar set the pace on Eastern
roads, while Jim Capaldi seemed to be
concentrating more on percussion than standard
drums. The sound was heavily textured, but each
part (Wood's flute, for example, which was relatively
buried) melted into a strikingly evocative totality.
Winwood's voice was up front, underscored by
some dense harmonies, and his most vital
instrumental contribution to the song was made
through the pushing power of his bass lines. The
total picture was certainly mysterious (if not
impressionistic) and its particular brand of drive
demanded some time for familiarity.
Mr. Fantasy Comes To America

Santa carried the second Traffic album in his 1968

bag, and it could only confirm the contention of
many observers that Traffic would emerge a
considerably stronger unit. It was called simply
Traffic, and it was a clarification of all the points
made on Mr.Fantasy, heightened by cleaner
production and a more pervasive aura of unity.
Notable cuts include 'Vagabond Virgin' (a kissing

At the conclusion of that summer, I returned to the

States to find that people's expectations and
general knowledge regarding Traffic matched my
own. FM radio stations (a force which had
blossomed in the months I had been away) were
playing the singles and anxiously awaiting the

42

cousin to Mr. Fantasy's 'Dealer' stylistically) and

'40,000 Headmen' (which evidenced an increasing
concern for their English folk heritage, which would
become unavoidable on the later John Barleycorn
album). That the album effectively carried out its
mission may be seen in the fact that it remains
probably their most universally loved work.

On paper it looked to be nothing short of

spectacular, but something was amiss from the very
beginning: when people talked about Blind Faith
they invariably talked in numbers and percentages,
hardly the common vocabulary of rock and roll.
They gave a free recital (or was it rehearsal?) in
Hyde Park, and drew over 150,000 people on wordof-mouth assurance. An American tour was hastily
arranged, and an album recorded. Excitement was
pushed to the top of the thermometer, but the
venture was not fated to last very long.

Slow Death
And then, as an almost cruel introduction to their
third album, Traffic announced that they were
parting company. Dave Mason had already left
(again), but the basic division in his case, had been
obvious for some time. Where Dave Mason
presented songs for recitation, the rest of the group
worked out their compositions as a body, and the
difference between a Mason song and a nonMason song was unmistakable. This time, however,
it wasn't merely one member creating a situation for
adjustment; it was the collapse of a frame work and
it sounded awfully final. They gave up the cottage
and one couldn't ignore that persistent feeling that a
vision had been choked off before it had found its
consummate expression.

The Blind Faith album disqualified itself on the

grounds of self-incrimination, solidifying the
evidence of Stevie's strategic error. Stevie had
ostensibly left Traffic because its structure had
ceased to mean anything, but he had put himself in
a position where the structure of this band was
being sung to the skies before they could even
define their music. The album was rushed, and was
exactly what Stevie feared most in the restrictions
of a group: form without inspiration. The majority of
the good moments were Winwood's ('Sea Of Joy'
for instance) but the prematurity which hung over
the project drowned out any sunshine. Soon
everything, right down to the reaction of the
audience, was tinged with artificial color and an
excitement which was forced. It left only one way
out.

The inevitability of the parting was manifested

artistically on the live side of Last Exit. Their
performance as a trio seemed to say that they had
given in to their jazz tendencies; group structure
was abandoned for an open jam format, and the
name Traffic ceased to have meaning as an
organizing device. They had gone as far as they
cared to under that particular banner, and the only
solution appeared to be surrender to different
directions and a change of scenery. The studio side
of Last Exit was decidedly uneven, but at least one
track, 'Medicated Goo', ranks among their finest
songs. It's a great bit of nonsensical funk, the most
direct piece of rock and roll from Stevie since his
Spencer Davis days. Great as it was, though it
couldn't conceal the fact that it was good-bye.

Blind Faith died to a gasp of relief, leaving Stevie

wiser but not much farther down the road. He
played a lot of session work to keep his fingers
loose, turning in fine performances for such as Joe
Cocker and Leon Russell. He was briefly a member
of Ginger Baker's Air Force, but the brevity of his
tenure says that he was wise to that one from the
start. He seemed to be holding back, perhaps at
this point by conditioned reflex, and this period is
measured by his level of non-assertion. When he
finally went back into the studio, he went alone.
The original plan called for Stevie to record a solo
album titled Mad Shadows, on which he could be
held responsible for every sound. The ultimate
escape; not so much an ego fulfillment as a retreat.
Work on the album progressed like cold syrup,
leading Stevie to two important realizations. The
first was simply that music is an artform which is
nourished by contact with people, and the second
was the value of working with people who know and
understand the terms of your vision. These
realizations found their best examples in two
particular people who are already familiar to this
story.

Blind Faith
Seeking a fresh source of inspiration, Stevie began
to hang out with Eric Clapton once again. The
cottage shook off the mothballs, and Ginger Baker
was not long in joining Clapton (his albums from
Cream) and Winwood in Berkshire. Three weeks
later, a fourth member joined and it suddenly
became a band. They had a recording contract
before they could turn around, and a reputation to
live up to before they had ever played so much as
one note together in public. The fourth member was
bassist Rick Gretch, recruited from a band called
Family; and this new group was called quite
appropriately, given the situation Blind Faith.

Jim Capaldi came first, helping out with the

percussion on a couple of tracks. (In the interim,
Capaldi had supported Dave Mason on his solo

43

album and had worked with a group called Heavy

Jelly.) Chris Wood was not far behind. He'd spent
his time working mostly with Doctor John and then
Air Force, but his ears were open when the call
went out. What was begun as Stevie's Mad
Shadows was completed as a Traffic reunion called
John Barleycorn Must Die.

traditional-folk aura of 'John Barleycorn' (the song),

but exclusive of the jarringly superficial closing jazz
bit, it worked quite nicely; while the ambitious title
track, although a little lengthy at 12:10 and rather
wearing after multitudinous FM plays, nonetheless
possessed potent mesmeric qualities and was an
impressive achievement. The album, despite two
lackluster Capaldi-sung numbers, was an artistic
success not exactly galvanic in terms of energy
levels, but melodically enchanting and quite
enjoyable.

Traffic Reborn
Despite the fact that John Barleycorn traveled much
of the same road that was set for Mad Shadows,
the spirit of the new album was what defined it best.
The record was aggressive from start to finish, and
even those songs which struck the low-key
registers were distinguished by the energy of reaffirmation. The first cut was called 'Glad', and that
about summed up the situation.

After the Spark came another year of near-total

silence, punctuated by a February American tour
(inexplicably hard on the heels of the autumn
junket), but exhaustive Jamaican sessions (with
former Muscle Shoals session men David Hood and
Roger Hawkins replacing Grech and Gordon)
eventually produced a new LP, Shoot Out At The
Fantasy Factory. It was a disheartening comedown,
completely subdued in mood yet melodically barren
as well. The most successful number, 'Roll Right
Stones', was basically comprised of 13:40 of rather
aimless instrumental meandering on a skeletal
melodic framework of reasonable attractiveness;
everything else lacked even those halfhearted
considerations in their favor, culminating in an
insidiously doze-inducing Chris Wood instrumental,
'Tragic Magic'. Winwood's singing was a bit tepidsounding, and the material was suitable for little
more than nodding out half-pleasantly. In short,
Traffic left themselves wide open by closing the
album with a tune entitled '(Sometimes I Feel So)
Uninspired'; quantatively the LP features too few
songs at inordinate lengths, and qualitatively it is a
disturbingly somnolent record indeed. On the
accompanying tour, Winwood looked rather peaked,
while Reebop collected the audience's impassioned
plaudits (involving multiple encores, despite a
hyperpercussive, dragged-out set well below past
standards).

The public took Traffic back without a second

thought. John Barleycorn was lauded by consumer
and critic alike, and the band was soon off on a
reacquaintance tour which met with equal success.
Traffic had returned, and the question most often
asked was how we could possibly have let them go
in the first place.
A period of silence ensued, fmally broken by a live
concert album recorded in July 1971, featuring a
radically revamped group line-up of Winwood,
Wood, Capaldi (on vocals and percussion now);
plus old Blind Faithful Rick Grech on bass, session
drummer Jim Gordon, one "Reebop" Kwaku Baah
on congas, timbales and bongos and, of all
people, Dave Mason again. Mason spearheaded a
pair of solid performances of his year-old solo LP
material, while Winwood and the group were in
good form on 'Medicated Goo' and '40,000
Headmen' to round out Side One. The other side
was quite a disappointment, however, with a thin,
overextended 10 minute 'Mr. Fantasy' and a new,
funkifized version of 'Gimme Some Lovin'' which at
times threatened to give Santana a run for their
money. The album was released to fulfill a
contractual obligation, and viewed as a stopgap of
sorts it is actually pleasant enough.

The future of Steve Winwood and Traffic, then, is

shadowed in doubts at the present time. Still, Traffic
continues to see changes for every day of its
growth, and it seems that every corner they turn
only leads them to a larger sphere of appreciation.
Hopefully, Stevie Winwood's best days are still
spread out ahead of him, and although tomorrow
will undoubtedly see him in a different sunrise, he
has already presented us with more debts than we
could ever hope to pay back.

Shortly afterward, the new Traffic (once again sans

Mason but retaining Grech, Gordon, and Reebop)
undertook an extensive U.S. tour. While Reebop's
influence and Capaldi's switch from drums had
wrought a change in the group's overall sound,
Winwood's new material was enthralling.
Subsequently it formed the core of the Low Sparks
Of High Heeled Boys LP, with 'Hidden Treasure' and
'Many A Mile To Freedom' in particular as haunting
a pair of tracks as Traffic had ever laid down.
'Rainmaker' was an obvious attempt to recreate the

Ben Edmonds, 1973

44

Yardbirds
Question Time

Sam: It's not for us to say. I don't like to see the

girls rushing around trying to copy Cathy because I
prefer originality, but it is part of Cathy's job to set
trends and fashions. That's why she is there. She
does it well.

Keith Altham, NME, 9 July 1965

A number of pop stars, including Jagger, Dave

Berry and Paul Jones, have opted for short hair
and the groups seem to be taking on new
images. Are you doing the same?

THE YARDBIRDS were in no mood for pulling

punches when I called on them in their dressing
room at the Ready, Steady, Go studios in Wembley
Park. Keith Relf expressed the desire that they
should be "the first group to tell the truth" and that
he was tired of "watered down interviews which said
nothing."

Sam: As you can see I have just had my hair cut

quite short! Mainly because I became tired of
people pointing me out in bars and on buses as a
member of a group. I don't want to stand out as a
group member. I never grew my hair long
intentionally. I just didn't have it cut, if you see what
I mean.

Ready, Steady, Go! itself has been the subject of

a great deal of controversy recently. What do
you think of the show?

Keith: My hair is long simply because it doesn't suit

me short. I've always worn it this length even before
I joined the group.

Chris: The show is cutting its own throat. It's

nowhere near as good as it used to be.
Keith: Let's be honest the whole show is a
shambles. You've got one guy running around the
studio flapping his arms and shouting and no
control.

Chris: We don't want a contrived image. If there is

one it will appear naturally.
When you played with the Beatles in Paris
recently were you able to talk to them
personally?

The best of the pop shows is Top Of The Pops,

where everyone is very friendly and they make it a
happy show. The best sound is produced by DiscsA-Go-Go. Their sound engineer is the finest in the
country in my opinion.

Keith: Not really. They're so well protected it isn't

true. Ten minutes before they were due on stage
they were nowhere around and suddenly they were
there. Five minutes after their act they had
disappeared just as quickly.

Sam: The greatest criticism would be that they are

unable to produce as good a sound as on the
record itself. It has too many difficulties.

My father, who is our road manager, was knocked

out when Paul remembered his name and said
"Hello." That's the nice thing about him, he
remembers everyone.

Jeff: I don't see the show can do anything more

than it is. I think a great deal of the appeal lies in
the fact the people will watch just to see if you make
mistakes "live."

Lennon approached me and asked for a harmonica

so they could play. 'Baby In Black' but I didn't have
one. He also wanted some macraccas and I didn't
have those either.

What I would like to see is a show that would

spotlight one group for half an hour and vary the
numbers. Let us show what we really can do, not
just give us time to play our latest disc.

How far do you think we can go before the

machine takes over over from the musician. For
example, haven't the Who gone too far with
electronic sounds rather than music?

Jim: It's sick.

Do you feel that the criticism of Cathy McGowan
and Patrick Kerr is justified?

Keith: The Who are creating with sounds just as

surely as an artist with brush strokes. What is more
important they are original.

Keith: They ask for it and they've got to take the

knocks. The kids will follow anyone for a while but
once they are successful they often want a change.

I've just been listening to a symphony on the third

programme where they used effects from steel

45

sheets, slabs of marble and 15 speakers. It was

wonderful.

Nash and Young, was he going to get John and

George and start the new Beatles?

I also believe that the Who have been inspired by

us. We were always seeing them in our audience at
one time either at the Marquee or the Crawdaddy.

An air of mystery hung over the Clapton camp, as

people speculated on the guitarist's plans. After all,
he'd played on an awful lot of great records lately
John and Yoko's Live Peace In Toronto, with King
Curtis on his 'Teasin'' single, with George Harrison
on his forthcoming album, and with Delaney and
Bonnie on their album.

Jim: The Who and ourselves are the only groups

doing anything new. I think that's far better than
reviving these old numbers like Peter and Gordon
have. We all dislike that type of song.
Sam: I would say that Bacharach's experiments
with melody have been more successful than the
Who's with sound.

At the studio, Clapton and Steve Stills were

obviously getting off on each other. Eric's hair was
shorn off shorter than John and Yoko's, and it was
as though Clapton had discarded his old hang-ups
along with the hair.

Jeff: I was experimenting with echo effects and

feed-back years ago. Now it's become the thing.
The Who's effects are drawing the crowds. I think
they incorporate their own sound with some of the
Beach Boys' style, and they are very good.

He beamed at everyone. No longer moody, no

longer introverted, Eric was simply having a good
time. His only concern was that people would
accept his singing on his new album.

How important is it to have No. 1 record these

days?

He was immaculately dressed in a patchwork silk

shirt, green velvet pants, black patent high-heeled
boots and 'a magnificent brown suede vest.

Chris: A reputation is far more important.

And he was more than keen to talk about anything

we mentioned.

Keith: So many unknowns make it, does it matter?

Let's first talk about the tracks on your new album.

Jim: It no longer takes the vast number of sales to

make the top so it is not so important. I think the
fact that an artist like Dusty who has never had a
No. 1 disc and could top any show, speaks for itself.

The first track on side one will be the instrumental

we did, which was just a good day of recording in
Los Angeles, when Leon Russell came along. It
was just a jam. Sounds nice, I'm really pleased with
it. It's also matched to another track on the album
called 'Blues Power', which is a song that Leon
wrote. The words are really applicable to me.

Keith Altham, 1965

Eric Clapton

And then there's 'Lonesome and a Long Way From

Home' which is a song that Delaney Bramlett wrote
a long time ago. Originally he did it acoustically, and
the Hertz people were trying to buy it from him for a
commercial. He was doing it with King Curtis when I
arrived in LA and Curtis didn't like his voice on it.
Curtis doesn't sing much but he's a great singer. So
I said I'd like to do a version of it.

An Interview with Eric Clapton

Ritchie Yorke, Circus, 1970
ERIC CLAPTON STARTED work on his solo album
(Atco) while in Los Angeles with Delaney and
Bonnie. He came back to England with the
unfinished unmixed tapes and went to work with Bill
Halverson, the well-known engineer who recently
split Wally Heider's scene and went solo himself.

The next one, 'After Midnight', is a song that J. J.

Cale wrote. He's one of those people from Tulsa
and I think he's an engineer now. He made a record
of it and I dug the record a lot so we did our version
of that.

Everyone was wondering what Eric was planning.

Was he going to form a new group, wasn't he
getting together with Ginger Baker and Stevie
Winwood again, was he going to join Crosby, Stills,

'Lovin' You, Lovin' Me' started out as a song that

Delaney and Leon wrote for Blind Faith to do. I liked
it very much. I don't know if the others ever heard it.

46

I said I wanted to do it if I ever did a solo album, so

we changed it around a bit to suit the way I could
sing it and cut it in England.

There have been unsubstanti-ated rumors that your

parting with Delaney and Bonnie in the U.S. was
not particularly friendly.

'I Don't Know Why' is a ballad, a love song kind of

thing. It was an idea that Delaney had when he
came to England, and we finished it while he was
staying at my house. We recorded it once in
London, and again in Los Angeles.

I don't think they were based on anything very

strong. The only thing that was a sort of a hassle
was the fact that it was a bit hard for me to stay in
America that long. I really found it very hard
because I was the only one there from England
except for my roadie.

'Get Up and Get Your Man a Bottle of Red Wine' is

a ballad too. We were going to the studio one day in
LA and we had no songs, nothing at all to do. We
were getting panicky on the way and we just
thought up the song and did it when we got there.
It's just a shuffle.

It was very hard.....it was a culture shock to be

alone in a place like that. I've never been alone in
America before. I had always been with a group of
some kind and I found I really had to stand up for
myself.

I've already mentioned 'Blues Power'. It feels like he

wrote it for me. I don't want to be pretentious and
say he did, but it's easy to sing and it's exactly what
I wanted to say.

It was good for me in a great many ways, but at the

time, it was very hard and sometimes I withdrew
and felt that I shouldn't be there. I should be back
home.

'I Told You For the Last Time' is a song that Delaney
played on acoustic guitar. One of his motel shot
numbers I think. We changed that around and
arranged it for a big band sort of feel and It came
out like a country number really.

How did you first get involved with Delaney and

Bonnie?
It was just a natural progression from meeting them
on the Blind Faith tour jamming with them, and
hanging out with them and digging them, and really
loving them as people. They helped me so much
from the first moment I met them. They helped me
get my thing together. Made me feel like I was
someone, rather than just a musician.

The last one is called 'She Rides'. That just came

from the lyrics of the original song we wrote. But
when we went into the studio, the track came off so
well that we abandoned the original song and since
then I've been trying to think up a set of lyrics to go
with the track. That's what has been holding the
album up. [This interview was taped before the
release of the album.]

The help has been mutually beneficial, I would

think.
Yeah. I felt that they were getting shoved to one
side by a lot of people and taken for granted just
because they were American in America. It's really
hard to see people in your own backyard, even if
they are really good. So I thought if I brought them
to England, then they could go back to the States
with that as part of their reputation. And we had
such a good time that I forgot about all the reasons.
It was just a gas to do it man.

It would seem that this album means a lot to you.

A great deal. The biggest reason for it coming out
for me is that it's just good music. I loved the sound
of the whole thing and I never thought that was
possible. I've had a great deal of hang-ups about
my singing all my life. I've always been very worried
about whether or not I could sing.
In this case, you've certainly got the job done.

Delaney and Bonnie brought a new feeling to the

pop stage. With most groups, you pick up some
antagonism when the act is working, but with D &
B, it's all love.

Well, you see the thing is I got so much help that I

couldn't let anybody down and I had to do it. It
wasn't a question of proving any-thing to anybody. I
just had to do it. The love that went around between
everybody involved on the record was just so
powerful that I'm really proud of it.

It seems to me that people are too sure of

themselves. So many musicians and artists just
want to make a little sack of bread and then
withdraw to their country estates and send out the
odd albums to the public as though they were
doing everybody a favor, and assuming that they're
really on top. And it's such a change when

47

somebody comes along who is really humble like

those people are. And they're just willing to work
and make very little money. They make so little
because there's so many in the group all the time.

that you can enjoy. I really don't know what I want to

do most of the time, and so I often just follow the
leader.
I'm an Aries you see, and there are two kinds of
Aries. The two kinds are the push-forward people
who shove and do whatever they want to do and
step on people in the process. The other kind are
the sheep, the followers. They just follow the crowd,
whatever's happening. I often go between the two.

This must have been a complete change for you

after the trail of superstars the Jack Bruces, the
Ginger Bakers, the Stevie Winwoods.
There is a difference. English people are different
anyway. I was a great deal different until I met them.
And I'm still finding it hard to get out of myself and
become uninhibited. Most of the English musicians
that I've played with and know are very sort of
schizoid . . . they get it on when they play but when
they're not playing, they're very withdrawn, sort of
reticent people. That often infringes on the playing
too. After a while, their stuff becomes very
introverted.

When I'm positive about what I want to do, nothing

can stop me. If I've got an idea about something
then nothing can change my mind. But if I'm lost for
something to do. then I'll follow whatever's going
on. Everytime I'm doing one of those other gigs I'm
probably in one of those moods. Where I just don't
know so I go along to a session and just play with
someone.

You've always seemed to be very shy. In the Cream

days, when people went up and told you that you
could really play that guitar, you'd seem
embarrassed by it all.

Looking back over your career, what are your

recollections of John Mayall?
Well, it was like a stepping stone really. I didn't
know at the time what I wanted to be, what I should
do or what I should play. So I just tried to fit in with
whatever I was with and the John Mayall gig it
really felt very natural for me to play with him.

I still am, because I think that just playing the guitar

isn't enough. I really don't think it is.
A lot of people would disagree with that.

How about Cream?

Yeah, but I just can't see it. It's very hard for me to
see why someone would laud a cat who just plays
the guitar. It's really not enough, somehow. If I was
a great songwriter or a great singer, then I wouldn't
be so humble about it. I wouldn't be shy. Until I am
either a great songwriter or a great singer, then I
shall carry on being embarrassed when people
come
on with that praise stuff.

Cream I felt sort of disoriented about. Disoriented at

the time I was doing it which was the trouble. It
didn't coincide with the way I felt about it. The way I
felt it should be. It was very strange. I still like a lot
of the records we made. But there was something
wrong somewhere. There was a weakness.
How about the rumors that Cream are getting
together for another final concert tour?

How about the Clapton is God buttons?

I've already denied them in print but I don't suppose
it's gonna make any difference to the rumors. I think
it's unfair for any one of us who was involved to say
I am definitely not doing it, because it's offensive to
the others. I really don't think it will ever happen.

Yeah, well it's silly. It really is. It's unfounded

because I haven't even started to work it out yet.
Did you have anything to do with the McCartney
album?

How about Blind Faith?

No, I haven't seen or heard of Paul for years and
years.

Yeah, I'd like to do some things with them, but then

it's not them anymore. It's either the Air Force or the
Traffic. So I'll start getting together my thing. When
the album comes out, I'll just sit around for a while
and see if it's gonna be a popular thing. You can
never be sure, it's always a gamble.

Is it that you like playing so much that you play with

anybody, or you're trying to find what thing you dig
the most?
It's both. I do enjoy playing with anybody, really just
about anybody because there's always a facet of it

Is it true that you want to write religious songs?

48

Yeah I do. It's not just a question of wanting to. I

already have written religious songs, such as 'In the
Presence of the Lord.' That's a strange song
because I wrote it and then someone told me that
somewhere in the scriptures it had also been
written . . . the same words. I never knew that, it
was an incredible co-incidence.

Hammer was the first group to meet the Claptonhungry crowd at the Capitol. They're a second
generation San Francisco band of a vocalist who
sings notes rather than words (a la Clark Terry)
most of the time, the usual speedy Les Paul
guitarist, a very good drummer, a decent organist,
and a fair bassist. They played enjoyable music,
nothing that exceptional, and got a fair reception
from the audience.

I do find that songs of praise are one of my greatest

inspirations. I con-stantly thank the Lord for being
on the earth and for giving me the power to be able
to play and entertain peo-ple. And now He's given
me the power to sing and communicate, so I owe it
to Him.

After a brief intermission, a British band, Toe Fat,

came on-stage to an unusually hostile crowd that
kept yelling "Derek" and things to heckle the group.
The band was fairly good, featuring a vocal shouter
of average talent, another speedy Les Paul
guitarist, a good bassist, and a fair drummer. They
were tight, but almost all of their songs sounded the
same... the hard and heavy stuff with a bit of a
Jethro Tull influence. The only exception was a
song they didn't write, 'Bad Side of the Moon', a
tune written by Elton John and Bernie Taupin which
was done very well. Still, the audience was quite
and unduly harsh to Toe Fat... even if they went off
the stage and the Dominoes came right on, the
Dominoes wouldn't be able to play any more,
because the group agrees to do approximately a 45
minute-hour set, no more and no less. So all that
would have been accomplished by getting Toe Fat
offstage would be that the concert would end
earlier, and you wouldn't get as much of Toe Fat.
And their music was fairly enjoyable.

I imagine you enjoy gospel music a lot, and people

like Aretha Franklin?
Very much. Yeah. I love it.
You once did a track with Aretha 'Good to Me as
I am to You' on the Lady Soul album.
It was a great thrill doing it.
Are you going to do any more work with Aretha?
I'd be there if she ever wanted me to do it, you can
be sure of that. That track we did was one of the
best things I've ever done.

Following a very long intermission, on strutted Eric

Clapton, Carl Radle, Bobby Whitlock, and Jim
Gordon, and almost immediately went into 'Layla',
complete with guitar solo... the epitome of tightness
and talent, keeping solos to tasteful briefness. The
audience was composed, quite obviously of Eric
Clapton fans (and not necessarily Derek & the
Dominoes fans), yelling for 'Spoonful', 'Steppin'
Out', 'White Room', and all the Cream/solo guitar
songs that they could think of...fortunately, Eric took
it as a goof and didn't play any of his "greatest hits".
But he did play more solos and more lengthy solos
as the evening wore on, a big disappointment for
me. By halfway into the show he was using some
songs simply as vehicles for his solos, which are
good, but you can't take too much of it as it gets
boring. And none of the rest of the group did any
solos, but they played as a backup group rather
than a full group. They were very good, but a
disappointment in many senses; I would have liked
it if Derek stood back just once and let the
Dominoes play.

I've always wondered what you thought of Led

Zeppelin, which was the band that filled the vacuum
created by the end of Cream and the downfall of
Jimi Hendrix?
I don't really know. I've heard their records and I
saw them play in Milwaukee. . . we were doing a
festival together. It was very loud, unnecessarily
loud. I liked some of it, I really did like some of it.
But a lot of it was just too much. They overemphasized whatever point they were making.
Do you like playing festivals?
I sometimes think it's a bit too much on a grand
scale. The way I like to think of a gig is in terms of a
church hall somewhere in the coun-try. And that's
really where I want to play. If I can entertain the
people I live with then I think I'll really be getting
somewhere.
Ritchie Yorke, 1970

They did songs like 'Key To the Highway', 'Things

Have Gotta Get Better (in a Little While)', 'Nobody
Knows You When You're Down & Out', 'Tell the
Truth', 'Blues Power', and 'Have You Ever Loved a

Derek & Dominoes at the Capitol

Jon Tiven, New Haven Rock Press, 1970

49

Woman' all very well, but in many respects it wasn't

as good as it could have been. Eric's voice and
guitar were perfect, Bobby's keyboard playing and
vocals were quite good, Carl Radle's bass work was
superb, and Jim is always fantastic. Even the sound
system was faultless, well mixed and all. Yet
something was missing.

"they" also included Bonnie and Delaney's Jerry

McGhee. "There," Eric said, "you have a real
guitarist to contend with.")
Perhaps Clapton's modesty is purposeful. Talking
about Delaney and Bonnie, he said: "It seems to me
that people are too sure of themselves. So many
musicians and artists just want to make a little sack
of bread and then withdraw to their country estates
and send out the odd album to the public. As
though they were doing everybody a favor, and
assuming that they're really on top. And it's such a
change when somebody comes along who is really
humble like those people are. And they're just
willing to work and make very little money. They
make so little because there's so many in the group
all the time."

Jon Tiven, 1970

Eric Clapton Thanks The Lord
Ritchie Yorke, Rolling Stone, 28 May 1970
LONDON Even after Cream, Blind Faith, the
Plastic Ono Band, and Delaney and Bonnie, after
doing backup on the solo albums of George
Harrison and Steve Stills, and working with Aretha
Franklin and King Curtis, Eric Clapton is uncertain
about himself, his abilities, his future.

As for himself, Clapton plans to flow with the waves,

moving either into the foreground with his own band
behind him or doing more near-anonymous things
with Aretha Franklin (on the Lady Soul LP), King
Curtis, and others. "When my album comes out, I'll
just sit around for awhile and see if it's gonna be a
popular thing. You can never be sure; it's always a
gamble," he said.

Clapton was at the new Island studios here,

finishing up his own solo album he'd started while in
Los Angeles with Delaney and Bonnie. He was
working on mixes with Bill Halverson, the Los
Angeles engineer who'd recently left Wally Heider's
studio.

And the capper: Eric Clapton on religion:

"I've written religious songs, such as 'In the
Presence of the Lord'. That's a strange song
because after I wrote it, someone told me that
somewhere in the Scriptures it was written
also...the same words. It was an incredible
coincidence.

Maybe it's humility more than uncertainty, but the

theme was stated and restated throughout the rap.
Talking about the album in progress, Clapton said:
"It's just good music. I loved the sound of the whole
thing and I never thought that was possible. I've had
a great deal of hangups about my singing all my
life. I've always been very worried about whether or
not I could sing."

"I do find that songs of praise are one of my

greatest inspirations. I constantly thank the Lord for
being on the earth and for giving me the power to
be able to play and entertain people. And now he's
given me the power to sing and communicate, so I
owe it to Him."

Too: "I think just playing the guitar isn't enough. It's
very hard for me to see why someone should laud a
cat who just plays the guitar. It's really not enough,
somehow. If I was a great songwriter or a great
singer, then I wouldn't be so humble about it. I
wouldn't be shy." A good number of the tunes on
Clapton's forthcoming LP are by Leon Russell and
Delaney Bramlett.

Ritchie Yorke, 1970

Eric Clapton: Rainbow Theatre, London
Charles Shaar Murray, Cream, February 1973

And while he praised other guitarists ("Skydog

Allman is fantastic, fantastic. First time I remember
hearing him was on the Wilson Pickett 'Hey Jude'
track and it scared the pants off me"), he demoted
himself to the status of a student.

SO THERE'S THIS cat in the white suit smiling

diffidently through his beard at the cheering hordes
on the other side of the lights. He's feeling alright,
because a special convocation of his buddies are
all around and they've gotten it all nicely together
for him. With a little help from his friends, right. And
he raises the neck of his guitar just a little bit and
cues in the band as he tears out the opening notes

"I'm learning from all of them all the time. They

always do things that surprise the hell out of me. Im
just sitting here learning from the others." (The

50

of the contemporary anthem that kept his name in

the papers and his music on the radio.

informal guitar from his usual lean, tough Gibson

SG, Reebop Kwaaku Bah on congas, and Jim
Capaldi on drums.

The cheering redoubles because when his name

had been announced, the people had paid tribute to
a reputation, to something of a myth. As they heard
the music, however, myth gave way to reality, and
they applauded not what they wanted to hear and
hoped they would hear, but what they were actually
hearing.

So out comes the riff of 'Layla', and the reaction is

the same as hearing Dylan at Bangla Desh. For
whatever reason, for however short a time,
someone we loved to listen to had stepped out to
be heard again. Ronnie Wood's playing the Duane
Allman slide bits, while Townshend under-pins
Clapton on the riff. Eric's singing nice: a roughedged, dusty, well-used, but understated voice.
Obviously, his vocal agility cannot match his
dexterity on guitar, but something of the same
phrasing is there. Then 'Badge'. God, it's just so
nice hearing that stuff again, and hearing it coming
from a bunch of cats with guitars and drums and
pianos and shit standing right in front of you,
instead of just from your trusty stereo.

What they were actually hearing was Eric Clapton's

triumphant return to a public stage. Outside the
Rainbow at around twenty past eight on that
Saturday night were a few motley thousand folk, all
crushed into the traffic islands and railings and
corners that surround Finsbury Park's beloved
Filmore surrogate, all squashed into a succession
of singularly uncomfortable clumps, all cussing
each other out as boots scuff, tempers fray, and the
chilly winds of North London sting ever fiercer
through the ethically impeccable tatters of the proud
denims of yore. Inside, the first house is running 55
minutes behind time because Eric showed up late,
and now an additional few thousand join the
confusion as they leave the theatre.

Eric's looking happy and relaxed. You'd never know

he was the man that a mutual acquaintance had
assured me last year would never even be able to
play again in his own front room. He is, as we
hippies say in our quaint and colourful dialect,
getting into it. Moving a little stiffly, he cues the band
in for a few bars, playing a neat little flourish
between beats. Then, in kicks the band and Eric
leaning into the mike: "Betcha didn't think I knew
how to rock and roll" Oh, come on, man! We
didn't fool that easy. We knew you could all along.
We just wanted you to come out and do it, that's all,
and you did it real good.

Past the friendly Man at the door frisking for tape

machines, and inside looking for stars. There's
Elton, John, and Long John Baldry and
George'n'Ringo, and oh, wow Micky Finn and
hmmmm Tony McPhee, not to mention Joe
Cocker (who doesn't move a muscle during the
whole two hours), Michael Des Barres who moves
in his seat almost as if he was on stage. It's Tommy
all over again superstars' night out.

Like when Stevie sang 'Presence Of The Lord', and

you cranked up you wah-wah and blew that
amazing solo, and after as we were all getting our
breath back, some kid in the balcony called out,
"Nice one, Eric!" and we all cheered that as well.
And your beautiful teamwork with Ronnie Wood on
'Key To The Highway', and that fine, fine version of
'Little Wing', and Stevie singing again on 'Nobody
Knows You When You're Down And Out', and
Traffic's 'Pearly Queen' and that final encore of
'Layla' even more shattering than before and

The Average White Band play an average white set

that was mainly competent but occasionally hit
some nice peaks. Then John Martin of Great
Western steps out front and apologises for all the
delays and then says, "I have two words to say to
you all: Eric Clapton." Then the cheering starts.
Despite all the heaviness outside, the cheering is
unhysterical and thoroughly good-humoured: Nice
to see you back, Eric.

God damn, you should have been there. It was

sandwiched in between some pretty fine stuff, what
with a sweaty evening of greasy superfunk with J.
Geils the night before, and an unbelievably
marvelous Steeleye Span show at the Albert 'All on
the Monday, but the Clapton concert really was
sump'n else. Even if Pete Townshend did most of
the rapping and personality jive, we knew who that
evening was all about. It was that guy in the white
suit, who was blowing that sweet-biting ecstatic
guitar, who was back in front of us after too long
away.

Listen to the band: on your left, behind grand piano

and Hamond organ is Stevie Winwood, clean
shaven, hair flowing down from a centre parting,
looking absurdly young and boyish. Ronnie Wood,
looking cockney hip with his chrome Zemaitis guitar,
slide at the ready. Rick Grech on bass, who we
need not concern ourselves with further except to
say that he played great. Jim Kelstein from Taj
Mahal's band on drums. Pete Townshend, who set
up the band, looking at his most Baba-Weer-AllCrazee-Now in an off-duty Indian cotton smock, and
a lumpy orange Gretsch Anniversary, a far more

51

Mike Des Barres said afterwards that it was the

best concert he'd ever been to in his life. I know just
what he means, and I'll second that anyday.
Welcome back, Eric. We're glad we went and glad
you came, and please don't wait so long next time.
Thy hand sure hath lost none of its cunning, and
Derek by any other name would sound as sweet.

And there is no reason to suppose that he didn't

enjoy a great deal of the Cream days, despite the
tales of disillusion.
Eric has led a full life and worked as hard for his
money as any of the other rock superstars.
The word "mansion" is anathema to some and the
guitarist lives in one now. But why not? He a was
bricklayer who made good. He slogged on building
sites, before he slogged around Britain and America
proving his worth as a musician.

See you again soon, Eric, and more power to your

pick-ups.
Charles Shaar Murray, 1973
Eric Clapton: King Of The Blues Guitar

If Eric seems inactive now, then those ten years of

tours, publicity and controversy should be
remembered. And he should also be remembered
for the inspiration he gave a whole generation of
fans and fellow musicians.

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 13 October 1973

WHO IS THIS man Eric Clapton, of whom they
speak so highly? Is he the world's greatest
guitarist? Is he now a victim of rock society, in
hiding from the world? Not guilty on all charges.

It seems no exaggeration to say that the present

American and British rock situation might not have
existed, but for the direction given by the blues fan
from Ripley in Surrey, who showed that a young,
white interpretation of black music could be
entertaining, convincing and valid.

During the sizzling sixties, Eric Clapton became

more than a man. He became a symbol, a
figurehead, a name taken in vain so often he almost
became a cliche.

"World's greatest?" Of course not. But why should

musicians be judged by such impossible
definitions?

During the early years of his fame a man came into

the MM offices with news of a new group featuring
a young guitarist. "In a year's time, he'll be as good
as Clapton," hissed the man.

Eric's greatness can be judged only by the affection

he generated, and by the simple fact that he gave
his public what they wanted. His talent to play
electric blues guitar was unsurpassed at the time of
his emergence. And, in retrospect, his latter
successes and failures can be seen as relatively
unimportant.

The phantom guitarist remained in obscurity, but the

Clapton legend grew.
Eric Clapton the very name has a bold, attractive
ring. Eric for honesty and adventure. Clapton for
lack of pretension and talent.

The story of Clapton the musician begins quite late

in his life. Whereas many will claim they began their
careers by beating time with toothbrushes at
eighteen months, Eric did not start to play guitar
seriously until he was 17.

Eric has been accused of many faults during the

last ten years or so of his career. He has been
called over-rated, a copyist, and a man with a
butterfly mind, easily swayed by fashion and the
demands of others. But this is to insult and
misunderstand him.

He was born in Ripley on March 30, 1945. Mr.

Clapton Snr was a plasterer and bricklayer and had
no particular interest in music.

Clapton hath charm, but he also has a stubborn

streak. He places great faith in people. If that faith is
shaken, there is little he can do but back off, and try
afresh.

The early years were uneventful...Ripley Primary

School, St. Bedes Secondary Modern, and finally
Kingston Primary School Of Art, where he was
supposed to train for work as a stained glass
designer.

It is easy too, to say that Eric was overburdened by

his fanatical following, that he couldn't cope with
success. Yet during the days of John Mayall, he
claimed that his ambition was to be "incredibly
successful."

When he was 15 his parents bought him an

acoustic guitar, after he had been impressed by an

52

album of songs by Big Bill Broonzy. But he gave up

attempting to play anything for two years.

It was with this band that Eric began to build his

reputation for exciting, hard hitting blues guitar
solos. But he seemed unhappy with them.

When the blues bug bit deeper, however, he

returned to the instrument, and his work at the art
college began to suffer.

My first meeting with Eric was when they had just

released 'Good Morning Little Schoolgirl' in
November, 1964.

After three months he was sacked from the college

and he spent all his time practising guitar and
listening to the development of blues, from R&B to
rock and roll.

The group seemed cheerful enough, but argued a

lot, and one night when I went to see them play at
the long gone Bromel Club in Bromley Eric seemed
highly displeased with the whole setup, even after
playing a storming solo on 'Smokestack Lightning',
their big number of the night.

Chuck Berry and Bo Bidley were his first loves, as

they were for thousands of English fans at the time,
turning on under the influence of the Rolling Stones
and Alexis Korner.

"You look fed-up," I said. "You've noticed," said Eric.

Shortly after he quit, and said: "They went too
commercial."

Then Eric went further back into musical history to

Blind Lemon Jefferson, Son House, and Skip
James, He taught himself to play blues directly from
the records. He heard Robert Johnson. Blind Boy
Fuller, and then into B. B. King and Chicago blues.

Eric said: "I was fooled into joining them. I fooled

myself, attracted by the pop thing, big money,
travelling and chicks. After 18 months I started to
take my music seriously. I wasn't playing well and I
had lost my original values."

Said Eric: "At first I would do something I had heard

on a record and then add something of my own.
Gradually my own things took over my playing. Now
I play more of my own stuff than anyone else's."

Eric might have wandered off into obscurity, but for

a 'phone call from John Mayall, whose
determination to play nothing but the blues was a
byword.

Eric has always been self-effacing about his ability,

and said: "I have never been that good a guitarist,
and am still not, compared to some around. It's just
that my particular style was sort of unique."

Although the Mayall-Clapton collaboration is still

talked about as one of the great turning points in
rock history, oddly enough this lasted only a short
time another 18-month stint.

A group was the obvious step to becoming a

professional musician, and his first contained some
enthusiasts who would eventually find their place in
the rock history books.

But in that time his guitar playing blossomed, and

the word spread that something extraordinary was
happening.

Called the Roosters, the line-up included, at various

stages, Tom McGuiness, Paul Jones, and Brian
Jones.

The Bluesbreakers had been another hard working

blues band, slogging at the Flamingo Club allnighters and probably not rated as highly as George
Fame's Blue Flames, Zoot Money or the other,
more jazz flavoured groups of the day. With Clapton
on guitar, the Bluesbreakers became something of
a crusade among fans who flocked to see them.

With no money available, the Roosters collapsed

within two months, and Eric joined a Liverpool
Mersey beat style group Casey Jones and the
Engineers. "It was a heavy pop show," said Eric,"
and I couldn't stand it for long. I was such a purist.
And the band was top twenty, which at that time
was disastrous."

The word was brought to the Melody Maker offices

by Nick Jones, Max's son, who followed Eric with as
much devotion as he followed the Who.

Brain Jones, in the meantime, had joined Jagger

and Richard in the Rolling Stones and they went on
to greatness, leaving the Yardbirds to fill the gap at
Richmond's famed Crawdaddy Club. And the
Yardbirds asked Eric to join them.

Nick, who was writing for the MM at the time, and

pioneering interest in the future psychedelic,
underground movement, insisted that the Clapton
phenomenon was something to be seen, and that I
should not spend all my time observing the Blue
Flames.

53

At the Zeeta Club in Putney, I saw the "new Eric"

wailing with the Bluesbreakers.

There was some talk from Eric, of calling the band

Sweet 'n' Sour And Roll, and he was excited about
the stuffed animals on stage.

Gone was the fresh-faced, uncertain Yardbird. Here

was a moustachioed, slightly menacing figure,
surrounded by admirers.

After the rehearsal, they set off for a cafe in the

group's van, with Jack at the wheel. Attempting a Uturn in busy mainroad traffic, it seemed likely that
we were all on the verge of being wiped-out, and
there was some discussion about our changing the
course of history.

"They call him God you know," Nick warned me,

and I reached out nervously to shake hands. But
there was a familiar smile beneath the hair, and
when he began to play 'Steppin' Out', highlight of
the set, we knew he couldn't be all bad.

Cream succeeded in revolutionising British rock

anyway.

In those happy days of 60 gigs and all the beer

that could be drunk, sitting-in was a pleasant
pastime, and the very phrase "super-group"
unknown.

After their sensational debut at Windsor (when it

poured with rain), the band went on to break in
America in 1967, and in doing so, paved the way for
British rock in the States.

Eric used to sit in with Stevie Winwood in the

Spencer Davis group, and many a friendship was
cemented in the long bar of a pub called The Ship,
Wardour Street, just down the road from the
Marquee.

The subsequent cash flow not only made fortunes

for Cream, their record company and management,
but also saved most British bands from an early
demise.

Among the sitters-in with the Bluebreakers was

Jack Bruce, bassist, harmonica player and singer
with Graham Bond's. Organisation. Then one night
in Oxford, in June, 1966, Ginger Baker, Bond's star
drummer, sat in. A kind of magic flowed, and it was
only a matter of time before the three musicians
would get together.

Cream showed the world how good British

musicians were and proved there was a vast,
international audience for rock.
They were probably overworked, their music could
have developed much more, and with the benefit of
hindsight, they could have gone on to much greater
things. It is symbolic that when Cream played their
farewell performance at London's Albert Hall in
December 1968, their support band was the
unknown Yes.

The first intimation of Cream came when Ginger

rang with the news that he had asked Eric to form a
group.
The latter wanted Jack to be on bass, and despite
the mercurial temperature of the Scots bassist and
Anglo-Irish drummer, the two agreed to bury any
hatchets flying around.

Cream bowed out when the age of sophisticated

sound systems, record production, and a general
advancement in song writing and arranging was
dawning. They even missed the great British rock
festivals.

The first rehearsals took place in Ginger's front

room. There was quite a bit of opposition to Cream
from various managements, and attempts were
made to get MM to retract its story. But Eric left
Mayall, Ginger left Graham and Jack quit Manfred
Mann.

But the end of Cream was not the end of the

Clapton story.
Eric warned the MM in May of '68 that Cream would
break up. Keeping the news in confidence for two
months was a frustrating business, but eventually
we revealed that they would go their separate ways
that autumn.

Cream's debut was to be at the sixth National Jazz

And Blues Festival at Windsor, and just a few days
beforehand they held a rehearsal in a church hall, I
think it was in Putney.

Said Eric: "I've been on the road seven years and

I'm going to take a holiday. I went off on a lot of
different things since Cream formed. But I find I
have floated back to straight blues playing.

With Brownies, a caretaker and manager Robert

Stigwood as their first audiences, they ran through
numbers like. 'Take Your Finger Off It', which I don't
ever recall hearing them play again.

54

"I got really hung up, trying to write pop songs, and
create a pop image. It was a shame because I was
not being true to myself. I am and always will be a
blues guitarist."

back seat. It was a good antidote to the years of

being a front man.
Later came the ultimate in self-effacement when
Eric even dropped his name to become Derek and
the Dominos backed by the Delaney and Bonnie
band, with Jim Price, Bobby Whitlock, Jim Gordon,
Carl Radle and Co. They were a good band and
Eric played well.

He had already been recording with other

musicians, tracks like 'Sour Milk Sea' with Ringo,
George Harrison and Nicky Hopkins. And he was
coming under the laid-back influence of The Band
on albums like Music From Big Pink.

They made some recordings that only later were

properly recognised for their worth. 'Layla' was to
come into the chart as a hit single in August 1972,
nearly two years after its release on the Assorted
Love Sons album.

"Since I heard all this stuff, all my values have

changed. I think it has probably influenced me a
lot."
Cream had been an exhausting experience for all
concerned. Their success meant there was little
time to think consciously about new musical
directions for the band.

They toured America where it was claimed fans

stayed away because they had "never heard of
Derek and the Dominos." It was a strange,
unsettling period, yet when I saw them play at a
packed Speakeasy, in London, they were a
stomping unit, with the guitar player as exciting and
committed as ever.

Today, groups like Genesis insist on taking three or

four months off the road to rehearse and record.
Cream kept on slogging, and in the meantime, each
felt they could do something better on their own.

After this came the years of silence. Eric seemed to

withdraw from public life, and only one appearance,
at the Bangla Desh Relief concert in 1971, where
he was induced to appear by George Harrison, with
another legendary musician, Bob Dylan.

Before Cream, and during the John Mayall

experience, Eric had set off on a round the world
trip with friends. It is believed they got as far as
Greece before the lure of music got them back
home.

This year Eric made a welcome return to the British

scene by playing at the Rainbow Theatre, with Pete
Townshend, Steve Winwood, Jim Capaldi, Ron
Wood and friends. It was a night to remember, and
one that proved the Clapton fire is unquenched.
Now he may well get a new band together to tour
America, once again with the help from Pete
Townshend.

After Cream Eric got as far as Hyde Park with the

successor group Blind Faith.
It had long been Eric's ambition to work regularly
with his old friend Steve Winwood, and in the
absence of Traffic, they set about forming the band
that was already doomed by the weight of advance
publicity.

When that happens, there will have been enough

water under the bridge to make it an historic but
non-hysterical event. With the heat off, Eric should
be able to shrug off all past hang-ups.

It was nobody's fault. It could not really have

happened any other way, when such revered
names were joined together.

The years of identity crisis, excessive-adulation,

and unequal work loads should be over.

Eric, Steve, Ginger and Rick Grech on bass from

Family, played a free concert in Hyde Park before a
crowd who were expecting miracles. That in itself
was enough to put them off their stroke. And
although it was an enjoyable concert, the low-keyed
approach seemed an anti-climax to some.

Eric the singer, writer and band leader must now

come to the fore. The Domino recordings proved
his worth in this direction. In fact, he doesn't have to
prove him-self...anymore.

They went on a tour of the States which ended up

with Eric jamming with Delaney and Bonnie who
supported them. To him, they represented a
goodtime boogie band, free of hype and
responsibility. He brought them to England and they
stayed at his home. They toured and Eric took a

Chris Welch, 1973

Eric Clapton: Rainbow Concert
Bud Scoppa, Rolling Stone, 25 October 1973

55

In a form in which individual instrumental feats are

often self-indulgent and superfluous, Eric Clapton's
music remains an anomaly. His greatest guitar
playing has been as passionate as Otis Redding's
best singing and as articulate as Bob Dylan's best
songs. Clapton at his peak is as good as it gets.

Rainbow Concert presents some of the best people

in rock at their most egoless and supportive. But the
crucial question is Clapton able to come out of
isolation and return to his music and to the people
who care about it? remains unanswered.

His music has always been autobiographical, even

when he was working off older approaches rather
than creating new ones. His frequent modifications
of styles and roles, alternately pushing him into the
spotlight and moving him into the background,
suggest a fragile, idealistic man, vacillating between
hopefulness and disillusionment.

Bud Scoppa, 1973

Danish Blues Power: Eric Clapton
Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 29 June 1974
"WE WANT Buddy Holly!... I AM Buddy Holly!"

If Derek and the Dominos' In Concert, recorded at

the outset of the group's lone American tour three
years ago and released only this year, showed
Clapton on the upswing, then Rainbow Concert
explores the lower reaches of his psyche. The
Rainbow performance was his attempt at starting all
over again, but done without the exuberance that
was the hallmark of the early Domino period (as a
back-to-back listening to the two albums illustrates).

Blowing defiance on a honking duck-call, the figure

wearing a misshapen trilby hat, lens-less glasses,
and oversized dungarees, crashed full-length down
the aisle of a Danish sex club, and lay semiconscious before a disbelieving erotic dancer, her
nakedness no match for this alternative spectacle.
Eric Clapton, once voted Englands Best Dressed
man, was celebrating his return to active service. Of
all the many roles Eric has played over the years,
this was undoubtedly the most bizarre.

Rainbow Concert is a recording of monolithic

melancholy. One might suppose that hard rock and
despair are antithetical but Clapton, aided by
Townshend, Winwood and Wood, as well as an able
supporting cast, makes the union viable and
compelling. But not fun.

Gone was the white suit of yesteryear, and the

supercool image. In its place, a lurching raver,
dressed like a scarecrow.

Disregarding a few awkward moments in which the

musicians betray their short rehearsal time, the
music is rich in its make-up and sad in tone its
mood remains exceptionally elusive. Townshend's
and Wood's guitars and Winwood's organ surround
Clapton in a protective aural capsule. He, in turn,
works cautiously, but caution isn't Clapton's way
his art is founded on risk-taking in its absolute form,
spontaneity. The kid glove approach may have
been necessary: Clapton is occasionally indecisive
and confused. But he also cuts loose as much as
his setting allows in 'Badge', and he's solid, if not
inspired, for most of the show.

And yet it symbolized Erics apparent determination

to break out of the self-imposed hibernation of the
last few years.
Since Derek and the Dominos folded-up, Clapton
has withdrawn from the world as all the world
knows. But now he is back and although a little
nervous and shy, particularly of the mounting
backlog of unanswered questions he is out to
enjoy himself, and prove that the Clapton guitar
magic is still there.
A sympathetic bunch of musicians have been
assembled for his return match with the rock
machine, which kicked off in Stockholm last week,
and went on to Copenhagen, where the MM caught
up.

The material contributes to the pervasive

melancholy. The six songs chosen from the
evening's longer program are either moody, slowpaced or both. Even 'Roll It Over' and 'After
Midnight' get moderate, deliberate treatments. The
album's excitement, such as it is, comes from the
layered instrumental textures, the solemn measured
movement into climaxes that are majestic if not
explosive, and the nuances of Clapton's restrained
singing and playing. In these respects, the first and
last tracks, 'Badge' and Hendrix' 'Little Wing', are
most impressive.

The band is still unnamed but includes ex-Domino

Carl Radle on bass, Jamie Oldaker (drums), Dick
Sims (keyboards), George Terry (guitar), Yvonne
Elliman (vocals) and Eric on guitar and vocals.
A surprise addition to the team was Legs Larry
Smith, fresh from his triumphs with Elton John and

56

now busy compere-ing and miming to a miniature

guitar, with miles of taped applause on hand in case
the natives get restless.

Legs Larry Smith dubbed for the occasion, Legs

Christian Anderson induced the assembled
Scandinavians to roar with mirth, as they were to
later roar for more. First on, however, were
Moirana, a competent local band who have been to
England, and sported a fine lead guitarist, Nils
Heuriksen.

And the show so far? It was fun, overlong,

occasionally sloppy but promising. By the time they
get into their 26 week American tour, they should be
either completely exhausted from excessive raving,
or the tightest, hottest band on the circuit.

Then Eric had arrived at the side of the theatre,

looking, as somebody said "Like Hiram Holliday,"
while on stage, Legs Christian flounced out to an
ovation. It was difficult to tell how much was coming
from the pre-recorded audience or the real one
slumped in serried rows around the hall.

And Eric? Well, it was worth the trip to Copenhagen

just to hear him dig into the blues again on 'Have
you Ever Loved A Woman?'
On arrival in Wonderful, Wonderful Copenhagen, it
was revealed that the previous nights debut concert
at the Tivoli Gardens, Stockholm, had been
something of a riot.

But Larry earned his crust, waving, blowing kisses,

bowing, and clutching a ridiculous guitar the size of
George Formbys ukelete. It was the final outrage
when the tapes switched to the sonorous clangs of
Pete Townshends 'Pinball Wizard', and Larry
cavorted like the phantom guitar smasher from
Shepherds Bush.

"There were 15,00 people there and the band just

kept on playing over time. The promoter
complained that he had lost a thousand pounds in
takings at the funfair."

"And now from l'il old England, just across the sea,
its my privilege to introduce you to the one and only
Eric Clapton!"

Helen Walters, charming press lady, and wife of

BBC producer John, chortled at the memory, and
revealed that attempts were made to pull out the
plugs and silence the musicians. Robert Stigwood
himself kept the promoter out of harms way by
engaging him in time-consuming conversation.

And now a roar of real applause wafted up through

the smoke laden air, and then faltered. For who was
this baffling figure, disguised like Sherlock Holmes
attempting to obtain information among the down
and outs?

But there was some cause for worry amidst the

general banter and chatter. "The van with all the
equipment crashed on its way from Stockholm,"
revealed Eric, straightening the orchid implanted in
his tattered buttonhole. "Thats why were sitting
around here. We should be having a sound-check
down at the hall. Hey, Richard, is that equipment at
the hall yet?"

But as Eric took off his hat, even the baggy

dungarees that billowed around his haunches,
failed to completely disguise the man who had
come thus far, all the way from Yardbirds, John
Mayall, and all-stations to Cream, Blind Faith and
the Dominos. 'Tell The Truth' was aptly-titled tune,
and Clapton the musician shone through his
subterfuge.

We had all been afore-warned. No interviews. But it

seemed not unreasonable to ask a few questions.

It was slow, this first number, as were the bulk of

the evenings tempos. There was a lot of basic
riffing, a plethora of unyielding backbeats, and the
kind of loose jamming sound that dominated the
rock bands of the early '70s.

What of the forthcoming album? "Its called 461

Ocean Boulevard, which is the address of the
record studio in Miami. Wait till you hear it. Youll
love it. Its really great. Were bringing out a single
too, its I Shot The Sheriff by the Wailers..."

Arrangements consisted of beginnings, endings,

and a few changes en route. Sometimes Eric came
in on the wrong key vocally, and there was
occasional uncertainty about how to handle a time
change or coda.

Our conversation was interrupted, as it was

destined to be on innumerable occasions, and then
'twas time for the gig, at the large, hot and airless K.
B. Hall, more suitable for basket ball or mass
Turkish baths than music, but packed with youths in
the intercontinental uniform of blue denim, and as
one might expect in liberated Denmark, smoking
dope freely, without fear of fine or imprisonment.

But this wasnt intended as slick glam-rock, or

superstar jive. It was funky, fun and in the most part,
satisfying. And most important, it was a musical

57

vehicle for a guitarist who can still raise goose

pimples and send a shiver through the bones.

"Weve not had much time to rehearse you know,"

said Eric. "So nobody knows what we are going to
play next. We just fall into each number, depending
how we feel. What did you think of the drummer:
Hes great isnt he? And Jamies only 22. He was
recommended to me by Carl, who got the guys
together in America."

A lot of the time, Eric was content to chord, while

George Terry offered some excellent slide guitar
work. The sound was spoilt on occasions by some
unstoppable feedback, and from my position, stage
right, it was somewhat muddy.

"Weve recorded quite a few new things for the

album, but tonight we did mainly the old favourites
because they come out best and its what people
want to hear. But we did change the show from last
night."

'Layla' was welcome, but ragged, followed by the

best song so far, 'Please Remember', a fine ballad
with the drums laying out giving us a chance to
recall how well Eric can sing when he has the urge.

Will he play England? "Oh yes, after the American

tour, but we havent arranged anything yet."

The first shiver down the spine came when Eric

played a stop-time intro to 'Blues Power', and his
guitar stood out at last from the churning
ensembles. 'Loved A Woman' followed, with
churchy organ backing from Dick Sims that brought
to mind the originals Billy Preston recordings. Here
Clapton excelled, turning the legend into reality. I
could have listened to that all night.

At this point Eric stood up, pointed an accusing

finger at the party and croaked: "Im all under
arrest!" Confusing, but we persevered. Eric returned
to his seat.
"Have you heard Georgie Fames new LP? Its
called Survival really good. You know..."
Interruption. Announcements.

But onwards, to a sprightly 'Badge', with Legs

Christian dashing on to offer some dubious second
lead guitar, biting the strings with his teeth. 'Willie
And The Hand Jive' was a bit of a bore, throbbing
along to a Bo Diddley beat for about ten minutes,
and 'I Cant Find My Way Home' was a trifle
laborious and failed to earn much applause.

The banquet was canceled and instead we were all

to proceed at once to the Eden Club, an
establishment some forty minutes drive away.
Packets of sandwiches were procured and a fleet of
taxis summoned. The entire party was spirited out
of town and an hour later found themselves seated
in a luxurious theatre adjacent to a restaurant.

Hastily the band snapped into a fast boogie blues,

which turned out to be 'Little Queenie', with Eric
offering a few arm-swoops a la Townshend, and
climaxing on the time-honoured cry of "Good
evening, friends."

Amidst much laughter, hooting and catcalls, the

girls hired for our entertainment gave a private
show that reminded me of Shakespearian hams up
against the cowboys in the Wild West.

Around 11.25, after two hours plus of continuous

blowing, the band quit the stage, to be ordered back
for an encore on a slow raunchy 'Crossroads' and a
final jam. Neither was particularly inspired, but the
audience were happy and so were the musicians.
For this was an event to be entered into the
scrapbooks, the night Eric the Ready came back.

"Please, listen, if you do not want to watch the

show, then we shall leave," said one nubile nude,
uncertain how to cope with "these hooligans". The
reply was short and sharp: "Go ome then you old
--!"

After the show, the band hastened back to the hotel

for a party and a banquet. Local record executives
offered hearty congratulations, one going so far as
to tell Robert Stigwood, "Tonight I heard the
greatest music I haff heard in my entire life."

While classical music and soap bubbled filtered

from the roof, Eric set up a barrage of duck-calls,
usually delivered at the most dramatic moment of
erotic play. "Shudda your mouth!" stormed the
artiste; "you dont know how to enjoy yourselves!
And take your hand away from there. That is not
allowed here."

Eric could match that. As he sat with Yvonne

Elliman at a corner table he announced: "Eric
Clapton is the greatest thing in the entire world!"
and proceeded to order, and down, two tumblers of
Bacardi and orange (I think).

"Listen, love," said an outraged Legs Larry Smith,

seated in the front row, "after the drive out to this
place, my hand is frozen stiff!" A roar of applause
greeted this, and shortly after Eric made his Buddy
Holly declaration.

58

"Eric, I think you should get some rest," said a

concerned Robert Stigwood. "Rest?" roared Eric.
"Im too tired to rest!"

He looked well with a rich brown sun tan that had

either been contracted in the Bahamas or under a
Philco sunray lamp down at Clapton Towers.

Chris Welch, 1974

His hair was short and far removed from the old
frizzed out mass one remembered from the days of
Cream, but there was the trace of a beard and
moustache, just enough to make redundant all
photographs of Eric from the past ten years.

Eric Clapton at the China Garden

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 20 April 1974

Clad in a Norwegian sweater he bustled into the

restaurant having arrived in a white Rolls Royce
which itself drew admiring crowds in the street
outside.

A TURN UP for the books, and as it

transpired, a turn up for the
stomachs, when Eric Clapton
announced his return to active
service in a whirlwind of publicity last
week.

As the photographers' flashguns pinged into action, a

rock fan screeched to a halt. "OOs that going in
there?" he asked. "What!" was his stunned response
on hearing the glad tidings. Like most folks, he
thought Eric had retired long since.

The rock world was literally stunned and taken off

guard when the unexpected announcement was
made on Wednesday afternoon at around 4 pm that
Mr. E. Clapton, guitarist of this parish, would be
hosting a special party at a Chinese restaurant in
Soho.

There was quite a gathering of friends to greet him

and press warm prawn crackers into his hand. Elton
John in white suit and minus platform shoes
complained that he felt smaller than usual. Pete
Townshend reached out a matey hand, and together
the old cronies fought their way to a corner of the
discotheque, there to barricade themselves against
the perils of lightning interviews.

In view of the wall of silence that has surrounded Eric

and his career since Derek And The Dominos broke
up when was it, 1970? this was like Meher Baba
breaking his code of wordlessness to pronounce
wisdom for the benefit of mankind. Except that
according to Pete Townshend, Meher forgot to give
the word, and Eric Clapton at least gave a few.

Floating around in the throng was Long John Baldry,

Dean Ford of Marmalade fame, Rick Grech and
Ronnie Wood.
The scene began to be reminiscent of the great days
of the Cromwellian, the club that saw much raving in
the 'sixties.

In the ensuing melee, dozens of bottles of wine and

beer were consumed, trays groaning with prawn
crackers and meatballs were demolished, and in
many cases so were the guests by the time midnight
tolled.

The music got louder and even Karen Carpenter

seemed to be bawling her ballads from the top of her
normally dulcet voice.

Artists, press and TV and radio men dashed hotfoot

through the streets to find the China Garden where
the waiters chattered excitedly and could be heard
asking: "Who is Lobert Stigwood?" For Eric's
manager, in a series of telephone calls to his
publicist, Helen Walters, had deemed the party
earlier in the day. Many of the calls finalising the
details were made by radio telephone in Stigwood's
car on the way to Soho.

"I wish I'd known about this party earlier I've got
creases in my trousers," complained Townshend as
lettuce leaves began to fly twixt the merry guests.
Meanwhile Eric was still racing around, greeting and
shaking hands but not wanting to be pinned down on
any subject that sprang to mind, like his future
plans. But as he was about to head for the loo for a
quick four bar break, he paused to issue a brief
communication.

"We just wanted to have a raving party to celebrate

Eric's return to work," said Robert, "and we want
everyone to enjoy themselves." This they achieved,
although the thunderous roar of the discotheque
thoughtfully provided downstairs, conveniently
blanketed most attempts at conversation.

Why had he chosen now I to renew musical activity?

"I don't know why now, but I just felt the time was
right. I've been talking a lot to Robert about the best
way of doing things. So what's happening is I'm
going to Miami to record a new album.

And how was Mr. Clapton? "I'm fine!" he bawled.

"Really great to be back!"

"I'm going to America to form a new band as well.

You remember Carl Radle? Well Carl is on keyboards

59

and he's got a couple of guys together to play bass

and drums, but I can't really say who they will be
yet. It's all just starting to happen.

release this month, and a 23-date U.S. tour

underway, Clapton has returned.
Slowhand was the ironic nickname for Clapton,
who is 29, when his style fluid, creative blues
phrases came to general attention in 1964 with
the Yardbirds. Rock criticism crackled with the
notion that a pioneer stylist had been spawned, and
waited, often in awe, for him to fulfill the potential.

"But I want to record again, and I'll also be doing a

tour of America. And later on yeah, I'll do some
dates in England."
"There's no name for the band yet, but I don't think
it will be Derek and the Dominos or anything like
that. But basically I'm feeling very well. I'm really
happy man!"

He left the Yardbirds in 1965, spurning the group's

turn from blues to commercial rock, and put in two
years as lead guitar with John Mayall's
Bluebreakers, a period that saw him and his
audience hewing a tight line as "blues purists". By
1967, though, the form, as expressed by the
Bluebreakers, had become too rigid, and he left to
form, with Ginger Baker and Jack Bruce, the
seminal power trio, Cream.

And the warm smile showed it, as Eric sloped off to

the corner again with Pete Townshend, the man who
has helped Eric so much in the past, when times
were difficult and confused for the guitarist who just
wants to play and be left alone.
Eric's only musical associate from the old days
present was Rick Grech who was part of the shortlived Blind Faith band. Rick revealed that he hadn't
spoken to Eric for years and has been living in Los
Angeles, where he has been working with the
Crickets.

The group exploded with such force sheer

loudness and solo extrapolation within a theme
being its innovations that some saw it (as some
still do) as the be-all and end-all of rock. The group
disbanded in 1969, after four gold albums and a
triumphant goodbye tour again because Clapton
sensed his playing becoming cliched. Clapton
fanatics waited in salivation for his next move.

Would he be getting together with Eric again?

"I'll be seeing him, but I don't think we'll be playing
together," he said. "But it's really nice that he's back
and looking so well."

What followed, though, was Blind Faith (Clapton,

Baker, Rick Grech and Steve Winwood a
supergroup adventure that quickly was written off by
both the performers and the audience as a media
hype.

Eventually the entire celebration was transferred to

Robert Stigwood's palatial mansion in North London,
where the party raged on until 5 am. Few could
remember what happened, or exactly what Eric is
planning to do. But the general verdict was that the
Wanderer had returned to the fold.

Clapton came right back, touring and recording with

Delaney and Bonnie Bramlett in 1970, using the
same loose group of "friends" for an Eric Clapton
album, and picking three of them Carl Radle,
Bobby Whitlock and Bobby Keys for Derek and
the Dominos.

Chris Welch, 1974

The Rolling Stone Interview: Eric Clapton

Along with Duane Allman, they cut an album in

Miami in 1970, then, without Allman, toured in 1971.
Like Cream, Derek and the Dominos convinced a
sizeable audience both critical and popular
that it finally had heard what music was all about.

Steve Turner, Rolling Stone, 18 July 1974

LONDON Robert Stigwood, his manager, put it
about as simply and as playfully as it could be put,
after a celebration party in April: "Old Slowhand is
back."

Throughout the high-energy thrust of those years,

Clapton was acclaimed in quarters large and small.
Melody Maker's World's Top Musician in 1969.
Guitar Player's Best Guitar Player in the World in
1970. He was known as King of the Blues
Guitarists, and the New Musical Express said of his
work with Cream, the kind of guitar playing upon
which legends are built. The topper, though,
appeared in a subway station in 1965, and spread
over the walls of London: "Clapton is God."

Eric Clapton who had been called everything from

good to God during a roller-coaster ride as one of
rock's leading guitar players of the 60s, was
emerging from the mire of three years of silence
punctuated only by two benefit concert
appearances and rumors of heroin addiction. Now,
with a new album, 461 Ocean Boulevard due for

60

Behind the sensations and the obvious success,

Clapton was a shy (painfully, some said) and
humble (so said many reporters) personality. He
confined his excesses minor league destructo
pranks like pouring Pete Townshend into an eggand-flour pudding concocted in a shower stall to
friends and other musicians. He was, outside his
music, pretty much anonymous.

Why the three-year layoff?

I'd overexposed myself. I'd worked so hard and
played in front of so many people that it frightened
me into hiding for a bit. And I think it's probably
going to happen again. I'll go out and work, and
play for three years and then for the next three
years I'll go and hibernate somewhere else! You
can't keep at it all the time, I'm sure of that.

Then, following the Derek and the Dominos tour, he

disappeared, playing only at the Concert for Bangla
Desh in 1971 and the Rainbow Concert in London
in 1973. His absence spawned rumors that he
was an addict, that he was dying, that he was dead
and in the necro-gossipy atmosphere following
the deaths of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, he was
one of rock's stars accorded the bizarre title, most
likely to die next.

So how've you been spending your time?

Hibernating! I played a lot. I played here at home
probably more than I do now but without really
getting anything done. Just keeping my hand in.
Were you writing at all?

For a three-year period Clapton was silent, playing

no new music outside his home, granting no
interviews, ducking reporters. Now, comfortable
enough that he brought up the subject of addiction
himself, he has emerged. We met through a mutual
friend, near the end of February.

Sometimes, but most of the stuff I did in that period

was so gloomy that I wouldnt use it now. Also,
when you sit and play on your own you write on an
acoustic guitar and so if you try and place it in the
context of a band it doesnt mean a thing. You have
to ...

The interview was conducted in four sessions, the

first three of which took place while he was
undergoing electro-acupuncture treatment (a
method developed in China and only recently
introduced in the West) for heroin addiction. He was
despondent at first, speaking of the waste of the
last three years and saying he couldn't see a
glimmer of hope for the future. I still feel that to be
a junkie is to be a part of a very elite club, he said.
I've also got this death wish. I dont like life. That's
another reason for taking heroin, because it's like
surrounding yourself in pink cotton wool. Nothing
bothers you whatsoever, man. Nothing will phase
you out in any way.

...to the road?

Oh yeh. I've been sitting around here for a week
now and I'm getting really edgy, bored. Because for
those three weeks in Miami it just cooked so fast
and so strong we should have perhaps gone
straight to a gig from there instead of taking a
pause. But I'm sure we'll pick up the threads.
Were you surprised to get things going so
quickly in Miami?
Yeh, yeh. I was very worried when I got there. I had
the panics. It took me a couple of days just to learn
to create from nothing to groove on whatever
was happening, and then it was all right. But I
always get that when I sit down and think about
something. I've got it now about the tour to a certain
extent. Whether or not we can get all the people to
come and see us, that kind of thing, which is so
silly, really. It's only when you sit down and worry
about it that you ever think about it at all.

The treatment completed, Clapton went to Wales,

where he worked on a farm for a short time. He
then returned to his country home in Surrey, and
within three weeks had made the decision to record
and tour. On April 10th, Stigwood threw the
celebration party for him in London, and a few days
later Clapton was off to Miami to record 461 Ocean
Boulevard.

You say you always needed pain to create and

yet you enjoyed heroin because it took away the
pain. How do you explain that one?

The final interview took place at Surrey, after his

return to England in May. He was relaxed and
confident, eager to get on with the tour, pleased
with the album, and downright disinterested in
dope.

I mean, I enjoy the pain in a way because I know I

can make use of it if I dont tamper with it. You can
take away the pain in a way buy playing the guitar,
just making music and seeing people enjoying
themselves on it. The thing that knocked me out

61

most of all about getting off was the fact that I could
feel again, you know. I don't care where I'm going,
up or down, or whatever they do to me, as long as
they let me keep my feelings.

I was the one that used to get stones thrown at me

because I was so thin and couldn't do physical
training very well! One of those types. I was always
the seven-stone [98-pound] weakling. I used to
hang out with three or four other kids who were al in
that same kind of predicament. The outcasts. They
used to call us the loonies.

Did you feel they'd been excluded?

Yeh, well, I'd done that to myself, you see. Because
at the time we were doing Layla, my feelings were
so intense that I just couldnt handle it. So that's
why I started to cancel them out and that in turn
becomes the pain. People used to come around
here and try and shake me off by the scruff of the
neck and say come on, get out, come with me. I
mean, people even considered kidnapping me and
taking me somewhere where I'd have to get myself
together. And like that's the pain, the fact that
afterwards you realize all the people you hurt by
doing that.

What effect did that have on you?

It was quite nice in a way because we started up a
little clique. Although we were underprivileged, we
were the first ones to get Buddy Holly records and
things like that. I mean, we were considered freaks
because of things like that.
What happened at art school?
I played records in the lunch break most of the time!
That's also where I started to play guitar and began
listening to blues records all the time.

So it was the crisis that happened around

Layla time that sent you into it?

Who in particular?

Yeah. There were quite a lot of factors involved.

Also, I mean, I used to go on about how I wanted to
have a voice like Ray Charles and everyone had
said that he was one of those, that he had that
problem, and that's why he sang like that. Now I
know that that is utter bullshit. I've got the first
album that he made and his voice there was
unbelievable, you know, and its just got nothing to
do with what you take or what you put in your
bloodstream.

Muddy Waters, Big Bill Broonzy...I could go on for

hours. There's no point. Just the blues.
How did you get to hear these records in the
first place?
I think they used to play a couple of them on the
radio. Its unbelievable that things like that were
getting through but they were. Chuck Berry was
getting played and I definitely heard Big Bill
Broonzy records on the radio. And Sonny Terry and
Browniew McGhee. I used to get catches of these
things which sounded much better than Jimmy
Young, Max Bygraves and Frankie Vaughan to me.
So I started looking around and buying them. I still
started out by liking Holly and Berry and people like
that who were the first things I ever bought, but then
I'd read things on the back of album covers like,
rock'n'roll has its roots in blues, and stuff like that.
And so I thought, what's that all about? I'll have to
find out.

Whose music turns you on now?

Whenever I put my new album on and start to think
it sounds great, I always put Stevie Wonder on
afterwards just to get pulse down again! He's the
one for me. I think he's got it well covered. I think
when it comes down to it, I always go for singers. I
dont buy an album because I like the lead guitar. I
always like the human voice most of all.
What's your domestic background?
I was semi-adopted. I was brought up by my
grandparents because my mother went away when
I was very young and got married to someone. So
I've got a stepfather but I dont see them because
they've got a family themselves and they live in
Canada. From there I just grew up in all the local
schools around Ripley in Surrey and went to art
school [Kingston Art College].

How were you performing at this point?

Casually, I wasn't professional, didn't have a band. I
was just a blues aficionado with a guitar attempting
to sing. When Mick [Jagger] got a sore throat I used
to get up and dep. For him at the Ealing club.
Were the old days good old days?

What sort of kid were you at school?

Of course. Yeah, lovely times. Probably because it

was another clique thing. We felt honored to be

62

members of this sort of club of people who just liked

rhythm and blues records. It was like security in a
way, and it was nice...I feel much more alone these
days. Whatever I've got to achieve, I've got to
achieve on my own. In the old days it seemed that
there was always a crowd you hung out with.

When you left Mayall to form Cream, were you

at all influenced by Jimi Hendrix's Experience?
No. We'd been going about two weeks when he
came to England. I remember Chas [Chandler]
brought him to one of our gigs. We were playing
somewhere in London and we jammed and I
thought, My god! I couldn't believe it! It really blew
my mind. Totally. And then he got a three-piece
together.

What happened after that?

I bummed around for a bit. I tried busking around
Kingston and Richmond and of course it was the
beat scene then so if you sat in a pub and played
San Franscisco Bay Blues and stuff like that, you'd
get a drink and a sandwich and perhaps even
somewhere to sleep for the night. Then my mum
and dad, that's to say my grandparents, were
getting a bit pissed off because I obviously wasn't
making a name for myself in their eyes, so I went to
work with my old man on the building site for a
couple of months. And that was good fun. At the
same time, I was playing clubs in the evenings with
a band called the Roosters. Brian Jones and Paul
Jones were in the band before me but they'd both
gone their separate ways Paul with Manfred
Mann and Brian with the Stones.

How did all this affect your music?

It opened it up a lot because I was still at that time
pretty uptight by the fact that we weren't playing
100% blues numbers, and to see Jimi play that way
I just thought, Wow! That's all right with me! It just
sort of opened my mind up to listening to a lot of
other things and playing a lot of other things. Jimi
and I always had a friendship from a distance
because we never really spent a lot of time together
only during the acid period I used to see him a
lot. Occasionally we'd spend time along together
just raving about, but, I mean, it was always a
distant friendship. Playing together was something
else.

Did Casey Jones and the Engineers come next?

How early on in Cream's existence were you
dissastisfied?

Oh dear! Yeah. Didn't last long though. But it got my

chops together. It was all good experience. The
Mersey things was just happening and to be in a
group like Casey Jones and the Engineers, I mean,
you got a few good gigs just because he was a
Liverpudlian.

After the Fillmore [1967] we did a tour that went on

for five months one-nighters. That did me in
completely. I just experimented one night I
stopped playing halfway through a number and the
other two didn't notice, you know! I just stood there
and watched and they carried on playing 'til the end
of the number. I thought, well fuck that, you know!
You see, Cream was originally meant to be blues
trio, like Buddy Guy with a rhythm section. I wanted
to be Buddy Guy, the guitarist with a good rhythm
section.

Were you an original member of the Yardbirds?

No. They'd already been going a couple of months
and they'd had a lead guitarist who'd quit, or they'd
chucked him out, and just by word of mouth I got
the job. Then they wanted to make a hit record and
I wasn't ready for that at that time. I probably never
have been unless it's on my terms. But they thought
that if they changed what they wore and did more
Top 40-type material they would get a hit record,
and that's just exactly when I left them. I played on
the record [For Your Love/Got To Hurry], it was
OK, but I could see it was a pop tune written for the
purpose of getting into the charts and nothing else. I
think I left after the session. I was only out of work
for a couple of weeks, though, and then John
Mayall called me up and said, would I like to be in
his band, and that suited me fine because it was a
blues band and I was going through my purist
number then. So it suited me down to the ground.
For me, in those days, blues was the only kind of
music and I didn't like anything else.

What sort of gigs did you intend to play?

Small clubs. We didnt want to be big in any way.
When did you realize things weren't turning out
this way?
The Windsor Jazz and Blues Festival 1966, which
was almost our first gig. We found that we ran out of
numbers so quickly that we just had to improvise.
So we just made up 12-bar blues and that became
Cream. That became what we were known for. I
liked it up to a point, but it wasn't what I wanted.

63

Why did you release Wrapping Paper as your

first single when it was so un-Cream and
unblues?

With Cream we had our ups and downs. We had

good gigs and band gigs. We had gigs when you
could have mistaken us for Hendrix, it was that
good, and other times we were like the worst band
in the world. It was this kind of inconsistency that
relied upon the improvisation factor. All our songs
had a starting theme, a finishing theme, and a
middle that was up to us. On a good night it was
great and on a bad night it was awful. I couldnt take
this kind of up and down. So I got in a few good
licks while Cream was going. But like on Farewell
we did Badge and I liked that. It was all because I
played them Big Pink and said, look, this is what
music is all about, let's try and get a sound like this
that we got the sound like Badge and the rest.
After I left Cream, let's see...what did I do? It was
Blind Faith wasn't it? Almost straight away? Well, I
promised Ginger that whatever I did, I'd take him
with me because we had a close thing going. So,
what happened was that we didnt rehearse
enough, we didn't get to know each other enough,
we didnt go through enough trials and tribulations
before the big time came. We went straight into the
big gigs and I came offstage shaking like a leaf
because I felt once again that I'd let people down.
There are 36,000 people waiting there for what
you're going to do and if it's not what you think is
right no way! And then I met Delaney and Bonnie
on the second night of the '67 American tour and
they were just such down home humble cats and
they were getting very little applause, very little
money, and the only reason they were on the bill
was because I'd asked for them to be the second
act. So I started a rapport with Delaney, which
became very strong and severed my relationship
with Blind Faith. So, Blind Faith was breaking up in
that Stevie and Ginger were arguing. Rick was kind
of in the middle and I was out altogether. I was with
Delaney and Bonnie. I already saw ahead that I
didnt want Blind Faith. I wanted to be lead guitarist
with Delaney and Bonnie because they were
singing soul music.

Well, another idea we had with Cream was to be

totally dada and have weird things onstage and stuff
like that. It never really happened but Wrappin
Paper, I suppose, was part of that kind of attitude.
You know put out something weird! We did one
gig at the Marquee where we had a gorilla onstage
and stuff like that dry ice, freaky things. No
meaning, no purpose...just lunacy!
Do you think press reaction affected Cream in
the end?
Do you really want me to bring that up? You see,
there was a constant battle between Jack and
Ginger because they loved one another's playing
but couldn't stand one another's sight. I was the
mediator and I was getting tired of that and then this
ROLLING STONE [No. 10, May 11th, 1968] came
out with an interview with me boosting my ego
followed on the next page by a concert review
deflating it, calling me "the master of the clich",
which knocked me cold. At that point in time I
decided that I was leaving Cream. Also, another
interesting factor was that I got the tapes of Music
from Big Pink and I thought, well, this is what I want
to play not extended solos and maestro bullshit
but just good funky songs. The combination of that
ROLLING STONES thing and hearing Big Pink
decided for me that I was going to split Cream.
What about the fact that, as you've already told
me, the audiences were responding to music
which you weren't happy with. Where does that
come in?
Well, once we'd got our wings we couldnt play a
note wrong. I thought, this isnt right because the
music we're playing is useless. OK, it has its
moments but it's not what they deserve. They're
paying too much, they're applauding too much and
it makes me feel like a con man. I don't want to feel
like a con man. I want to feel that I've earned what
I've got. You see, it got to the point where we were
playing so badly and the audience was still going
raving mad they thought it was a gas. But I
thought, we're cheating them. We're taking their
bread and playing them shit. I can't work on that
basis.

Initially, what did you think you could have done

with Blind Faith that you couldnt have done
with Cream?
I didn't know. I never have that positive an idea of
what direction I'm going in. I mean, I just thought,
Cream's got to go, but I still want to play, and I'd
always wanted to play with Stevie because I knew
that he was a very laid-back musician.

You said that you'd never been happy with your

performance with Cream, although you'd got a
couple of good licks in here and there.

So, ultimately, why didn't it work out?

Because we rehearsed for three weeks, publicized
and all that hype, and the first audience we played
to was 36,000 people at Hyde Park, London!

64

Why did you allow this to happen?

and couldn't move. I was literally in a very bad way.

So I missed all the rehearsals, I just got there in
time for the first show. So, I mean, just being in tune
was enough of a problem for me. I really felt they
were carrying my weight, in a way.

We had no control over it. We just sort of went

along, we thought it would be all right. All the time
we were touring, though. I was hanging out with
Delaney and Bonnie because they were getting no
money, bottom of the bill and no one was clapping
them, and we were being adulated and all that
rubbish and getting lots of bread. I think I did the
right thing going off with them and then stealing the
Dominos away from them, you know. But he funny
thing was that once I'd got Layla out of my system, I
didnt want to do any more with the Dominos. I
didn't want to play another note.

Is there any particular song of your which you

prize over all the rest?
Yeh, but that's only because it's one of the last I put
on record. It's on the new album. I'm proud of two of
them. One's called Gimme Strength and one's
called Let It Grow. Yeah, I am proud of them
because they were done very quickly and they
sound good on record and they were the last things
I achieved. I'm never going to be that proud of stuff
I've done in the past. Before this album the only
thing that meant anything to me was Layla, which
was because it was actually about an emotional
experience, a woman that I felt really deeply about
and who turned me down, and I had to kind of pour
it out in some way. So we wrote these songs, made
an album, and the whole thing was great.

How did you get into singing?

It was something Delaney said and it was also
something Lord Buckley said, which is that if God
gives you a talent and you don't use it, then He'll
take it away. If you don't put it to use you won't be
able to use it when you want to use it.
How did you feel about the Rainbow gig?

What did the woman in question think?

I thought it was OK. I had a good time doing it. It

was when I listened to the tapes afterwards that I
realized that it was well under par.

She didn't give a damn.

What specific musical criticism did you have?

Did you ever think you could say things to her

through the album that maybe you couldn't face
to face? Did you ever think you'd get through to
her that way?

It's hard to remember now. I think the music was

reasonably OK, I just think that there were too many
people onstage for the way it was recorded. They
recorded it on something like an eight-track and so
they had to mix a lot of things together while they
were recording it, which meant that the rhythm
section suffered and you get the bass and rums
mixed in together.

Well, I mean, I didnt think they were great. They

were reasonable. Everyone made mistakes and
what I heard when I heard the tapes back was how
many mistakes we all made. But then I'm very selfcritical in that way.

Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I did think that. And also the

emotional content of some of the blues on it, you
know. But no, man. I mean, her husband is a great
musician. Its the wife-of-my-best-friend scene and
her husband has been writing great songs for years
about her and she still left him. You see, he grabbed
one of my chicks and so I thought I'd get even with
him one day, on a petty level, and it grew from that,
you know. She was trying to attract his attention,
trying to make him jealous, and so she used me,
you see, and I fell madly in love with her. If you
listen to the words of Layla: "I tried to give you
consolation/When your old man had let you
down/Like a fool, I fell in love with you/You turned
my whole world upside down."

Was Bangla Desh a similar situation?

Did you need to go through a crisis to write?

That was quite a lot different and I just had to do it

again. Because of George, you know. If he asks me
to do anything, he's got the best that I can give
whenever I can give it. I did it, but again I thought,
no way. I mean, I was laid up sick for a week while
all the rehearsals were going on, you see. Everyone
got there a week early for the gig and I got very ill

Yeh, I think I did.

So you weren't disappointed with your licks?

Where did the name Layla come from?

It comes from a Persian love story written in the
11th or 12th century, a sort of love story, that's all.
Its called Layla And Majnoun.

65

Did Layla reject Majnoum then?

town the pressure was off. It was such a relief, man,

and it was just such a beautiful place that I sat
down and wrote the song.

No, neither of them rejects the other. It's like boy

meets girl but parents don't dig it.

So you were superimposing your religious

experience onto the actual situation of being on
the run? Rather like the early Negro spirituals?

That was nothing to do with your experience,

was it?

Exactly. At the time you couldn't separate the two

things. It was the first song I ever wrote.

Not really. It was just that I liked the name and the
story was beautifully written. I related to it in that
way.

How do you feel about "Cream vacuum" bands

such as Mountain and Grand Funk?

[Did you consciously write Layla as a concept

album about unrequited love?]

I think it's OK. I think that's great, you know. I mean,

I'm honoured, in a way, that they felt like doing it
that way. We must have done something good in
order for them to want to carry it on. It relates in a
way to people going around saying, Isn't it a drag
that Jimi's dead. There'll never be another guitarist
like him. I turned on the radio in the car the other
day and I thought, that's weird, that's Jimi and I've
never heard that track before, and it turned out to
be a guy called Robin Trower who used to play for
Procol Harum. I mean, it's great. In a way Jimi's still
alive because as long as you don't forget, you
preserve, I must admit, though, that I've never gone
out of my way to listen to any of them. I'm very
segregational like that. There are very few white
bands whose records I'd actually buy. I like to listen
to black music anyway. If I'd have been introduced
to their music by someone, if someone had played
it to me and said, Look, this is nice, I'd listen to it.
But if I walk into a record shop I know I always go
for the blues rack or the soul rack, you know, not
the heavy metal rack at all.

Well, it was the heaviest thing going on at the time

so, yeh, I suppose it came about like that. I didnt
consciously do it, though, it just happened that way.
That was what I wanted to write about most of all.
I heard that you had a spiritual revelation when
you were in the States before this?
Two guys came to my dressing room. They were
just two Christians and they said, "can we pray with
you?" I mean, what can you do? So we knelt down
and prayed and it was really like the blinding light
and I said, "what's happening? I feel much better!"
And then I said to them, "let me show you this
poster I've got of Jimi Hendrix". I pulled it out and
there was a portrait of Christ inside which I hadn't
bought, had never seen in my life before. And it just
knocked the three of us sideways. From then on I
became a devout Christian until this situation
occurred the three...the triangle.
How did that knock you out?

How did you feel about being voted one of the

rock world's next fatalities?

It just knocked me out that...he'd been into

Transcendental Meditation for so long and yet
couldn't keep his wife...I mean, his wife just didn't
want to know. All she wanted was for him to say, "I
love you", and all he was doing was meditating.
That shook my faith completely. I still pray and I still
see God in other people more than I see Him in the
sky or anything like that.

I thought, great, you know! They're never going to

get me. I don't care what they say. I mean, they like
to create that kind of mystique, I know. They want to
get a lot of people there to see if so-and-so's going
to die onstage. I mean, think what an event that'd
be! But it's all a joke. I'm sure they don't really mean
it. You see, Keith [Richard] was top of the list and
what would they do if Keith died? They'd feel pretty
sorry about putting that in their paper for a start...It's
vicarious...they want to see someone else do it, see
if they can get their rocks off that way. Well, I'm a bit
like that myself not to the extent that I'd want to
see someone die onstage but I remember I used
to go to Ronnie Scott's club when the house
drummer would literally come out of the dressing
room and crawl across the floor because that's he
only kind of energy he had. And then he'd get

In 1970 you were quoted as saying you now

wanted to write songs about Jesus.
That was probably when I moved down here. That's
when I wrote Presence of the Lord. You see, I was
on the run, for a start. Pilcher [a well-known London
policeman] was after me. He wanted me because
he was a groupie cop. He got George and he got
John and Mick and the rest of them. So I was on
the run from flat to flat and when I finally got out of

66

behind the kit and it was magic! I'm impressed by

that kind of thing, very definitely.

like it to be that way, but I know that when I get up

onstage I'm going to be very tempted to play loud
and get nasty and do lots of naughty things with my
guitar, but I'm fighting it with everything I've got. It
does you in, all that, it really does. I'll tell you about
something. Once with the Dominos we dropped
some acid in San Francisco, of all places to drop
acid, and apart from the fact that the guitar was
made of rubber, every bad lick I had, every naughty
lick, blues lick...whatever you want to call it, turned
the audience into all these devils in sort of red coats
and things. And then I'd play a sweet one and they
all turned into angels. I prefer playing to angels,
personally.

How is your relationship with Robert Stigwood?

Sort of, er, humorous! If I take him too seriously,
then I start to have doubts about it all. I think he's a
god businessman and he's definitely very fond of
making money and the thing is he'll look after you. I
mean, he looked after me when I wasn't making
money. I was definitely not living up to my part of
the contract and yet he never actually came down
on me very heavy about it at all. He just waited for
me to make up my mind that I was going to play
again and then he gets on the ball, calls up
promoters.

A good enough reason!

It is, when you think about it. It is, I mean, I just hate
to think what all that heavy music is doing to all
these poor people in terms of ...like, eating raw
meat. Its the same kind of thin, do you know what I
mean? The seeds that you sow are the ones that
you reap. If you're going to make everyone feel
naughty, then they'll be naughty and we can't have
that.

Again, why do you think people will be

surprised at the new album?
Because I'm still being thought of as the lead
guitarist and that's not me, it really isn't. I'm just an
unskilled-laborer musician who finds it difficult to get
in tune, let alone play the lead guitar solos. What I
tried to achieve on that album was satisfying the
people I was playing with. That's what I really like
doing just sitting down with people who play
anything and finding the lowest common
denominator that we can all groove with and getting
something going. It's not who's going to take the
front now? I mean, you take the front now, I'll take
the front now! It's everyone together, all at the same
time.

What about the George Harrison tour rumors

which sounded good to your ears when you
first heard them?
They still do sound good except that he's got a lot
on his plate at the moment, let alone thinking about
touring. Sure, I'd love to work with him onstage. I
really would. But he's got his own fish to fry and
so've I.

So what's your function in the new band?

What's the best Eric Clapton rumor that you've

heard?

The leader of the band. Occasionally I'll hit a lick

that'll blow someone's mind, I know that. And if it's
not mine, it'll be someone else's, only they can't
have it all the time. That's probably what people
want just one long lead guitar solo.

That there are strong chances that I'll be committed

very soon! Actually, I've heard some funny rumors
about me, you know, about what I'm supposed to be
doing, where I am, what I have been doing...and
none of them were anywhere near it, really.

To your mind, is the album related to blues?

Well, it's a funny kind of album in that way because
it's got several different kinds of things on it,
because I'm always worrying about who I'm going
to please apart from pleasing myself. So there's
probably, like, a couple of blues things on there and
a couple of slightly folky things and a bit or rock as
well.

Perhaps that's what comes of not giving

interviews!
No, it doesn't really. They'll still...'Cos I'll still hedge
even with my mates, let alone what I say to the
press. I mean, it's rumors. I even tell rumors about
myself. Its all speculation.

Does the fact that you're playing less intense

music mark a change in attitude?

You've been acting in Ken Russell's film of

Tommy?

It's not a change in attitude so much as a ...change

in attitude! It's loitering with intense! No, really I'd

67

Oh, yes, Phew, that was quite a number, I can tell

you! Acting out a part! They had this church hall...I
mean, it wasn't mucking about. They had me there
to play the preacher and I had to be the preacher
'cos they had about 60 or 70 people who really
were in a bad way. Well, I mean, they say they're in
a bad way. They couldn't keep their arms under
control, couldn't see and all that, and it was quite
heavy having to be their preacher for the day.
Tommy's looking for a cure and I'm just one of the
geezers he goes to and it doesn't work again. He
still can't see and hear. The thing about it is that it's
about this chick who can heal you if you kiss her
feet. I mean, she's not there it's a statue of her,
and the chick is Marilyn Monroe. So they've got this
big statue of Marilyn Monroe and they're leading all
these blind people and paraplegics and kissing her
feet and I'm the loony in charge.

ordinarily-jaundiced and clear-sighted a publication

as New Musical Express resorted to a lot of blather
about "warmth and feel" in describing There's One
in Every Crowd sure signs that there isn't much of
interest going on.
Nor is there, though there's certainly very little
outright annoyance either. We've Been Told, the
opener, sets the pace a pallid spiritual with
Clapton's voice buried in the background vocals.
Even disregarding well-founded distastes for the
constant reappearances of Jesus, this is no great
shakes (no intended allusion to the Yardbirds' killer
Great Shakes commercial). Believe it or not,
Clapton follows with another spiritual, one of the
tritest, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. It does have a
neat reggae beat, though, and would make a
pleasant single for Yvonne Ellman, who mostly
sings it.

Do you have to play guitar?

What else? Another reggae outing, Don't Blame
Me, called by some I Shot the Sheriff Pt. II. Well,
they say all men have created sequels, and this
one's really rather likable the beat again is wellexecuted and. Eric's certainly been practicing his
Jamaican intonations. There's the obligatory slow
blues, The Sky is Crying, which like most of its ilk
bores me stiff. Better Make It Through Today is a
quiet, somewhat bluesy original that's even more
paralytically boring. High is a perfectly bland
original, again acoustic-dominated with absolutely
no melodic spark.

Yeh. Well, I had it around my neck. I have to sing

The Hawker Richie Havens did it on the Tommy
album.
Do you ever think beyond the end of this tour?
I can't even face tomorrow. It's going to be another
three years before they wear me out. And
apparently, because of my tax problems, I've got to
do one of those Stones numbers you know, I've
got to leave the country for a year at some point
because they've, well, got me by the short and
curlies, I can tell you. So, I'm on the move. I'm on
the road. It don't matter. They'll never get me. They
can take my body but they can' have anything else!

Rockers, you ask? You bet, real ravers. Little

Rachel chugs right along in a laid-back groove, with
a buried lead, and is all in all about a tenth as
interesting as Long Cool Woman (in a Black
Dress) or any T-Rex single (which it superficially
resembles). As an added delight, it remains on one
chord throughout.

Steve Turner, 1974

Singing the Blues is not the Guy Mitchell chestnut

(rocked up by Billy Fury's brother Jason Eddie in '65
with deranged
guitar work that puts everything here to shame as
far as intensity goes), but some Mary McCreary
Shelter artifact. A lot of gospel back-up, a little OK
guitar, but nothing exciting. Some suspense does
arise as to whether it will join Rachel in the onechord brigade, but it finally changes.

Eric Clapton: There's One In Every Crowd

Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, May 1975
IT NEVER CEASES to amaze me the sycophantic
lengths so many "critics" go to in hyping the
fashionable superstars' records.
Dylan's a prime example (try and find a bad review
of Blood on the Tracks or Before the Flood, and it
wasn't till a year later that writers finally started
hedging about Planet Waves), Bowie to an extent,
and definitely right up there in the sacred cow
category Eric Clapton. Reviewers fell all over
themselves lauding Clapton's newfound "maturity"
and "restraint" on his last album. And even as

Pretty Blue Eyes is more acoustic blandness for

starters, but shifts into a pleasantly-harmonic
standard 50's chord progression which noted
standard 50's chord progression connoisseur Gene
Sculatti thinks is the album's high point. I'd vote for
Opposites, though despite Clapton's utilization of
the most rudimentary melody possible for the chord
pattern he employs, the chords themselves sound

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quite affecting and the instrumental textures are a

delicate delight.

By now the record is at least up and moving. On the

fifth track, a remake of Elmore James's "The Sky Is
Crying," you'd expect Clapton to play some guitar.
But he conceives of this classic slow blues as a
vocally centered one. He establishes the mood
through his slightly boozy, offhanded statement of
the melody. And when he finally solos, it's in the
same mellow mood. It's nice but safe and I
expected more.

Still, all told the album's about as exciting as cold

waffles, and makes an appropriate companion to
Clapton's stunningly stiff, glazed performance in
Tommy. It's trite to say it, but just imagine the
reviews if this weren't the legendary guitar hero
himself. It's a legitimate impulse to escape that
beartrap of a classification (which Clapton has
certainly merited for past guitar wizardry), but it's
necessary to have alternatives to offer songwriting
ability; good, compelling singing; rocking vitality
something. Nothing of the sort emerges on this
perfectly innocuous album.

The second side contains the album's justification, a

quartet of Clapton originals, generally in the mode
of 461's "Let It Grow." Taken in sequences, "Better
Make It through Today" is the album's simplest and
best song. It contains his most moving vocal and
although it only recapitulates the struggle between
resignation and faith that resonated out of "Give Me
Strength," it does so with coherent and
unquestionable intensity.
"Pretty Blue Eyes" and "High" balance lilting
Allmanesque instrumental passages off against
slowed, moody sections. They seem to float by
without ever really introducing themselves. They do
lead airily into the related but more substantial
"Opposites," the lyric of which describes the same
dialectic as "Turn! Turn! Turn!" and the music of
which grows in vertical layers to an instrumental
resolution of elegance and near grandeur.

Ken Barnes, 1975

Eric Clapton: There's One In Every Crowd
Bud Scoppa, Rolling Stone, 22 May 1975
Eric Clapton's sense of well-being is reiterated on
There's One in Every Crowd, but on this album it
seems less a cause for joy than an occasion for
musical indifference. As on 461 Ocean Boulevard,
Clapton plays guitar with utilitarian economy but
here it is also without the ring of purposeful
authority. As on its predecessor, the lack of riveting
or attention-drawing guitar work places the primary
focus on Clapton's singing, which through
experience, growing confidence and a touching
candor has become as distinctive and as eloquent
as his playing. But where Clapton sounded either
quietly tormented or beatifically serene, on the last
album, through most of the new one he sounds only
languid or charming.

Even here I get the feeling that Clapton is holding

back more than necessary. Where there is
conviction on There's One in Every Crowd, there's
still no growth, no strain, no sense of challenge.
Clapton also fails to challenge us; and it is the
challenges he's issued to himself and to us, much
more than his virtuosity, that have made him a
pantheon artist. Those who have been moved by
Clapton's work would be acting unfairly if they
demanded a Layla every time he recorded. But it's
also unfair not to expect some new challenge. On
this album he doesn't offer any.

The album's opening pair of spirituals generates

little energy or feeling. The ensemble (the same as
on 461) affects a Motel Shot sort of casualness but
lacks spark. Compared with the stirring
religious/psychological songs of before, "We've
Been Told (Jesus Coming Soon)" sounds
redundant, while the reggae "Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot" is clever but static.

Bud Scoppa, 1975

Eric Clapton: There's One In Every Crowd

The next pair comes off slightly better. "Little

Rachel" is a sequel to "Willie and the Hand Jive" but
without the earlier work's smoldering innuendo.
"Don't Blame Me" is the sequel to Bob Marley's "I
Shot the Sheriff." The band, especially the
exceptional timekeeping drummer, Jamie Oldaker,
lends the right blend of the ominous and sprightly,
but Clapton can only partially restate, let alone
advance, the earlier song's mood.

John Tobler, ZigZag, September 1975

A NEW CLAPTON album is a treat at any time, and
this is no exception to that personal rule.
It's obviously very good to see that Eric is back on
the road, making good sounds as he should always
have been, and perhaps this may be an example to
other one time heroes who aren't too sure what to
do next. The Clapton of the last two albums is a

69

very different man to any of the previous Claptons,

and it must make him feel pretty pleased, as well as
us, that he's not lost in a cocoon of people shouting
for 'Crossroads'. Would you like to hear a
'Crossroads' soundalike on every Clapton LP? I
wouldn't either.

name on the cover made you know it would

achieve. Buy it.
John Tobler, 1975
Eric Clapton: E.C. Was Here

Which brings me to a point. 'Don't Blame Me' is a

track on this album which bears rather more than a
passing resemblance to 'I Shot The Sheriff',
although it fails somewhat desperately on impact
because the original is so well known now. In fact,
it's a little difficult to reconcile the two sides of this
album the first side is vaguely disappointing, sort
of held back and trying to escape from bondage,
while the second side, four-fifths of which was
written by Eric, is joyfully free, and contains for my
money most of the good things. The first song on
that side is the only intruder, Mary McCreary's
'Singing The Blues', and after the anticlimactic feel
of the first half of the record, it's immediately more
promising, with infectious rhythms and the first sign
of a wail from Marcy Levy, who comes close to
equalling the first lady of the larynx, Jeanie Greene.
And there's a guitar part as well, just as there is on
'Better Make It Through Today', where the build-up
can only be to a guitar solo which follows just like
you knew and wanted it to. 'Pretty Blue Eyes' starts
with shakers and guirro percussiveness, and has a
Caribbean flavour, but much less obviously than the
two first side white reggae items, 'Don't Blame Me'
and 'Swing Low, Sweet Chariot'. Then comes a
perfectly contrasting middle eight, with ooing vocals
embellishing a melodically satisfying guitar phrase.
And it just keeps getting better. 'High' is just a great
song, with a light vocal laid against a tough
instrumental sound, followed by a vintage guitar
outro, and 'Opposites' is the song whose lyrics I
quoted in the concert review of a few issues ago.
Waiting for the recorded version has only
heightened my enjoyment, let me say, and this is a
masterpiece, fit to stand alongside the very best
that has emerged under Clapton's name. Carefully,
tightly constructed instrumentals, with simple yet
effective words make a haunting song, where the
rest of the band shine through more than anywhere
else on the album. Just check out the little keyboard
touches that Dick Sims provides, which equal the
similarly effective guitar bleats from the man. A
great track, and a fitting end to an album which
seems to be just a bit like a plane taking off, he
said, searching desperately for something intelligent
to say. You know, it starts off slowly, without too
much excitement, then gradually moves through the
gears (do planes have gears?) until some speed is
achieved, then zips off the ground until it's moving
so well that it eventually disappears into cloudland.
An album that gets better all the time it's playing,
and one which finally reaches the class that the

Wayne Robins, Creem, November 1975

I HAVE NEVER knelt at the altar of Eric Clapton's
guitar prowess. That is, the endless arguments
about who possesses the most virtuoso fingers in
Anglo-America: Beck, Page, B. B. King, Slowhand,
Fast Fingers Alvin Lee, Roy Buchanan, Albert King
have left me far more disinterested than debates
about who was better in his prime: Mays or Mantle.
(Willie, because of power, grace, speed, fielding.)
What I do like about Clapton why I prefer him to
virtually all the other supernames we could banter
about is many of those same virtues (especially
grace), but mostly, consistency and sensitivity. It
took six months and a trip to Florida for me to feel
comfortable with 461 Ocean Blvd; perhaps that is
why, unlike Claptonophiles, I felt immediately
relaxed with There's One in Every Crowd. Rather
than being lifeless, I felt Clapton for the first time
believing that, in his life, peace was at hand. E.C.
Was Here proves it.
The album, recorded live on his last tour with his
regular band Jamie Oldaker, Carl Radle, Dick
Sims, George Terry, Marcy Levy and Yvonne
Elliman works as both a guitar album and a song
album. Having shaken off his reggae shoes, Eric
has come to playing the blues in a way he never
could during the years that, ironically, he became a
most famous blues guitarist. For the most part, it
used to be mimicry; at its best, it was technically
superior homage to Albert King, B.B. King, Elmore
James. What was lacking was emotion: playing
(and singing) as a primary expression of the pain
and joy in the artist's own life, trouble, love, booze,
drugs, prison
I'm not saying that Eric Clapton's years as a junkie
make his blues playing more valid now than if he'd
never shot himself down the tubes. But when he
sings "I'm wasted and I can't find my way home,"
there is a unity of music and spirit that could never
have been reached through Blind Faith. The same
is true for Presence of the Lord, also from that
doomed supergroup's album; the song reflects a
journey in progress, rather than what must then
have been (for Clapton) an unsatisfied need.
Clapton's blues singing now carries more depth,
soul and conviction than anything he has ever done

70

in his career. Covers of two more or less familiar

Bobby "Blue" Bland songs Drifting Blues and
Farther On Up the Road don't send one back to
the dusty originals. And Have You Ever Loved A
Woman makes me feel involved with his passion in
a way I've never been before. A triumph, even for
those who don't care for guitar players as heroes.

In Washington, the 30-year-old guitarist was

surprisingly talkative. Most of the time, he kept a
drink in hand and a foot tapping to Joe Tex's I
Gotcha album. After listening to side one four times,
he switched on Soul Train. "Don't worry," he
assured. "I can talk and watch at the same time."
The obvious question is: Why have you been
holding back on guitar until now?

Wayne Robins, 1975

E.C.'s Here Again: 'There's Always Someone
Faster'

It takes a long time to get your chops, you know. It

really does. And the band was still trying to get to
know one another, so I was underplaying a lot. I
mean I'm still not keen to project myself as a
guitarist, 'cause there's too many others around
who can top me. There's always someone faster,
isn't there? It's best to just try and play...well. Not
necessarily brilliantly.

Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, 20 November

1975
ERIC CLAPTON is spending a quiet evening in a
moderately priced Washington D.C. hotel suite,
playing backgammon with Pattie Harrison, his
companion of several years.

Who do you think can top you?

Well, from playing with him on this tour, I know that
Carlos Santana is a very, very strong player. He
really kept me on my toes. Basically, though, I don't
like to give a specific opinion on someone else's
playing. Not only is it unfair to another musician, but
I just don't keep track anymore. I'm not a
competitive guitarist. I've settled into my own pace.
If I have to change my ways in order to top a poll
somewhere, I'd rather not play.

Taking time out from listening to a cassette of the

previous night's show, he asks Pattie if she's
hungry.
She shuffles a few pieces across the board. "A
little."
"Room service is so fucking expensive," Clapton
groans. "Let's call out for some pizza."

Do you look at E.C. Was Here, being primarily

blues, as a return to your basics?

So goes another typical moment on this, Eric

Clapton's acclaimed second American tour.
"Somehow we got a little mixed up," second
guitarist George Terry explains later. "We cut 461
Ocean Boulevard, then went right on a tour of the
biggest arenas and stadiums we could find. Eric
was nervous and rusty onstage. Here was the
greatest rock guitarist, right, and he wasn't playing
any solos.

Sure. Starting over. You can't be successful forever,

obviously, so when I get to a point where it's getting
too comfortable, I always start thinking maybe it's
time to go back and begin again. Layla was a return
and I will probably go on like that. It's the pattern of
life that I've pretty well formed now. I'd like this band
I've got now to last forever, but the reality is that it's
impossible. So it will probably go in a cycle just the
same as every other band I've been in.

"Now we're playing smaller halls and he's playing

the best guitar he's ever played."

Why was it time to do a live album?

The proud grin on Clapton's face as he listens to his

own performance does little to contradict Terry's
boasts. With 461 Ocean Boulevard, There's One in
Every Crowd and E.C. Was Here behind him,
Clapton has finally managed to make up the ground
he lost during a three-year (1971-74) heroin
addiction, when he picked up his guitar only "once
or twice." Instead of the lethargy of a former junkie,
the last few months have seen Clapton jamming
with the Stones (June) and Bob Dylan (August),
starting his own tour (June) and releasing E.C. Was
Here (September). No wonder his usually demure
disposition is a bit more open these days.

I didn't really want to put it out now, but the record

company [RSO] was worried about the sales of
There's One in Every Crowd. They thought if they
put out a live record to coincide with the tour, that it
would sell. I don't really understand their thinking,
but I went along with them. I picked out the best
tracks we had around. If there's any concept, it's an
accident.
Did you find it difficult relating to the studio when
you cut 461 Ocean Boulevard and There's One in
Every Crowd?

71

Well, I really had no ideas for 461 before I went into

the studio in Miami. I just jammed and put it
together as I went along. I played everything I could
think of. I must have gone through a hundred
songs. But I was frightened to expose myself to too
much by bringing out the stuff I had written on my
own during the three years before. I didn't really
know anyone in the band. So we all just wrote
there, or made things up. I left the tapes with Tom
Dowd [Clapton's producer on most of his albums
since Cream] and said, "Pick out what you think is
best and put it on the album." Then I went home.

What does motivate you at this point?

There's One in Every Crowd was different,

completely different. Some of it, the parts we cut in
Kingston, Jamaica, went easy. No matter where you
go, the music's in the air. Everyone is singing all the
time, even the maids at the hotel, and it really gets
into your blood. But that album took a lot of work,
and I think it sounds like it too. I wasn't surprised
the album didn't do too well. I like the studio but I
just don't play the same way as I would onstage.

Well, we only did that a couple of times. I feel like

I'm compromising myself doing Layla every night. I
felt that way since we started doing it. You can't
progress much with the format of that song. It's
locked in there and you have to do it almost the
same every night. It's sort of...disheartening in a
way. As soon as we get that out of the way, we try
and change everything around as much as we can.
I still believe firmly in it, but you can only sing a
song like that so many times before you run out of
passion for it.

I suppose ego more than anything. If I've got to do

an album or perform a schedule of concerts, my
ego tells me it's dishonorable to let the people
down. I've always taken pride in the fact that I've
hardly ever missed a gig. Then, it's a question of
keeping the people happy as best I can, and, at the
same time, pleasing myself and the band.
Do you look at still playing Sunshine of Your Love
as a compromise?

What do you think your next album will be like?

I don't think it will follow in that laid-back vein. I
suppose it's got to be harder, and it will definitely be
better. But I'm still fishing at the moment.

Is there any unreleased Derek and the Dominos

material left?
Oh, yeah. I checked it when we were doing 461.
But the strange thing is, no one knows where the
masters are. They've been shifted around so much
no one knows where they've gone. It's probably just
as well; the last stuff we recorded was really
overproduced. We were in a bind for material and
the band broke up halfway through the sessions. It
was the nervous strain of doing it that just exploded
one day and we all went home and never saw one
another again. We left behind about five tracks, only
two of which had vocals on them.

How did your current band come about?

The band had a predestined aura about it. Carl
[bassist Carl Radle] brought Dick [keyboardist Dick
Sims] and Jamie [vocalist/drummer Jamie Oldaker],
two guys he'd been playing with, down to the 461
sessions in Miami. They brought Marcy [vocalist
Marcy Levy] in for There's One in Every Crowd.
George Terry was the staff session guitarist at
Criteria for 461, and he just sort of fell in with us.
Yvonne [singer Yvonne Elliman] was at the
sessions with her old man, Bill Oakes, who runs
RSO. I asked her to sing one day and never let her
go.

If Layla had become a hit immediately after the

album came out, as opposed to two years later, do
you think the Dominos might still be together?

What's been your experience working with women

musicians?

Listen, I considered re-forming that band before this

band got together. I was saying, "Who am I going to
play with? I don't want to look in the musicians
union book and look up the most famous names. I
considered calling them all up but it never reached
the stage where I picked up the phone.

I've never had that texture in my music before. Plus

Yvonne and Marcy don't let me lose my place on
the vocals.
What attracted you to George Terry?

I just sat and brooded on it. And actually what

happened was, Carl sent me a telegram and said
he had a band for me and did I want to play with
them? So I brooded on that for a while and finally
fell into it.

I think it was the fact that he was a pusher, a

hustler. He's very good for me that way cause I'm
very lazy. I need the help. Given the choice
between accomplishing something or just lying
around, I'd rather lie around. No contest.

72

Were you disappointed with the initial reception to

'Layla'?

Yeah. Very much, yeah. I don't know how to repay

him. He was always there to give me faith in myself.
It's a very intangible sort of debt I owe him. I did the
Tommy movie for him, I must admit. I didn't want to
do that at all. Me playing the preacher in Tommy
was very, very paradoxical. Especially while I was
doing it, 'cause I was loaded at the time. Everything
just...it just...wooooooo. I thought that was the least
I could do for starters though. I don't know, what's
next. I'm still in debt to him, right up to the hilt.

No, I didn't give a fuck about that. If they [the critics]

didn't like it, stuff 'em. I knew it was good. I mean
you always know when you've done well. It's only
when you're in doubt that a bad review can throw
you in a terrible state because you suspect that
they could be right. They can make you want to give
up sometimes. A bad review in Rolling Stone was
what broke the Cream up.

There was some criticism that you were often very,

shall we say, inebriated onstage during the
comeback tour after 461 Ocean Boulevard.

There were some rumors recently that you'd signed

papers for a Cream reunion.

Oh, yeah. Yeah. I still am quite a bit. There's no

harm in it really. I've always been a heavy drinker.
As long as I can remember being allowed in a bar.
It's something I like to do. It's also good for my
personality. I'm too shy when I'm sober, but when I
drink I become aggressive and outward. I'm quite
happy with that situation.

Not true. Robert Stigwood wanted it to happen for a

long time. During those three years that I was
addicted, Ginger Baker left Stigwood. They had a
big bust-up. It would have actually been impossible.
We weren't all under the same management
anymore. It would have taken a new deal to get
Ginger back. I think Ginger probably would have
gone for it though. I don't know about Jack. He's still
trying to pursue his own ideas. And I don't think I
would have gone for it. I don't want to go back
there. It dragged on for so long. I mean, Cream died
a very slow death. It was painful. If there was a way
that we could have gotten back together again and
enjoyed it, I would have signed the papers. But I
didn't see any enjoyable prospect in it.

There was talk, after Duane Allman's death, of you

joining the Allman Brothers Band....
Really? I never heard about that. If I'd been
approached, I probably would have done it. That's a
strange prospect. I'd probably be in the band right
now. I only knew Duane though. I didn't know Gregg
at all. I've only met him once and that was when
they came to the studio after a gig. And he was
very, very shy then. He was really Duane's younger
brother. So Duane did all the talking. Duane was
the man. Interesting...me in the Allman Brothers.

It's odd, actually you reminded me of something.

During the addiction Ginger would come down to
my house. I had the doors locked and everything,
and Ginger wanted to kidnap me and take me off to
the Sahara. His way of curing it is to get in his Land
Rover and drive across the Sahara. You can't score
anything in the desert [laughs].

How 'bout the Stones? Have you ever been close

to joining them?

What made you decide to publicly explain that

you'd been a junkie for those three years?

A couple of times, yeah.

Lately?

Well, what happens after you go through that

addiction thing is that when you do get off, you get
this incredible confession thing that comes on. A
really powerful urge to confess. But at the same
time I wasn't too sure, because I'd seen other
people do interviews or say things in magazines
about their period of addiction and I just thought to
myself, "Don't talk about that, it's not important." So
I wasn't really sure. I'm not sure to this very day that
it was a good idea to talk about it. It's not really
relevant to the way I make my music. But I suppose
I couldn't have thought of a better excuse for those
lost years.

Yeah, it's a funny situation 'cause I saw Mick just

before this tour started, but he never really gets
around to asking me. It's a very strange sort of
situation because he probably thinks that I'll say no
and doesn't get around to it.
When Brian died, I was in the studio with him, doing
something or other; mucking about...and, then he
almost got around to asking me. But I never could
really ascertain whether he was asking me or
whether I should volunteer or what. I don't think I
could do it really. Actually I don't think they really
need a lead guitarist. I mean, if I was going to play
with them, I would play much more than they would
require. Keith supplies all the guitar that that band

Do you feel you owe a lot to Pete Townshend for

his spiritual support during that time?

73

needs, I should think. To have somebody playing

lead on top of that is not really necessary.

could only help him out. I even put one of his songs
on the B side. Then he suddenly said, "No, you
can't put that out." Eventually we worked out a deal.
Then suddenly Chris Blackwell [owner and founder
of Island Records] susses what is going on, signs
him up and puts out the original song. It's like all
this rivalry, I can't believe it. The buggers.

You did some recording with Dylan in New York,

didn't you?
Yeah. That was amazing. He was trying to find a
situation, you see, where he could make music with
new people. He was just driving around, picking
musicians up and bringing them back to the
sessions. It ended up with something like-24
musicians in the studio, all playing these incredibly
incongruous instruments. Accordion, violin and it
didn't really work: He was after a large sound but
the songs were so personal that he wasn't
comfortable with all the people around. But anyway,
we did takes on about 12 songs. He even wrote one
on the spot. All in one night.

Does your reputation or your success scare you?

It's either success...or failure, one of the two, that
scares me. I don't know which. Failure would
probably make me decide real quick [laughs]. The
only thing about my reputation that bothers me is
that I'm constantly expected to articulate upon it.
Part of being a musician is trying to say as much as
you can and what you feel through your playing. I
don't know any musicians who are as eloquent in
words as they are in music.

It was very hard to keep up with him. He wasn't

sure what he wanted. He was really looking, racing
from song to song. I had to get out in the fresh air
cause it was just madness in there. The topper is
that the next day, he cut all the songs again with
just a bass player and a drummer. He and a
drummer. He told me on the phone later that those
are the ones he wants to use. But the songs were
amazing. It was very difficult to play and not listen to
what he was saying at the same time.

Do you still get stage fright?

Every time. Yeah.
No wonder you never talk to the audience.
I really won't.
Terrible, isn't it?

Are you close to him?

I would like to have some kind of rap going but I

don't know what to say. To have no idea. Maybe the
answer is jokes. That's it one-liners! "Good
evening, ladies and gentlemen. Great to be here.
I'm Eric Clapton. I just flew in from Chicago and boy
are my arms tired....

I dont know him very well. I seem to see him twice

a year, thats been going on for a long time. But its
never for very long. Its always a ten-minute
conversation. But it feels like Ive known him a long
time.

Did you see George Harrison's tour at all?

Have you ever spoken about writing?

No, I just heard the tapes that he made himself. The

ones I heard were obviously after he'd gotten his
voice back. So it must have been near the end of
the tour or something. It was fascinating. There was
a whole lot going on perhaps too much, I don't
know. I think he came up against a brick wall with
the audiences because of the Indian thing. A lot of
people are really sick of that side of him now. I
mean, he tends to get ridiculed in the press a lot for
it, which I think is unfair. But it's to be expected, I
suppose.

Not really, no. He played me a song in New York

called Sign Language. He said he'd woken up that
same day and just written down the whole thing.
And he didn't understand why or what it meant. And
as I listened to it, I realized it didn't have any kind of
story line to it, it was just a series of images and
powerful words put together. It was very stirring.
What's the story behind you recording Knockin' on
Heaven's Door? There is another version by Arthur
Louis, the Jamaican reggae singer, that's almost
identical.

Were you and Pattie [Harrison] actually on Dark

Horse? You're listed in the liner notes.

That's a funny story. I played guitar on his version

and that's how it all started. His version was a demo
at the time. I thought it was such a good idea to do
a reggae version of the song and he hadn't signed
up with anybody that I put it out myself. I figured it

That one? No. He just put our two names on the

credits for Bye Bye, Love. I can't remember what
he said, but everyone took it to mean we were

74

playing on it. In actual fact, he did the whole thing

on his own. He sent me the tapes just after he'd
done it. He played everything on it.

its lack of a consuming sense of dramatic purpose.

Onstage recently, Clapton and his band looked as
happy as any group I've ever seen, and they were
capable of building to moments of great, spinetingling exultationnotably in 'Layla', 'Why Does
Love Got to Be So Sad?', and 'Badge'. In the
concert I witnessed, these three were transformed
from songs of monumental heartache into
celebrations of romantic dreams fulfilled.

At least he has a good sense of humor.

Yeah. Oh, yeah.
What about that quote from his last press
conference, "Better Pattie with him than some
dope"?

Oddly, none of these transcendent numbers is

included on E.C. Was Here, the new live album and
Clapton's third live LP of the '70s. Instead, the new
record focuses on the meat of Clapton's concerts:
of the six tracks, four are straight blues, and the
other two, both from the Blind Faith period, reach
for variety by having Clapton engage in a pair of
vocal duets with the group's female singers, Yvonne
Elliman and Marcy Levy. In one sense, E.C. Was
Here is as unassuming as There's One In Every
Crowd, but the former is at least a great deal more
taut than the studio record.

I think I remember that. I believe the quote was,

"Better she's with some drunken Yardbird than
some old dope," or something like that. Yeah, we
get along all right. Still, we have little bickers now
and then. But I've known him too long not to still
love him. I've known George since we were
kids...and we both had that fire that we'll try the rest
of our lives to preserve.
Are you getting a little melancholy there?

The album's low points come early. The opener,

'Have You Ever Loved a Woman?', is by far the
least intense of the three renditions Clapton has
recorded; the difference between this version and
the ones on Layla and Dominos in Concert is the
difference between recollection and experience.
The second track, Clapton's hymn-like 'Presence of
the Lord', has also been done better previously
(Blind Faith, Dominos In Concert), largely because
an earnest-sounding Clapton vocal is cheapened by
the mock-soulful singing of Levy. A slow, acoustic
'Drifting Blues' is faded at 3 and a half minutes to
end the side. There's nothing terribly wrong with
any of this music, but none of it is done with the
ease and confidence the band displayed the night I
watched them perform.

Naw. I think I've had a very lucky life. As a musician

I can't believe how lucky I've been. Really.
Everything seems to have gone according to
someone else's plan, not mine. I can't make plans
because they always go wrong. Someone's been
looking after me. Putting me in the right place at the
right time. It's really been... fascinating.
Cameron Crowe, 1975
Eric Clapton: E.C. Was Here
Bud Scoppa, Circus, December 1975
ALTHOUGH ULTIMATELY hopeful, Eric Clapton's
greatest records the towering Layla and the
intimate 461 Ocean Boulevard are liberally laced
with sorrow and pain. But this transparent artist has
had a much harder time extrapolating riveting music
from the more tranquil periods of his life. This year's
There's One in Every Crowd is superficially the twin
of 461 Ocean Boulevard, its immediate
predecessor; but in their dramatic payloads, the two
records are polar opposites, the more recent album
positively flaccid in comparison to the low-keyed but
terribly intense 461.

The elements mesh on the Side Two with an

affecting Clapton-Elliman duet on 'Can't Find My
Way Home' (she seems much more in touch with
Clapton's spirit than Levy), followed by two brashly
ebullient blues, 'Rambling on My Mind' and 'Farther
On Up the Road'. These last two numbers contain
the most muscular playing Clapton has recorded
since Layla. Clapton has always played sexy music,
but he's never before allowed himself the swagger
he displays on 'Road', a song which in its wonderful
arrogance reminds me of Dylan and the Band,
musicians who in the mid-'60s reshaped the blues
to their own purposes with irreverent fury.

No doubt sensing that the spare and reflective 461

approach wasn't viable in terms of his current state
of mind, Clapton earlier this year decided to play
louder and harder, with a new emphasis on the
substance (if not the anguished spirit) of the blues,
his old specialty. The stylistic shift worked, giving
Clapton's music a sheer visceral kick to make up for

This unexpected knockout punch gives E.C. Was

Here its reason for being. A modest undertaking
and a modest achievement, the album nevertheless
provides assurance of Clapton's continued potency.

75

 Bud Scoppa, 1975

Dylans Sign Language contains a lyric as

ridiculous/sublime as the best of The Basement
Tapes "You speak to me in sign language / As
Im eating a sandwich / In a small cafe / At a quarter
to three..." and the Dylan/Clapton vocal duet
obscures the Dylan/Cash duet on Girl From The
North Country in its mismatched relentlessness.
Along the way, Claptons and Robertsons guitars
confront each other in a similar way. One of The
Bands songs Beautiful Thing (Manuel/Danko)
sets the albums tone via its placement as the
opening track. The other Dankos All Our Past
Times sets up two of its highest moments; first
when, after Clapton has sung the first verse in his
most Danko-ish voice, the real Danko takes over on
verse two, making it clear whose turf this is; and
later, in the instrumental bridge, when Clapton
evens the score by incorporating Robertsons hotstaccato guitar style into his high-romantic over-theclouds solo. The last track, Claptons own Black
Summer Rain, is the clincher: here, E.C. works a
song that nearly equals Robertsons recent It
Makes No Difference in its taproots flavor into a
poetic guitar section during which Clapton brings
Layla to Shangri La with a solo that flashes over the
track like heat lightning. The more Clapton gives in,
it seems, the more he puts out.

Eric Clapton: No Reason To Cry (RSO)

Bud Scoppa, Phonograph Record, October 1976
When Claptons good, hes as good as they get
Layla stays in the "play" pile in every collection I
have access to, Disraeli Gears sounds better to me
now than it did when Sunshine Of Your Love/
SWLABR was on every greasy spoons jukebox,
and 461 Ocean Boulevard has the shadowy
seductiveness of a rock nocturne.
When Clapton holds back, on the other hand, he
makes those albums with titles and music nobody
remembers. The man is an extraordinary guitarist,
an earnestly gutsy singer, and a gifted inventor of
irresistible hooks and sledgehammer lyric lines, but
more than other pantheon rock & rollers hes
so self-effacing in his virtuosity that hes all but
transparent, and he requires both rich settings and
high-level collaborators through which to focus his
abilities. Clapton got both when he hooked up with
Duane Allman and the three Dominos on the Layla
sessions, and he got it again through the handpicked musicians and songs that fueled 461 O.B. In
each case, he joined the feeling hed brought with
him to an apt malleable form.

A pair of vintage blues tracks, Country Jail Blues

(on which Eric attempts rather successfully to
find the baritone-bottom of his vocal range) and
Double Trouble, almost melodramatic in its
hotness, keep the record churning, and two
appealing variations on the classic Clapton guitar
riff, Carnival and Hungry, ring with amped
authority. Through these numbers, the multiple
guitars are matched, intensity-wise, by the churning
barrom B-3 of Clapton group member Dick Simms,
who seems especially at home among these old
woodshedders (thats not Simms, however, but
woodshedder Georgie Fame whose organ pushes
Country Jail Blues to its azimuth).

In putting together No Reason To Cry, Clapton

fortunately traveled to The Bands Shangri La
studios in the hills above the Pacific, where he
commingled profitably with Bandsmen Rick Danko,
Richard Manuel, Garth Hudson, and Robbie
Robertson, as well as naturalized Californians like
Bob Dylan and Ronnie Wood. From the sound of
this fruit of his labor, its quite evident that Clapton
brought his heart as well as his regular musicians to
the proceedings. If No Reason To Cry has a
pervasive feel reminiscent of The Band (even on
tracks that have none of The Band members on
hand) and tracks that showcase others (Dylan on
Sign Language, backing singer Marcy Levy on
Innocent Times), theres still proportionately more
Clapton on the album than on anything hes
released since 461 O.B. Clapton continues to work
most effectively in the midst of an ensemble of
players rather than in the foreground, giving a
humanistic wrinkle to the assumption that less is
more. If the collective tone of this record recalls
Delaney & Bonnies Motel Shot as well as the
live D&B album Eric added his licks to it
simultaneously reveals Clapton at his most
intensely personal. And if it sounds austere in its
unabashed reverence for rustic Americana, the
album still rocks n blues hotter and with more
spontaneity than any post-Dominos Clapton record.

A change of producers and venues from old

reliable Tom Dowd and Miamis Criteria to LA and
Dylan/Band recorder Rob Fraboni accounts for
part of the heightened intensity (Fraboni likes to
record live and get it down while its hot) but
chameleon Clapton has discovered a voice of his
own among the wails of these weathered romantics.
Bud Scoppa, 1976
Eric Clapton: Farther On Up The Road
Barbara Charone, Sounds, 9 October 1976

76

DROUGHT? What drought? The green green grass

of Surrey looks so healthy you'd think the local
farmers had been secretly pumping chlorophyl
injections into the earth all summer long. So much
for aesthetic beauty.

studio, try something new and it comes out as me

again."
The battle between what the public demand and
what EC really wants to give them has reached a
healthy balance. Clapton does not concern himself
with filling any preconceived roles. He always wore
the adulation awkwardly anyways. While the
masses credited first the Yardbirds and later Cream
with defining heavy metal electric playing, Clapton
tossed off virtuoso riffs with his back to the
audience.

There was trouble. We were late. Five days late.

Already I'd missed the once in a lifetime opportunity
of witnessing the Cranleigh Ploughing Match.
Driving past the site of this annual event, well kept
fields supplied fertile proof that the competition had
been fierce. So much for agricultural
gamesmanship.

"I don't want to be immodest but I like to attract

people to my music and not to anything else. If they
don't know who it is and they put the record on and
like it, then it means I've succeeded," he said
seriously, "rather than selling something on the
strength of anything else like my name or my
legend that built up around me."

The roads become increasingly narrow as the car

wends it's way towards Hurtwood Edge, a suitably
sensitive name for the sprawling country retreat Eric
Clapton calls home. Past the local and down the
long and winding road, an idyllic atmosphere
comfortably permeates the fresh air. So much for
the introduction.

Within the last few years, Clapton has tried to gently

defuse the legend. Sitting in his front room looking
more like one of the lads than a famous rock 'n
roller, it was hard to believe that all the gold albums
that decorated the corridor walls really belonged to
him. Maybe this guy with the warm smile and fancy
dobro was really the gardener. Maybe the master of
the house was out on tour.

Just after two on a pleasant Wednesday afternoon,

Eric Clapton sat in his front room practising dobro to
background accompaniment supplied by a Don
Williams album. Within the last few weeks Clapton
had discovered a new hero, digesting a steady diet
of the collected Williams vinyl works.
On the surface, this country and western
appreciation may seem totally divorced from
Clapton's more familiar blues power. But the
backbone of country music revolves around the
same raw emotions that Clapton exclusively deals
with. Pain and anguish hurts plenty in Nashville too.

The speakers at one end of the room look more like

onstage amplification than the standard at home
stereo console. Much of the front room is filled with
some sort of musical paraphenalia. Cardboard
boxes bursting at the seams are stuffed
alphabetically with hundreds of records practically
filling one side of the room.

CLAPTON STUDIOUSLY picks out a tune on a

beautiful handmade dobro. Several nights back Don
Williams and his two man band had raised hell at
Eric's, jamming the night away with pickin' and
drinkin' being the most popular pastimes.

In the corner an impressive antique treasure chest

arouses suspicions until its contents are revealed
by the proud owner. Inside this pirate chest lay
hundreds of albums, now deleted collectors items.
EC pulls out an ancient Chuck Berry album with an
eye-catching cover of strawberries and giggles.
Afterall, he's just another fan.

But that merry confrontation was two days ago.

Now, in sober daylight, Clapton began to revert to
his less confident posture. Having agreed to play
dobro with Williams during several tunes at a
London concert, self-doubt and insecurity began to
plague the guitarist. Always more of a musician
than a personality, Clapton longed to walk onstage
at the Hammersmith Odeon stripped of his
illustrious past. Oh to be a sideman stuck behind
those anonymous amps once again.

Some of his favourite guitars enjoy a seat on the

couch. "They get insecure if I don't give them
enough attention," he said with a grin. Behind the
guitars stands a Fender Rhodes piano and next to
that a complete drum kit.
"What can I do?" Clapton asked helplessly, still
thinking about rolling with Don several nights ago.

"I spend my time listening to people and being

heavily influenced by them," Clapton said quietly,
gently putting down the specially crafted dobro.
"Then it comes time to record and I go down to the

"I'm at home here on my own 'cept for the old

woman and the dog. It's hard to be influenced, hard
to do anything electric. I can't just pick up a guitar

77

and play on my own. So I play acoustic all the time.

That's how the songs are written. And it's very
difficult to break that mould once you've stepped
into it."

If they put me onstage with Beck," he says the word

with much respect, "who's really fast and tough, I'd
just have to play rhythm guitar.
"What I'm trying to do is find another way of doing it
so it's distinctively me. And if it has to be softer and
even unrecognisable at first then that's alright even
if it's not the current trend. There's always gonna be
some young kid who can do it twice as good as
you," Clapton maturely rationalised. "So you
develop something else, try and stay away from the
gun shot and out of the line of fire."

THE MOULD Clapton has craftfully constructed is

charged with the same emotional intensity that filled
each original classically structured solo. Always an
extremely sensitive, romantic sentimentalist, this
outpouring of emotions was originally most
prominent in his guitar playing. Now similarly
intense sentiments abound in his songwriting,
singing and acoustic guitar playing. Expect no
heavy metal cop-out from this guitarist.

Resplendent in faded denims, a short sleeve faded

tartan shirt, slippers and a just-beginning-to-wakeup look, Eric Clapton stared a half empty bottle of
Carlsberg Special Brew in the face. A package of
Rothman's lay within easy reach as did a small blue
plastic plectrum which read: THIS IS MY FUCKING
PICK E.C.

"I don't really think they want a heavy metal album.

At least I hope they don't cause they're not gonna
get it anymore," EC said with the utmost
determination to uphold his words.
"I'm past that kind of thing. I don't think it lasts."

The owner of this specially made plectrum tossed

off one of those inimitable smiles that silently speak
of sentiments as warm as those he sings about in
'Hello Old Friend'. No longer content to
mechanically churn out past achievements, Eric
Clapton still wants success. But he wants it strictly
on his own terms. All that's shifted is the
perspective.

Unobtrusively perched atop the bass drum, a cute

little teddy bear is less ephemeral than countless
current rock stars. The teddy is not a childhood
original enjoyed by a boyhood Clapton but a latter
day replacement.
"Mine was stabbed and stiched up so many times,"
Eric laughs genuinely amused. "It was the one thing
I could take everything out on."

"All that emotion is in the writing now instead of the

guitar playing," he said quietly, confronting the
Carlsberg Special Brew with the appreciation of a
true connoisseur. "The important thing to preserve
is the emotion rather than technique. I'd like to think
my voice is actually as good now as my guitar
playing because that should make the right
balance."

This new teddy, however, is destined for a long and

prosperous life time. These days Eric Clapton
doesn't need to unleash pent-up frustrations on
defenseless teddy bears. These days Eric Clapton
doesn't have to prove himself to a public weaned on
great expectations. No longer concerned with being
the fastest gun in the west, Clapton does not worry
about a misinformed public looking to him for
something that just isn't there.

Every time Clapton makes another album he gives

away more of himself. While the misguided grope
desperately for some rock star to lead them down
the path of salvation towards the second coming,
Clapton is more concerned with honesty and
integrity than some clever hot lick.

"I don't hate people expecting just one thing of me,"

Clapton said honestly, lighting a cigarette, "it's just
they don't seem to recognise what that one certain
thing is. Just cause my exterior changes, fuck," he
sighs slightly exasperated, "that doesn't mean my
insides have changed."
If anything his insides are more prominent on
record and stage than ever before. Low-key
acoustic tales of broken hearts contain as much
emphatic gut-level emotion as any definitive solo.
These days Eric Clapton just wants to be himself.
He's certainly earned that privilege.

THE CLAPTON of the seventies is not very

removed from the sixties legend. The connection is
emotion, now more apparent than ever. While
'Badge' or 'Born Under A Bad Sign' may have
previously conjured up visual images while
providing astounding musical moments, 'All Our
Past Times' or 'Black Summer Rain' from his
newest album No Reason To Cry are equally
contagious and satisfying.

"If people want that heavy metal thing they can go

somewhere else. I'm not in any kind of competition.

Creativity and growth is dependent on change and

stimulation. Just a coupla one night stands drive the

78

point home. Clapton has to adopt new styles and

progressions to maintain his own sanity. Ten years
ago Eric Clapton was a very different person than
the one sitting on the couch listening to Don
Williams today. Ten years ago we were all different.
But the past has been intuitively linked with the
present by a consistant emotional thread which
runs through the bulk of his work.

"It's in the writing now instead of the guitar playing

so much. If people can't see the similarity that's ok,"
he said without a trace of hostility or bitterness. "It's
not something they need to know. They might
subconsciously sense it but it's not necessary for
me to make it so obvious that they jump up and
recognise it."
He instantly agrees that he is much happier now
than last summer.

"If you listen to anybody who's been at it a long time

there's always a thread of similarity that goes
through each record. There's a track on each record
of mine that's almost identical. You can't change
that much whatever you try and do. You just change
the musicians and the environment around you."

"Last summer I went through a little period, not of

confusion, but indecision. Towards the end of last
year there was a lot of friction within the band,
several personal vendettas that I found very
distracting. I couldn't keep my mind on the direction
I was going in because I felt like I had to keep
patching things up.

Critics complain with deep consternation about both

the environment and musicians Clapton has
chosen, prefering an all-star cast of famous names
than a relatively unknown bunch of Tulsa musical
freaks. But Clapton is one of the most unorthodox
guys around. Maybe someone else needs superstar
support to produce magic but Clapton depends on
the family atmosphere of love and affection more
than technical virtuosity.

"But that's gone away now," Clapton flashed a

contented grin. "It's like a family. Everyone knows
what they can't tread on. That's made it easier for
me to write, play sing, just everything because now
I know I've got total support. Besides they're in debt
to me so they can't get away!"

"Whenever you go into the studio you do whatever

the environment seems to suggest. I can't stick to
my guns that hard when I've got all those musicians
to bend to my will," he said laconically, taking a
hearty swig of the Special Brew. "It's always got to
be a collective idea.

The reasons behind these financial problems are

distinctly unusual. The Eric Clapton Band primarily
consists of a bunch of Kodak junkies who need to
feed their habit especially while on tour. During their
recent British tour, Clapton reckons most of the
band spent most of their wages on film and film
processessing. Several have been known to go
through Tri-X withdrawal.

"I have to preserve the integrity between all of us,"

Clapton says sincerely, radiating one of those
'Smiles'. "If I recorded an album with some other
people our band trust would be abused."

"They're mad," Eric says collapsing with laughter.

"All the money they make on tour goes to
developing the photos they take on tour! It works for
me cause they can't escape. They're in debt to me."

Clapton enjoys a very special rapport with his band.

No longer intimidated by his giant shadow, the band
now have the confidence in themselves to step out
front with perceptive musical support. This positive
sign of encouragement has given Clapton the
motivation to tenderly hold the reigns, driving the
entire assembly to a Grand Prix finale. No overnight
process, it's taken the band three long hard years to
grow and get into one cohesive unit.

Clapton's recent British tour was another adventure

in low profile living. While his contemporaries cruise
into the country for the odd date at Earl's Court,
Clapton stuck to seaside resorts and acoustically
sound halls. He works better in situations where
pressure and preconceived expectations are kept at
a minimum. That was the whole idea upon which
Derek and the Dominoes was built.

Last summer Clapton seemed restless and

agitated. But previous insecurities no longer dot his
conversation. Basically Clapton is very shy and
retiring. Only time and patience can permeate the
sensitive surface. And the same qualities must be
employed when listening to his recent albums, none
of which can be simply dismissed as easy listening.
Easy? At times the intensity is frightening.

"I got very annoyed about that tour with Derek and
the Dominoes cause in some towns especially in
America we would turn up and it would say DEREK
AND THE DOMINOES FEATURING ERIC
CLAPTON. I'd call the office and have dreadful
rows," he good humoredly recalls. "Still it kept
happening. Obviously they wanted to sell the tickets
but I didn't want it that way. I just wanted it to be a
group for it's own sake.

79

"The last time I did a tour of England like the one

we've just done was with Derek and the Dominoes
which was a good while back and we just scraped
the road. We did places where you couldn't even
put your guitar down," he says totally bemused.
"But it was fun."

And you were going to quit rock 'n roll and run for a
constituency in Surrey, I remind him as he begins to
laugh uncontrollably.
"I don't even know if we've got an MP in Surrey! I
guess I should be expecting a letter from Enoch
Powell anyday now. Could get a libel suit as well
cause I said he was the only politician mad enough
to run the country. I didn't use his full name though,"
Eric says like an innocent schoolboy, "so it could be
Enoch anybody. I don't even know what sparked it
off."

THIS SUMMER's British touring lark was no

exception. Determined to enjoy himself, Clapton
purposely avoided the Earl's Court aircraft hangar
syndrome, concentrating instead on more intimate
halls.
"Well," he leans back and laughs, "I don't think I
could fill Earl's Court. It's a pretty big place. I can't
imagine a group playing there. I think the only time
I've been there was to see the Ideal Home
exhibition when I was young. I can't imagine playing
a place like that! I'd have to see it as I saw it as a
kid with tents, cars and houses."

Probably the Arabs I jestingly offer.

"Oh that's ok," EC muses. "I think they don't know
how to spend their money. They're buying things for
completely over the top prices without knowing it.
I'm sure they're being taken left, right and center.
But they're sinking a lot of money into England and
we'll probably regain if we're clever enough. Then
they'll have to go back and discover more oil."

This summer's British jaunt was not void of headline

attention. Just another reminder of Clapton's
vulnerable honesty, there was the Enoch Powell
escapade. Unlike other artistes of his stature,
Clapton can't be bothered to disguise true feelings
or adopt phony attitudes.

Before returning to a more musical conversation,

EC spins an entertaining vingette about a friend
who was staying at the Dorchester. Apparently
some rich Arab pointed to Hyde Park and enquired
about the asking price.

So one night in Birmingham someone said

something that triggered off an unexpected part of
Clapton's rowdier personality. Maybe it was the
drink. Maybe it was just a bad day. But it was so
human and typically Eric. How many times have
you gotten a bit drunk and spouted out great truths
and philosphies only to later blush the next
morning?

Owning Hyde Park is not one of Eric Clapton's

lifetime ambitions. He is more concerned with
grooming his band into a tightly run, spontaneous
organisation. After years of disdain about running a
band, his newly discovered self-confidence has
made him an excellent skipper.
"I'll tell ya something about that. I been watching
Stan Kenton's schedule for the last 3-4 years. He's
a trumpeter who leads a 30 piece band," EC
mumbles in disbelief, finishing off another Special
Brew. "He works every night, two weeks off at
Christmas. When you look at something like that
you've got no reason to cry, no reason to complain
about anything when you see someone at that age
doing it for the pure love of it."

"I thought it was quite funny actually. I don't know

much about politics. I don't even know if it would be
good or bad for him to get in. I don't even know who
the Prime Minister is now," he laughs not entirely
serious. "I just don't know what came over me that
night. It must have been something that happened
in the day but it came out in this garbled thing," he
laughs at the recollection. "I'm glad you printed the
letter though.

That remains Clapton's idea of musical Utopia,

playing for genuine love and enjoyment. Almost
every time EC finds himself in a multi-million dollar
super-group, he immediately retreats back into
hibernation.

"I thought the whole thing was like Monty Python.

There's this rock group playing onstage and the
singer starts talking about politics. Great," Clapton
leans back and laughs.
"It's so stupid. Those people who paid their money
sittin' listening to this madman dribbling on and the
band meanwhile getting fidgety thinking 'oh dear'."

"The problem is you grow to hate the rock business.

That's why I always have to keep putting my
situations where I can just enjoy it and not think
about the business side cause I hate that.

80

"It's very much the old pals act. That's why I don't
go into London much. You go from one office to the
next and they're all just bitchin' about each other.
Who do you believe?" he asks slightly confused. "I
just come back here and get back in the coccoon.
Bugger them all. I just live for the art of making
good music not filling their pockets."

"With the last album I've put myself back into that
situation where a lot of people think I'm playing
guitar on every track. I've done another Derek And
The Dominoes and haven't listed who's playing
what on each track. In actual fact I only play lead
guitar on two tracks. The rest is little guests," he
fiendishly chuckles. "Now they have to guess which
one's me. And I'm not gonna tell."

HIS OBVIOUS disdain for the business side of rock

tends means that Clapton depends on his
management and record company run by Robert
Stigwood.

No longer confined to fullfilling guitar gaps, Clapton

has taken advantage of this freedom. The days of
every track containing a definitive guitar solo belong
to the past. And as Clapton is quick to stress in
song 'all our past times must be forgotten'.

"The best things always happen by accident,"

Clapton says sincerely giving away one of his ten
commandments. "I trust in that more than deliberate
plan. This band I've got was an accident. I'm very
lucky I'm with the organisation I am because I get
totally free reign.

"Quite honestly I don't think I could play one of

those solos on every track. My lead guitar playing
has really slipped because I'm controlling the band,
writing songs, everything else. Consequently
something has to suffer and the lead guitar has
probably suffered most of all."

"I'm never told to do anything. I'm asked or things

are suggested but I can say no. I can't imagine
working for some conglomerate where they just tell
you that you have radio interviews today and
Russell Harty tomorrow."

For the majority of his earlier career, lead guitar was

EC's only concern and mainline function.
"That was all I had to worry about then," he recalls
signalling to Patti that it's time for another round of
Carlsberg. "All I had to do was get up in the
morning, go to the gig and play lead guitar."

Eric Clapton does not like to be pigoen-holed. He

won't arrive back in this country and make
outlandish statements about the tax while posing for
the story to run in tomorrow's Daily Mail. Eric
Clapton is the total antithesis of the music business
machine filmed for posterity on BBC2's recent Rod
Stewart documentary. The only public place you're
likely to find Clapton is down the pub.

BEING ONE of the original guitar heroes, most of

the staff here curiously wanted to know what EC
thought about his modern day counterparts. Like
other reliable sixties mainstays, Clapton listens
exclusively to old and new influences. Of the new,
Don Williams, Gallagher & Lyle and a new artiste
Stephen Bishop dominate over the latest effort from
Robin Trower.

"It's the motivation that's important. There's a lot of

people I see who make records and won't exploit
themselves onstage. There was a group I wanted to
take on our British tour but they refused to do it.
And I think that was because they didn't want the
exposure," Eric says with admiration. "They were
songwriters and they didn't want to get boosted to
the point where they didn't have the time to write
songs anymore. They just wanted to stay where
they were."

"I thought Mick Ronson was very good on the telly

the other night," Clapton smiles referng to the
Whistle Test Dylan special. "It was so obvious he
was an English guitarist with the old guitar down
here, down to his knees," Clapton laughs. "I don't
listen to clever lead guitar playing anymore. I'm
more interested in total songs.

The group turns out to be Gallagher and Lyle, two

songwriters from whom Clapton has the utmost
respect. Like the 'Breakaway' duo, Eric Clapton
wears his heart on his sleeve.

"To be quite honest I haven't heard Robin Trower.

Blackmore? He probably suffers from the fact that
he's had to live up to his own image too. I bet that
must bother him a lot," EC reflects, strongly relating
to the situation.

What he exposes now on record and in

conversation is a very healthy and vibrant self
portrait. As Eric is quick to admit, the playing is the
one constant factor. It's his personality make-up
which has gone through a positive about-face.

"The first time I saw Blackmore I think he was

playing with Johnny Kidd. He floored me then. Later
I saw him at the Roundhouse with Deep Purple and
he'd stepped out of being just a good sideman and
into a heavy number. Now he's living with it."

81

Rather than exploit his previous guitar star stance,

Clapton has chosen to live without any nasty
crosses that demand attention bearing.
Unfortunately his audience is not as eager to step
forward. Still progress marches on.

oversentimental. This is when I was into being very

aggressive and playing just straight blues. Country
music was just sloppy," he grins. "But the Band
bridged the gap. The Byrds got there quite early.
But the Band gave it a bite that country music just
didn't seem to have before.

"I think my audience now is probably the same one

I've had all along only they're probably very
disgruntled because I keep laying new tricks on
them and they're really not sure if they want to
accept them or not."

"I wasn't even that big a Dylan fan till 'Like A Rolling
Stone'. Wait a minute, I did buy an album The
Times They Are A Changin' and sat down and
learned it straight away. See the trouble is that
people expect electric music from me. If I go to a
session I take an electric guitar because it's second
nature to me. But lately," he says pleased with
recent changes, "the dobro has taken up all my
time."

The key to the 'new' Clapton revolves, around

simplicity stuffed with genuine emotions.
"I was talkin' to Don Williams the other night about
being able to write a song where halfway through
the listener will know the end and be able to sing
along. I don't want people to sit down and listen to
my album really hard 20 times to find out what I'm
saying," Clapton says adamantly. "I'd like to make it
as simple as possible.

When he isn't playing dobro, EC spends his time

listening to Don Williams. That's his passion this
week. In between rounds of Special Brew, Eric gets
up and puts on a tape Williams recorded at his
house the other night. EC reclines into the caverns
of the sofa and listens to this euphoric music.

"I'm sure there will always be a circuit. There will

always be somewhere to play," says this musician
bent on a long career. "I'm in the musician's union. I
could get a job playin' for the BBC. There's no
panic.

Clapton first saw Don Williams on an American chat

show, the Dinah Shore Show. This interview
program is so lacking in any perceptions that it
serves as a nationwide vehicle for slick PR
campaigns. But EC was impressed with this
character. After singing a song, Williams joined
Dinah and her other guests, refusing to join in with
the trivial conversation. Clapton was impressed.

"That's what I see in a lot of the groups today, this

sort of mad panic; gotta get a number one, then do
the TV's. It's like they expect their careers to end in
three years," he laughs in disbelief, "Everyone is so
busy trying to think of new approaches to catch the
eye and it doesn't really matter cause it's all been
done before."

When a British Don Williams tour was announced,

EC was among the first to order tickets for the
opening night in Croydon. Pleased that they met on
even ground, neither artiste was totally familiar with
the other. Within several weeks they became good
friends. Another example of the Clapton personality:
he prefers starting relationships on a firm footing
void of past preconceived ideas. For all the
assertive point making, Eric Clapton really is a new
artist.

And much of what's been done before has been

done to perfection by Clapton himself.
Understandably, he's a little itchy to start moving in
another direction. Not until the flittering presence of
Blind Faith did a gentler side of Clapton begin to
flourish.

Nevertheless, he has retained certain personality

traits. Despite total backing and encouragement
from the Don Williams Band, Clapton was nervous
and hesitant about appearing at the Hammersmith
Odeon. Assured that the crowd would belong strictly
to Williams, familar insecurities bothered his
conscience. "I haven't had to practise in so long,"
he said looking sheepishly at the dobro.

With Delaney & Bonnie, and later with the

Dominoes, Clapton began to explore the land of
one thousand dobros and acoustic guitar tunings,
encouraged and stimulated by Duane Allman.
What really changed Clapton's musical perspective
was the discovery of the Band. In a previous
interview last summer he admitted that when Big
Pink came out, his entire conception of Cream
changed drastically. Suddenly Cream seemed more
like a con than the authentic music the Band spun.

SUDDENLY CLAPTON jumps up and discovers

that he is very hungry. In the kitchen where the
refrigerator is decorated with various backstage
passes and the walls covered with summer tour
posters, Patti is impressively concocting some

"The Band had a great effect on me. I'd never really

liked country music. I always thought it was

82

homemade scotch eggs. "Hurry UP," Eric jests, "I'm

STARVING."

"I was in a situation where people were coming to

visit me. It wasn't so much 'Ah the BAND' it was just
people who came to visit. Some of the jams were
amazing because they hadn't played together in
ages. There were hundreds of guitars. On my
birthday party it was the first time the entire Band
played together in a long time.

Moments later the scotch eggs are ready which

calls for another round of Carlsberg. Eric puts on a
cassette of the debut album from Stephen Bishop, a
songwriter Clapton did some sessions for and
surprisingly found himself loving the material.

"Richard Manuel and I are like blood brothers.

Every night when the session ended we'd be the
only one's left standing. We'd just play all fuckin'
night," Clapton enthuses.

"He's got the best range I've heard in years," Eric

enthused between bites of salad. "Joni Mitchell
can't get anywhere near that! Woody's manager
asked me to do the session and I thought it was a
joke. I called his bluff and it was real!

"On the first tour we did with EC And The

Jordinaires, the Band made me get up and play on
'Chest Fever'. I could, never understand the words
and it turned out nor could they. They kept singing
different lines. All I had to do was get up there and
play guitar and sing the first thing that came into my
head," he recalls in amusement. "There was this
incredible sound of voices in many tongues saying
different things."

"What attracted me most was not knowing what you

were stepping into and finding that it was very good.
I don't get asked to do sessions very often so I
thought it was a joke."
Thriving in a pressure-free situation, Clapton
enjoyed the sessions as much as he enjoyed his
Don Williams encounters. In these two instances he
was allowed to escape from his legend. He wasn't
(sigh gasp shock) ERIC CLAPTON, he was simply
a musician.

Clapton proceeds to relate an entertaining tale

about recording 'All Our Past Times' where Rick
Danko kept singing his verse differently each take,
much to Clapton's amusement and confusion.

"I'm always more comfortable in situations like that,"

Eric said recalling the low-key atmosphere at his
holiday camp gig. "The pressures are off and I feel
comfortable because there is no one to prove
myself to."

"Dylan is another one like that. He can't restrict

himself to any one way of doing a song so we did
'Sign Language' three times. I thought fuck it, I'll just
go as loose as he is. I'm used to doing a song one
way but Dylan throws caution to the wind every
time."

For his most recent album, Clapton surrounded

himself with the best. In addition to his own able
bodied band, he enjoyed contributions from Bob
Dylan, Ron Wood and the Band. The project
worked because like everything else EC does, it all
happened accidentally.

That seemed most apparent on the recent TV

concert Hard Rain.
"Yeah and it looked like nobody else knew what he
was gonna do either. He kept turning round as if to
say 'this is what's gonna happen next'. The band
must have been ready for anything to happen."

Using Shangri-La studios, most of the Band were

hovering around the sessions as it's their home
base. Even before going to LA, Clapton worked out
with some relaxation in Nassau.

Clapton indulges in similar onstage conduct which

consistantly makes for a fresh and spontaneous
atmosphere. None too fond of musical
claustrophobia, EC detests boredom.

"Woody came to stay at this house we were renting.

He was pushing me around trying to get me to write
songs but I couldn't do it in that situation cause it
was too idyllic. We finally wrote a couple songs that
we didn't use. One was called 'You're Too Good To
Die You Should Be Buried Alive'. Can you believe
that?" he asks incredulously. "It's all there in the
files. All these crazy songs."

"Sure we do that and it's very confusing for the rest

of the band. But you can't play the same thing every
night the same way because then you really get to
hate it. I think we did 'Layla' one night in 3/4 time,"
Clapton laughs hysterically. "It sounded great. Just
like a good old waltz."

Armed with a bunch of songs and not much of an

idea about album direction, EC and Woody headed
for Shangri-La. Much to Clapton's delightful surprise
everything eventually gelled.

Assuming the main 'Layla' riff immortalised the song

forever, many of Clapton's more recent efforts have
been built around similarly addicting backbones

83

only the acoustic groove might be too subtle to

instantly digest.

"I prefer to work live whenever possible. And No

Reason To Cry was pretty live. Fortunately or
unfortunately, whichever it turns out to be, we didn't
use Tom Dowd again. Robert said I had to make an
album as soon as possible. Not being able to use
Tom just threw me," EC recalls in panic. "It threw
me into a trauma. I thought of Robbie Robertson
but he was busy doing Neil Diamond."

"Should I tell you where I got that riff from," Eric

says in animation, beginning to enjoy himself. "It's
an Albert King riff off an album called Born Under A
Bad Sign and there's a song called 'There Is
Nothing I Can Do If You Leave Me Here To Cry,'" he
sings the line in sleepy time sounding a bit like
'Smile'.

With a tendency to be lazy, I wondered if Clapton

needed gentle prodding from Robert Stigwood to
record.

"Duane heard that and just went," Eric starts to hum

the main 'Layla' theme. "He just speeded it up.
Then we took to doing 'Layla' in the studio and then
that particular song afterwards. No one would
notice that the riff is exactly the same except slow
blues. Really good trick that."

"Yeah, it is good. After a couple of days recording I

was walkin' round the studio saying 'I'm packin' it in,
I don't want anymore to do with it'. It was my fault
because I said alright to Robert and he came back
with a bloody deadline! I called his bluff," Eric
laughs, "and he came back with a bloody deadline.

Suddenly EC jumps up again and goes to the

albums treasure chest in search of the Albert King
record. Pointing to the chest and all the cardboxes
on the floor Clapton says in disbelief, "And you ask
me my ten favourite songs! Look how many I've got
to choose from."

"Usually Robert would say 'if you don't want to do it

fine' but it was all to do with that year I spent out of
the country. As it happens the album turned out well
much to the surprise of everyone cause we
walked in loathing the idea. If it hadn't been for the
outside jollity of the Band we wouldn't have gotten
anything done. We were stuck.

WHAT WITH ALL the Carlberg Special Brews, a

visit to the lavatory is necessary. This small room is
decorated with an unusual assortment of postcards
from round the world. There's one cartoon of two
little creatures talking. One says 'Is it true that sex
pins your hearing?' While the other replies 'Beg
pardon?'. And there's a tacky but charming card of
two birds with the loving inscription 'Thanks for the
Budgie'.

"If I go into the studio with my band they're gonna

look to me for something to do and I had nothing,"
Eric winces at the memory. "Richard Manuel came
up with 'Beautiful Thing' and from there we just
went. It was something to do."
CLAPTON IS exaggerating when he says he had
'nothing'. Still somewhat insecure about his
songwriting ability, he will only present the very best
to the band for close inspection.

Back to business. No Reason To Cry, unlike his

recent albums, was not produced by Tom Dowd.
The reasons behind this were mostly political as
RSO had moved distribution in America to Polydor
from Atlantic and WEA threw a boycott on Dowd
producing Clapton.

"Worried? God, you don't know what it's like. We

took two weeks off to reconsider the whole thing. I
just thought 'God, it's all fallen down'. That's how
'Black Summer Rain' came about. Then I thought,
'well that's not a bad song', took it back and it
kicked like mad.

This might have been a blessing in disguise. Even

during the making of There's One In Every Crowd
Clapton disagreed at times with the clinical
approach Dowd sometimes favored, prefering a live
atmosphere.

"It's one thing to play to an audience you don't know

and can't see but it's always been very difficult for
me to play a song to someone I know face to face
who has good taste in music."

After a few beers, Clapton's conversation becomes

more animated, honest and relaxed. "The thing that
bothered me about There's One In Every Crowd
was that we were contriving to make a quality
record. Tom kept getting serious about 'Making a
record' when we were having a good time. Like
'Pretty Blue Eyes' was done in bits of something like
6 bars here and there which is a frustrating way to
record.

From the album, Clapton is satisfied personally with

'Hello Old Friend', 'All Our Past' Times' and 'Black
Summer Rain', three of the album's best moments,
all written by EC. His songwriting is rapidly
improving and perfecting. The next hit single could
well be an honest, gentle representation of EC
1976.

84

"The songs you write very quickly are always the

best. The ones that are written in the space of a
day. It's like this new one I just wrote after we came
back from that Buddy Holly luncheon. It was just
about taking the old woman out and getting too
sloshed to drive home. It was perfect," he grins
proudly.

day Eric goes reggae! Then they follow it up with

another bloody reggae song. Oh dear. Branded
again."
You lose one cross and gain another. But last
summer's self doubt has been replaced by well
nourished confidence. Clapton seems to believe in
his music now more than ever. Even last summer
when he talked of making a rock 'n roll album, he
never seemed convinced.

Anxious to get the song down on tape as quickly as

possible, Clapton plays a demo version recorded
with Ronnie Lane at his house mobile. Entitled 'You
Look Wonderful Tonight' it's one of the most
beautiful love songs I've ever heard. The lyrics are
equally sensitive and real, apparently about a
conversation Eric and Patti have every time they go
out. Just from two listenings, I've been singing the
song all week. It also happens to be extremely sexy.

"If you remember that was after There's One In

Every Crowd didn't make it so I thought oh well,"
Eric recalls the point when he was on the brink of
making artistic concessions and selling himself
short.
"In fact I did put out a rock album more or less with
EC Was Here which maybe covered that for a little
while, filling up that space I was complaining about.
If the album had horns on, it would have been
perfect for hard rock. So now," he smiles shyly, "I've
got time to be myself again.

Future plans remain both concrete and tenuous but

one thing is certain: Clapton is determined to have
a good time. Later this month he leaves for a three
week American tour and hopes to record the next
album immediately after the tour in Nashville.
"I really wanna get down to Nashville," he said
glancing quickly at the dobro. "It's not very far from
Tulsa. Can't be more than twenty four hours."

"I want to do an album where every song says

something that relates to my life. I've got some
songs down that are getting that way," he
concluded humming a bit of that contagious new
love song. "I'd like a hit single but I wouldn't want to
make a living that way."

That project belongs to the concrete. An album of

pub songs belongs to the tenuous. Those might
even be recorded in a pub. And there's a possible
musical adventure on the cards between EC and
Ronnie Lane. Besides, he could always work for the
BBC.

With every album Clapton becomes more

comfortable and more confident with himself. It is
no accident that the best tracks are always Clapton
originals. Wait till you hear 'You Look Wonderful
Tonight'. The song is so good EC will give Gallagher
& Lyle some heavy competition.

"I'm actually gonna form a group called 'The

Hypocrites' with Ronnie Lane," Eric says with much
laughter. "Aw, I've given it away. We'll record on our
own label called 'Get Away With Murder Records'.
The first gig is at the Cranleigh Village Hall."

"Oh dear," Eric sighs with a long yawn, reclining into

the couch, "I'm exhausted."

Visions of ploughing matches dance through my

head, I laugh.

And rightfully so. For several hours now he was Eric

Clapton again. Little man you've had a busy day.

"This is true," EC insists. "No lie. The first gig is at

the Cranleigh Village Hall."

EC's top ten

1) 'Drown In My Own Tears' by Ray Charles. He
recorded it two ways, live and in the studio. The live
one is great. I like it very much.

SOMEWHERE in between the concrete and the

tenuous, Clapton wants his next single to be that
new love song. Regardless, it's definitely going on
the next album and it's definitely one of the best
songs he's ever written, sort of the antithesis to
'Layla'.

2) 'Pretend' by Carl Mann. It's very old. He did a

record called 'Mona Lisa' that Conway Twitty had a
hit with. But Carl Mann did the original and he did
another one called 'Pretend'. (He begins to sing)
'Pretend you're happy when you're blue'. It's sorta
like 'Smile' only rocked up with a really nice guitar
part.

"It's funny ya know cause I didn't even want 'I Shot

The Sheriff' on the album. Didn't even want it out at
all. I thought it was a rip-off," he says in animated
Carlsberg tones. "I had to live with this till this very

85

3) 'Help Yourselves To Each Other' by Don

Williams. That's a new favourite of mine. It's got
really nice words and a pleasant melody. No you
can't dance to it. It's just mesmerising.

I know what I'll do/Dad will buy some new

ones/Time to go to sleep now/Little man you've had
a busy day'. (He sings in lullaby fashion). It's one of
my favourite songs. It used to knock me out. That's
why I don't know it well. I'd never get to hear the
last verse cause I'd be asleep.

4) Syreeta both albums. Stevie Wonder

Presents Syreeta and Syreeta.
I'm not sure which album is better. Stevie Wonder
produced them and they're both good. Then nothing
happened. She had one hit off the second album
'Spinning and Spinning'.

Barbara Charone, 1976

Eric Clapton: Any Objections?
Barbara Charone, Creem, February 1977

5) 'Chirping Crickets'. That was the first album I

ever bought. And it still plays after all these years. I
have records I've had for only six months that don't
play anymore. 'Chirping Crickets' I've had since I
was 16. Buddy Holly's first album. I learned the
whole thing straight away. I couldn't believe it. It
was the first time I'd seen a Stratocaster as well.
He's standing on the cover holding a Stratocaster
and I thought 'what is that space vehicle'.

If home is where the heart is, then Eric Clapton

hides his emotions inside a sprawling countryside
retreat aptly named Hurtwood Edge. The name of
this peaceful sanctuary reveals more about Eric
Clapton than any compilation album stuffed with
breathtaking guitar solos.
Despite the warm domestic tranquility, the living
room still looks like a rehearsal room. Clapton
studiously picks out a tune on a beautifully crafted
dobro.

6) 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' by Stevie

Wonder. It's from a live album Live At The Talk Of
The Town which I think is only available in this
country. You should hear it. He slows it right down.
The dynamics are very heavy. It builds up and
comes down to almost silence. He used an
amazing bass player who ended up playing with
Miles Davis.

A Don Williams album blasts out of speakers that

look more like lethal onstage amplification than your
usual home stereo console. Wearing a hazy, justbeginning-to-wake-up-look, Clapton stared a half
empty bottle of beer in the face. He gently puts the
dobro down on the couch and sighs restlessly.
"What can I do?" he says in frustration, "I'm at home
here on my own 'cept for the old lady and the dog.
It's hard to be influenced, hard to do any electric. I
can't just pick up an electric guitar and play on my
own. So I play acoustic all the time. That's how the
songs are written. And it's difficult to break that mold
once you've stepped into it."

7)'Caress Me Baby' by Jimmy Reed. That was the

first time I heard really low, low down r&b. They
released it as a single in this country. I probably
heard that before I even heard Muddy Waters. It's
on the album Rockin' With Reed.
8) 'Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever' by Stevie
Wonder. Well he wrote it. It's a great song. Four
Tops did it too. The Band recorded it but never
released it. They do it like they do that Marvin Gaye
song 'Baby Don't You Do It'. Rick Danko sings a
great vocal.

Cardboard boxes burst at the seams with hundreds

of records that spill over into an antique chest,
testifying to his diverse musical preferences. Some
of his favorite guitars share a seat on the couch.
Behind Clapton, a complete drum kit and a Fender
Rhodes piano beg for attention. Mysteriously
perched atop the bass drum, a cuddly teddy bear
waits patiently. Like his last three studio albums, the
teddy belongs to a new mold totally divorced from
Clapton's adolescent past.

9) 'Willowy Garden'. It's a traditional song, a Scots

melody. I don't really know the words to that except
for the first verse. I wrote off to Cecil Sharpe House
who've got the words to every song ever written
especially folk songs. I got the words and couldn't
bloody understand it cause it's written in old
English. It's an old pub song. People usually make
up their own words for the verse but the chorus is
always the same. It goes back centuries.

"Mine was stabled and stitched up so many times,"

Eric laughs in bemused recollection. "It was the only
thing I could take everything out on."

10) 'Little Man You've Had A Busy Day'.

That's the oldest song I know cause it used to rock
me to sleep. Someone like Al Bowlly might have
done it. The words go 'Someone stole your marbles

That was before he discovered the electric guitar as

a useful vehicle for unleashing pent-up frustrations.
Never stabbed nor stitched, this new teddy is
destined for a healthy lifetime.

86

No longer treading that thin line between public

demands and private priorities, Clapton's personal
battles have reached a healthy impasse. Now he's
got room to breathe.

"What I'm trying to do is find another way of making

music that's distinctly me. And if it has to be softer
and even unrecognizable at first then that's alright
even if it's not the current trend. There's always
gonna be some young kid who can do it twice as
good as you. So you develop something else, try
and stay away from the line of fire."

"I spend my time listening to people and being

heavily influenced by them," Clapton says as Don
Williams plays on. "Then when it comes time to
record, I go down to the studio, try something new,
and it comes out as me again.

No longer concerned with being the fastest gun in

the West, Clapton speaks maturely from a wounded
past. Rather than mechanically repeat previous
accomplishments, it's taken three years of natural
growing pains to free himself from his lead guitar
bondage. With his American band, he has taken full
advantage of this freedom.

"I don't want to be immodest but I like to attract

people to my music and not to anything else." If
they don't know who it is and they put the record on
and like it, then it means I've succeeded rather than
selling something on the strength of my name or the
legend that has built up around me."

"Quite honestly I don't think I could play one of

those solos on very track. My lead guitar playing
has slipped because I'm controlling the band,
writing songs, everything else. Consequently
something has to suffer and the lead guitar playing
has probably suffered most of all.

Always more a musician than a personality from his

first stint with the Yardbirds, the retiring guitarist
who turned his back on sold-out Cream audiences
prefers anonymity to the spotlight. That was the
whole premise upon which Derek and the
Dominoes was initially built.

"I don't listen to clever lead guitar playing anymore.

I'm more interested in total songs. The trouble is
people expect electric music from me. If I go to a
session I take an electric guitar because it's second
nature to me. But lately," he smiles, quite pleased
with the transition, "the dobro has taken up all my
time."

"I got very annoyed during our American tour when

we would turn up and it would say Derek And The
Dominoes Featuring Eric Clapton, I'd call the office
and have dreadful rows. Obviously they wanted to
sell the tickets but I just wanted it to be a group for
it's own sake."

The dobro is not exactly a radical departure for

Clapton. He explored the realms of that instrument,
trading motel shot licks with Duane Allman, in the
studio with both Delaney and Bonnie and later
Dominoes. Renewed interest in dobro-flavored
anguish has made him Don Williams' biggest fan.

When Layla was first released, no one really knew

that Derek was Eric. Once his identity surfaced,
adulation and acclaim grew in such large
proportions that Clapton quickly adopted a lifestyle
based around hibernation and public withdrawal.

Finally beginning to wake up, Clapton jumps up,

almost knocking the handmade dobro on the floor.
He charges over to the stereo and selects a tape
recorded at home, at Hurtwood Edge with Williams
and band.

"All the emotion is in the writing now instead of the

guitar playing," E.C. says emphatically finishing off
the first of many beers. "The important thing to
preserve is the emotion rather than the technique. If
you listen to anybody who's been at it a long time
there's always a thread of similarity that runs
through each record.

Clapton first spied Williams on the tacky Dinah

Shore Show and was impressed both with the
music and with the fact that Williams refused to
indulge in idle gossip with Dinah and the other
guests. Clapton himself would have behaved in a
similarly introverted fashion.

"I don't mind people expecting just one thing of me,

it's just that they don't recognize what that one
certain thing is. Just cause my exterior changes,
fuck!" he sighs in exasperation. "That doesn't mean
my insides have changed."

During a recent British tour, Eric joined Don

Williams onstage in London for some fancy dobro
pickin'. Haunted by memories of self doubt, E.C.
brought along friends Pete Townshend and Ronnie
Lane for encouragement. Ambling onstage in faded,
patched jeans, Clapton cherished this pressure-free
opportunity: when big Don announced his special

"If people want that heavy metal thing they can go

somewhere else. I'm not in any kind of competition.
If they put me onstage with Beck," he says in
reverence with small pangs of insecurity, "who's
really fast and tough, I'd just have to play rhythm
guitar.

87

guest, one girl screamed. Two thirds of the orthodox

country crowd had never heard of Clapton.

Pattie and Eric giggle as I point to a poster pic of

Clapton above which has been pasted a newspaper
headline which asks the thousand dollar question:
"Does This Man Look Worried?" This is not the
behavior of troubled souls.

"I'm always more comfortable in situations like that,"

Clapton said honestly, opening another beer. "The
pressures are off and I feel comfortable because
there is no one to prove myself to."

Over food and another round of potent British beer,

Eric and Pattie tell amusing tales of c&w visits from
the Don Williams crew. The raw emotion that lies at
the roots of country music hypnotizes Clapton.

More than anything else, Clapton longs to be one of

the band. Given the chance to escape from his
legend with
Don Williams, he wasn't ERIC CLAPTON, he was
simply a musician.

What drastically altered his musical frame of

reference was his discovery of the Band. Upon
hearing their debut album Music From Big Pink,
Clapton decided that Cream was "a con." The
homespun authenticity of the Band was more
attractive than Cream concoctions of strange brews

Shy and retiring, Clapton never wanted to be God

anyways. He always wore the adulation awkwardly.
Right now he's more concerned with musical
enjoyment than sales figures. Bent on a long
career, he talks enthusiastically about one day
playing down at the local pub.

"I'd never really liked country music before because

I thought it was over-sentimental," he says as Pattie
attentively listens. "That was when I was into being
very aggressive and just playing straight blues.
Country music was just sloppy. But the Band
bridged the gap. They gave country music a bite it
didn't have before."

"I don't want people to sit down and listed to my

album really hard 20 times to find out what I'm
saying," he stressed. "I'd like to make it as simple
as possible. There will always be somewhere to
play. I'm in the musicians union. I could get a job
playin' for the BBC. There's no panic.

Clapton was not content with a taste. He wanted a

whole mouthful. After a memorably short lived stint
with superstar ego clashes driven by Blind Faith,
Clapton ran off with the support group Delaney and
Bonnie and Friends. Some of the friends soon
became Dominoes. Then there was a period of
silence.

"That's what I see in a lot of groups today, this sort

of mad panic; gotta get a number one, then do the
TV's. It's like they expect their careers to end in
three years," he laughs is disbelief. "Everyone is so
busy trying to think of new approaches to catch the
eye and it doesn't really matter 'cause it's all been
done before."

An eerie hush surrounded Hurtwood Edge. His

lengthy "retirement" was not merely the case of too
many drugs. He had overdosed on the big business
machinery behind superstar rock.

And much of what's done before has been done to

perfection by Clapton himself. He has been given
mass media credit for having defined modern day
electric guitar playing.

"The problem is you grow the hate the rock

business. That's why I always have to keep putting
my situations where I can enjoy it. That's why I don't
go into London much. You go from one office to
another and they're all bitchin' about each other.
Who do you believe?

"I think my audience now is probably the same one

I've had all along only they're very disgruntled that I
keep laying new tricks on them and they're not
really sure if they wan tot accept them. The best
things happen by accident. I trust in that more than
deliberate plan."

"I just come back here and here get in the cocoon.
Bugger them all. I just live for the art of making
good music, not filling anyone's pockets."

All this conversation has made Clapton's normally

reticent speech patterns lively and animated. The
beer has also whetted his appetite. He jumps up
from the couch and heads for the kitchen, passing a
clutch of gold albums in the corridor.

Over a year ago, Clapton talked about a rock 'n' roll

album. Not totally convinced, he was on the brink of
making artistic concessions to an impatient
audience crying out for rock 'n' roll.

In the kitchen, his main inspiration is busy being

domestic and fixing some food. "Hurry up," Clapton
chides Pattie Boyd, "I'm starving." The refrigerator
door is decorated with various backstage passes.

"In fact I did put out a rock album more or less with
E.C. Was Here which maybe covered that for
awhile, filling that space is was complaining about.

88

If the album had horns on it, it would have been

perfect for hard rock. So now," he smiles shyly, "I've
got time to be myself again."

trying to bring the proceedings to order and loosely

rolled with the flow.
"Dylan can't restrict himself to one way of doing a
song so we did 'Sign Language' three ways. I
thought fuck it, I'll just to loose as he is. I'm used to
doing a song one way but Dylan throws caution to
the wind every time."

Clapton needed some prodding to record a new

studio album, his first since There's One In Every
Crowd. Manager Robert Stigwood supplied
deadlines and Ron Wood tried to provide directional
guidance.

Onstage, Clapton indulges in similarly spontaneous

conduct. "You can't play the same song every night
the same way because you really get to hate it. I
think we did 'Layla' one night in time," Clapton
laughs. "It sounded like a good old waltz."

"Woody came to stay with us in Nassau. He was

pushing me around trying to get me to write songs
but I couldn't because the situation was too idyllic.
We finally wrote a couple songs that we didn't use.
One was called 'You're Too Good To Die You
Should Be Buried Alive'." He laughs uncontrollably.
"Can you believe that?"

As it happens, the song's origins are not as

removed from a waltz as one would imagine.

While the Nassau retreat begged for workless

enjoyment, the initial atmosphere which permeated
the Los Angeles No Reason To Cry sessions was
one of chaos and confusion. Clapton started to
write.

"Should I tell you where I got that riff?" Eric says

excitedly, now enjoying himself with help from the
beer. "It's an Albert King riff off an album Born
Under A Bad Sign and there's a song called 'There
Is Nothing I Can Do If You Leave Me Here To Cry'.
Duane Allman heard that and just went!"

"After a couple of days I was walkin' round the

studio saying I'm packin' it in, I don't want anymore
to do with it.' Much to the surprise of everyone the
album turned out well but we walked in loathing the
idea.

He has employed a few tricks on No Reason To Cry

as well. Like the Derek and the Dominoes album,
Clapton makes the listener discover just which
guitar is his.

"If I go in the studio with my band they're gonna

look to me for something and I had nothing,"
Clapton playfully winces. "Richard Manuel came up
with 'Beautiful Thing' and from there we just went!"

In retrospect he feels There's One In Every Crowd

suffered from a "contrived" approach and much
prefers the live atmosphere which permeates No
Reason To Cry. Not surprisingly, the album's best
tracks are Clapton originals.

Visions of Big Pink danced in his head. Using the

Band's homebase, Shangri-la Studios, Clapton
surrounded himself with his own able-bodied
Oklahoma outfit, along with Wood, the Band, and
Bob Dylan. The old Clapton who used to stab teddy
bears would have been inhibited and withdrawn.

Stranded in between British and American tours,

Clapton was stuck inside Hurtwood with those
mobile blues again. Restless to play, he kept busy
writing songs. One new tune, 'You Look Wonderful
Tonight', is almost an acoustic, antithesis to 'Layla'.
A sensual love song written about "taking the old
woman out and getting too sloshed to drive home,"
Clapton can't wait to record it. Already he's done a
demo with Ronnie Lane.

Even as late as August '75, Clapton displayed

reticent studio behavior during a Dylan Desire
session. With several guitarists rolling with Bob,
Clapton stuck to the corner, strumming the odd
rhythm. By March of '76, familiar insecurities were
replaced by sell nourished confidences.

After the American fall tour, Clapton hopes to record

the next album in Nashville, no doubt inspired by
his recent Don Williams encounter. "I really want to
get down to Nashville," he grains glancing quickly at
the idle dobro. "It can't be very far from Tulsa. Can't
be more than 24 hours."

"I was in a situation where people were coming to

visit me," he says of this accidental twist of fate. "It
wasn't so much 'Ah the BAND' it was just people
who came to visit. Some of the jams were amazing
because the Band hadn't played together in ages."

Gradually stripping away layers of protective

covering and revealing more of himself, Eric
Clapton will one day have a hit single that refuses
to make any concessions.

A funky, plaintive direction gradually evolved.

Between Rick Danko and Dylan, Clapton gave up

89

"I never even wanted 'I Shot The Sheriff' on the

album I didn't want it out at all. I thought it was a
rip-off. To this very day I have to live with 'Eric goes
reggae'," he says with more humor than hostility.
"Then they follow it up with another bloody reggae
song. Oh dear. Branded again."

6) 'Bridge Over Troubled Water' by Stevie Wonder.

"It's from an album Live At The Talk Of The Town,
which I think is only available in Britain. You should
hear it he slows it right down. The dynamics are
very heavy. It builds up and comes down to almost
silence."

You lose one cross and you gain another. He may

never record another 'Sunshine of Your Love' but
you can bet he'll take a bluesy visit down desolation
row on every album and in each concert. After all,
there's no panic. He could always work for the BBC.

7) 'Caress Me Baby' by Jimmy Reed. "That was the

first time I heard really low, low down r&b. They
released it as a single in Britain. I probably heard
that before I even heard Muddy Waters. It's on the
Rockin' With Reed album."

"I'm sure there will always be a circuit," says this

card carrying member of the musicians union. "I've
been watching Stan Kenton's schedule for the last
three years. He's a trumpet player who leads a 30
piece band! And he works every night of the year
with only two weeks off for Christmas. When you
see someone that age doing it for the pure love of
the music, you've got no reason to cry."

8) 'Loving You Is Sweeter Than Ever' by Stevie

Wonder. "Well, he wrote it. It's a great song. The
Four Tops did it too. The Band recorded it but
haven't released it. They do it like they do that
Marvin Gaye song 'Baby Don't You Do It.' Rick
Danko sings a great vocal."

Eric Clapton's TOP TEN

9) 'Willowy Garden'. "It's a traditional song with a
Scottish melody. I only know the first verse so I
wrote off for the words but couldn't understand a
bloody word because it was written in old English.
All the s's are f's. It's an old pub song that goes
back centuries."

1) 'Drown In My Own Tears' by Ray Charles. "He

recorded it live and in the studio but the live one is
just great. I like it very much."

2) 'Pretend' by Carl Mann. "It's very old. He did a

record called 'Mona Lisa' which Conway Twitty had
a hit with. But Carl Mann did the original and he did
another one called 'Pretend.' It's sorta like 'Smile'
only rocked up with a really nice guitar part."

10) 'Little Man You've Had A Busy Day'. "That's the

oldest song I know cause it used to rock me to
sleep. Someone like Al Bowlly might have done it.
The words go 'Someone stole your marbles I know
what I'll do/Dad will buy me new ones/Time to go to
sleep now/Little man you've had a busy day.' It's
one of my favorite songs. It used to knock me out.
That's why I don't know it well. I'd never get to hear
the last verse 'cause I'd be asleep."

3) 'Help Yourselves To Each Other' by Don

Williams. "He's a new favorite of mine. It's got really
nice words and a pleasant melody. No you can't
dance to it. It's just mesmerizing."

Barbara Charone, 1977

4) Stevie Wonder Presents Syreeta and Syreeta.

"I'm not sure which is better. Stevie Wonder
produced both and they're both good. Then nothing
happened. She had one hit off the second album
with 'Spinning And Spinning.'"

Eric Clapton:
Give Me Strength
Steve Turner, Sounds, 19 February 1977

5) Chirping Crickets. "That was the first album I

ever bought. And it still plays after all these years. I
have records I've had for only six months that don't
play anymore. Chirping Crickets I've had since I
was 16. Buddy Holly's first album. I learned the
whole thing straight away. I couldn't believe it. It
was the first time I'd seen a Stratocaster as well.
He's standing on the cover holding a Stratocaster
and I thought 'What is this space vehicle?'"

Meg and George Patterson's cure for heroin

addiction
WHENEVER SOMEONE starts looking ugly or
playing badly or retreats to the country for endless
months while his career sags like a clothesline word
begins to filter around that heroin, the Big H, the

90

smack that really smacks, has claimed another

victim. Lead guitarists, for some reason, are the
most highly favoured. Johnny Winter and Eric
Clapton have both come out and declared their past
involvement and the success of their cures. Paul
Kossoff died after once kicking it, Tommy Bolin is
the most recent overdose at the time of going to
press, and you can be sure that a high percentage
of the rumours still around today are in fact true.

Chasing The Dragon of addicts smoking and

shooting were actually done in our home.

At one time drug involvement as a badge marking

you out as part of an elite was almost as big a high
as the drug itself but those days seem to be past.
Most people now seem to know, or know of, at least
one person who's been strung out on heroin and
the conclusion is always the same the high at the
beginning just isn't worth the lows that follow. In a
very real way you lay down your life for a short
period of exhileration. The ratio speaks for itself.

The Patterson's major introduction to rock came

one February evening in 1974 when, forty minutes
after he was expected, a rather nervous figure in a
fur coat arrived at their Harley Street doorstep just
as Meg was showing a guest out. He was a patient
come to live with the family for three weeks and use
the Neuro-Electric Therapy cure that she'd been
developing since leaving Hong Kong. He was Eric
Clapton.

Drugs and music have enjoyed a long and close

relationship. It seems that the more a musician
draws from within himself the more likely he is to
look for outside resources to stoke up with. No-one
pulls more from within than guitarists of the calibre
of Clapton. Not surprisingly it has been artists such
as Charlie Parker, Ray Charles, Billie Holliday and
Jimi Hendrix who've been associated with heroin in
the past all of them great donors of their inner
selves. Another good explanation for the popularity
of heroin amongst performers is the fact that many
of them live for the transitory high of performing and
then find the need to sustain it when they're not on
stage.

"I remember the family being quite shocked when I

asked them who Eric Clapton was", Meg recalls
today. "In the beginning I had no interest in, nor
knew anything about the rock music world. But of
course when we had Eric staying and when his
friends like Pete Townshend started coming round I
slowly began to get to know people from the
personal side rather than the musical. Eric would
talk of people and Pete would talk of people and I
began to know who was who.

"We were very close to the drug addict as a person

with problems for a couple of years before this
discovery was made. But the moment it was made
my attention was aroused because I'd considered
that there was no treatment for drug addiction and
so had never offered them any treatment."

"So once it began I was no longer surprised. Once I

knew what a big thing drugs were within the music
field. Of course the other thing has been that
without having a place where I can treat addicts
who can't afford private nursing the only kind of
addicts who've been able to afford treatment have
been those in rock music or the higher circles."

It's been because of this link between drugs and

music that George and Dr Meg Patterson have got
to know so much about rock in their three-year stay
in London. During ten years in Hong Kong they got
to know a lot about drugs through George's work as
a journalist, broadcaster and film-maker; he
became something of an expert on the drug
smuggling route from the notorious Golden Triangle
through to the west and supplied research for the
acclaimed TV documentaries The Opium Trail and
Chasing The Dragon.

Within two months of stepping through Meg

Patterson's door and becoming part of her family
along with George, two teenaged sons and a
teenaged daughter, Eric Clapton was free from his
three year addiction to heroin and working in Miami
on 461 Ocean Boulevard. What better evidence of a
workable cure for heroin addiction did the world
need? The pattern has since been repeated with a
stream of heroin addicts as well as people addicted
to alcohol, nicotine, cocaine, amphetamines and
barbiturates.

They also got to know about them through Meg's

work as a surgeon and the fact that it was a
colleague of hers who one day stumbled across a
cure for heroin addiction that she would herself go
on to develop and gain an international reputation
with. But more of that later. Somehow both George
and Meg were prepared, in Hong Kong for a world
that most middle-aged professional couples never
touch. "We also had many drug addicts passing
through our home", says Meg. "The English
speaking ones used to stop for hours and hours
and some of the filming for The Opium Trail and

But apparently the powers that hand out the grants,

ever sceptical of miracle cures, have not seen fit to
finance Meg's research or the opening of a centre
for cures and rehabilitation. It was never her plan to
help only the rich and famous but because of the
cost of her research and the close personal
attention needed by the addicts she's forced to

91

charge Harley Street prices and engage outside

private nursing (95 per day). "First of all we tried
the government", says Meg, "but it was no-go with
them. They're even closing down existing hospitals.

without any medication either. In fact, it's as soon as

you start sweating or getting cramps that you take
up your battery operated machine and attach to
your ear lobes two clips which extend from it.
Frequencies are adjusted and a quiet tingle settles
in. The cold turkey flees and the craving subsides.

"I wonder how many more will close now that one
unit has spoken out and said that they think they're
achieving nothing by methadone maintenance. We
know that there is money available if you could only
find it. I believe that 3 million was set aside for
alcoholism and, as far as we know, that money
hasn't been touched but we can't find out who the
money's going to be given to, where it is or, what's
going to be done with it."

This is repeated over ten days with the twinges

decreasing until they are no more. The treatment
has been developed out of Chinese electroacupuncture where needles were used in the clips
and it was used to produce anaesthesia. It was only
when experiments were carried out on patients in a
Hong Kong hospital that it was found to have
additional healing properties. Patients addicted to
heroin but hospitalised for other reasons remarked
that the acupuncture took away their craving. It was
at this point of discovery that Meg began devoting
her time to developing it even further.

Thankfully, the rock world has been quick to show

its gratitude for her work and indeed it may be good
old rock and roll that saves her day and prevents
her from having to take up offers from the US.
Already Robert Stigwood has financed two years
research (now ended) and George Harrison and
The Who have made significant donations to the
charity which has been set up. Eric Clapton and
Fleetwood Mac have offered their services for
charity performances and Elton John, Yehudi
Menuhin, Lord Harlech and George Best recently
put their names to letter sent out to all the major
football clubs suggesting auctions of players'
clothes to raise money.

The usual treatment offered to heroin addicts is the

methadone programme. The addict is transferred
onto methadone, a sort of poor man's heroin, and
the dosage is gradually reduced to zero. However,
the success rate is totally unremarkable with 95%
going back to heroin. The units where the addicts
are treated tend to treat them as though they were
physically sick and drugs are easily smuggled in.
The only other method is cold turkey; withdrawal
without medication. Few can withstand this. Few
would actually volunteer to pass through the valley
of the shadow of death.

Right now they have their eyes on a vacated abbey

in North London which is going for 400,000.
They'd like it to become a home where addicts
could be taken in and treated in a non-hospital
atmosphere, "I would like to see it as a community,"
says Meg, "because all drug addicts hate hospital
and I think it's totally the wrong atmosphere for
them to be treated in anyway because addicts are
not sick people apart from those who overdose or
have side effects. If you treat them as sick people it
only makes the coming off their drug much worse to
cope with.

All this just throws more emphasis on the need for

Meg's treatment to get the backing it needs and the
attention of the British medical authorities. Already
Jimmy Carter's campaign organiser has expressed
extreme interest in her work and has passed on a
message of encouragement. Research grants have
been offered from America. But England seems
content to plod on with it's own unsatisfactory
attempts at cures while it's population of addicts
increases.

"The idea is to have an enlarged family or

community and as soon as they arrive to involve
them in the community and at the same time start
their treatment. I eventually want to have a Crisis
Centre where people who are in despair can come
off the street and at least get accommodation and
then look at the possibilities of being treated and
coming off."

HOME LIFE, for George and Meg Patterson, is a

very important matter. There's always an open
house, always enough food to be stretched beyond
normal family limits and always enough time to
break for a chat. George, who's authored nine of his
own books so far, has been spending his time in
London writing up Meg's research, organising the
charity and generally making her work more widely
known. Meg divides her time between developing
her research and taking on a limited number of
private patients.

Being treated. Coming off. The addict's reaction to

these words are fear and longing. Most would like
to be on the other side, no longer dominated by the
drug, but few want to face the intense pain of
withdrawal. This is where Neuro-Electric Therapy
shows it's Ace card because it brings addicts
through the crisis without cold turkey and yet

Despite all their first hand knowledge of the

seediness and destruction associated with drugs
they feel that decriminalisation, both of marijuana

92

and heroin, would be a good thing. This,

incidentally, is the line taken by Dr. Peter Bourne,
the Advisor on Health Affairs to the next President
of the U.S. "I think decriminalisation would take a lot
of the glamour away from marijuana", says Meg.
"You see, it's quite an artificial glamour because it's
the forbidden." But would she take the same
attitude towards heroin which, after all, has more
glamour than any other drug? "It's a very
complicated subject but I think that on the whole
there'd probably be more benefit from legalising it.

residential patient a la Clapton). "I first visited Paul

Kossoff in the Intensive Care Unit of Northwick Park
Hospital", says Meg. "He was unconscious for four
or five days and he had such severe withdrawals
even while he was unconscious that they had to
inject methadone into him. This was very interesting
in light of the fact that some psychiatrists try to
claim that withdrawals are purely psychological,
Paul was still unconscious yet having severe
withdrawals.
"He was such a lovely person out of drugs. Such a
lovely person. I only saw him twice again after that
and both times he was so stoned that he couldn't
really communicate. He would have liked to have
had the treatment at that time but we had no
rehabilitation centre and even with the musicians
having their music to go back to they still need a
period of physical and mental rehabilitation before
they even go back to that because they need to be
strong enough to go back into the scene where
people are throwing drugs at them and say "No
thank you".

"For one thing, if it were leglaised it would take

away the enormous criminal element. It seems that
the only way to take away the criminal element
would be to legalise it and have it sold at controlled
prices.
I wondered whether I'd made her state a position
she hadn't yet properly formulated in her own mind?
"No", she replied. "I think this is something that
needs to be considered because the evil in heroin is
the drug dealers and the vast profits that evil men
make out of it at the expense of addicts.

SO FAR A good number of Meg's patients have

come from the rock fraternity. Not only performers
but management and studio technicians. So far,
much of her finance and encouragement has also
come from the same direction. It's certainly a good
thing for rock to be seen to be taking the initiative in
this necessary human caring. "The doctor, a middleaged Scotswoman, and her husband, a preacher
they really cared," Clapton told Time magazine in
July 1974. "They, as much as anything, brought me
through."

"If, of today, any proven heroin addict could go and

buy it legally, rather than get it free which I think is
extremely wrong, it would mean that all the big men
who were making all the profit could no longer
make any and the associated crime would
disappear. So, it would seem, a balancing of evils is
called for."
A balance of evils. Which is the lesser of the two
evils the criminal racket or the addiction? It's very
difficult to say.

It's a fitting tribute to George and Meg Patterson

and a good recommendation for anyone currently
down and out.

Does Meg feel that record companies and

management have a moral responsibility towards
their artists and should be encouraged to direct
some of their profits towards lessening the drug
problem?

Steve Turner, 1977

Eric Clapton: The Bullring, Ibiza
Mick Farren, NME, 20 August 1977

"They certainly would have better incomes

themselves if drugs were wiped out of the rock
scene. But it's far more than a purely financial thing.
I do feel they have a moral responsibility because
they're all earning such enormous amounts from
rock musicians. They should help to provide
settings where those who've got themselves in a
mess can turn when they're in trouble."

IBIZA IS A VERY LONG way from the high pressure

world of first division rock and roll. From the ancient
Spanish women shrouded in all-concealing black
dresses to the jet-set girls in minimal bikinis and
hand-tooled cowboy boots everyone moves at a
leisurely Mediterranean pace.

Paul Kossoff's death highlights the plight both of

music business addicts, often too busy for lengthy
courses of treatment, and Meg's own situation of
not having the facilities to take people in. (The
landlord no longer allows her even the one

Everywhere you find the manana principle in effect.

That's the principle that says "never do today what
can be done tomorrow". This is probably why
promoter Harvey Goldsmith picked the bullring in

93

Ibiza town as the warm-up concert for Eric

Clapton's European tour.

people thought it was an extra treat laid on by the

promoters. Later, however, I discovered it was Ibiza
town's own tribute, not to Clapton but to their Lady
of Something or the Other. Planned or not, the
fireworks exactly hit the spot. The exotic layout of
the bullring, the warm night, Ronnie Lane and finally
the fireworks (well, maybe the Xerbos, too) all
added up to the ideal setting.

Ibiza provided a low-key, laid-back location for the

trouble-prone guitar god to ease into the rigours of
a full-blown spell on the road. In fact, the whole
affair was so laid-back that even twenty-four hours
before the show, most of the islanders were unsure
if it was really going to happen. The story was
circulating that it all depended on whether the yacht
bearing E.C. and his entourage arrived in time.

I must confess that I was filled with a certain

trepidation when Clapton came on carrying an
acoustic guitar, Over the years, the man has given
me a lot of pleasure. However, without raking over
dead embers, the last few years have turned
Clapton into a less than predictable performer.

The Clapton gig wasn't the first venture that the

citizens of Ibiza had made into the confusion to rock
promotion. On the three preceding days the same
bullring had hosted a ramshackle, disorganised
rock event which rejoiced in the title of "Festival de
Musica Popular de Ibiza".

The band, however (Dick Sims on keyboards,

Jamie Oldaker on drums and Carl Radle on bass),
cook with confidence. They ought to they've
spent the last few months working on Clapton's new
album. The energy the band is putting out seems to
inspire Eric, and he slowly starts to blossom. After
two songs, he lays aside the acoustic and picks up
the more familiar electric axe.

It wasn't exactly a storming success. Ambitious

plans had foundered on bitter infighting between
some Spanish would-be showbiz moguls and the
resident British/American community who wanted to
see a show. The eventual outcome was two sets by
Van Der Graaf Generator, in which their love-it-orleave-it art-rock was pointed up by some fine violin
solos and Peter Hammill's post-Arthur Brown
vocals. Beyond that the musica popular was limited
to muddling through gruesome amateur talent.

The songs are not so familiar. I presume that some

of them must be from the forthcoming album. E.C.
is not strong on introductions in fact, he hardly
talks to the crowd at all. Silent or not, Clapton
gradually comes more and more to the front of the
band. His playing grows stronger and the solos
expand and grow. It starts to sound like the Eric
Clapton we knew and loved.

That was Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.

However, on Friday the pros showed up. Two trucks
full of equipment were parked in-what was normally
the preserve of matadors and bulls. The combined
muscle of the Goldsmith crew and the Stigwood
organisation swarmed across the sand and
transformed it into a real live rock auditorium. When
I arrived, Ronnie Lane's Slim Chance were already
in full flight. Their merry English pub ambience
lacked a little congruity with the blood and sand
images of the Plaza de Toros, but they more than
amply demonstrated that they are some of the most
energetic and funkily proficient musicians still
playing in a support spot.

Suddenly we're into familiar territory. To the delight

of the crowd, the man is actually laying down 'Key
To The Highway' in the manner to which they are all
accustomed. He stretches out into a classic blues
solo and a sense of relief sweeps through the
bullring. Everything's going to be alright. The
familiar songs now come thick and fast, and Slim
Chance's guitar player comes out to join the fun.
There's 'Crossroads' and 'Knocking On Heaven's
Door' but, despite the insistent yelling, no 'Layla'.
Clapton is definitely running his own show, mixing
the old material with the stuff that's being unveiled
for the first time.

Friday also happened to be a fiesta in Ibiza, one of

the innumerable saints' days that crowd the
Spanish calendar. I was standing in the bar drinking
Xerbos, a savage local version of Pernod, and
watching the bartenders, more used to a bullfight
crowd than the mainly English-speaking Clapton
throng. Suddenly there was a murmur from the
crowd, and the bar began quickly emptying.

Then he moves back and gives the focus of the

stage to lead singer Marcy Levy. She belts out a full
throttle version of the Smiley Lewis/Presley hit 'One
Night'. There's so much power in it that it even has
the gilded Ibiza cowboy-boot-and-bikini set in the
backstage enclosure up on their feet and rocking
and Clapton seems a whole lot happier as the
guitar player in the band than the star in the
spotlight. The encore is another storming blues. I
must confess I am so taken up by the excitement

There had hardly been time for E.C. to get on

stage. I went outside to see what was up. In fact,
what was up was a full-scale firework display; the
night sky was a blaze of colour. At first a lot of

94

that I forget to make a mental note of the title. What

I do know is that it is Eric Clapton in his finest form,

were seldom more than half an hour and even

Dylan came on only 45 minutes or so after Joan
Armatrading had departed. The sound system was
excellent apart from some points where the delay
towers caused echo. And perhaps most important
of all, every act on the bill played a good set.

Even one of the Spanish cops standing right by me

has broken his rigid pose. He takes off his hat,
mops his brow, eases the gun on his hip and starts
to surreptitiously tap his foot. This, in Spain, where
the shadow of the Generalissimo has far from
faded, is something of an achievement for rock and
roll.

The interminable delays for buses to the site from

Fleet Station, the rip-off 50p parking fee for dear old
NCP on top of the ticket price, all the minor hassles,
were outweighed by the quality of the music on
offer. After all, even the police were cool, restricting
most of their, muscle for ticket forgers and generally
leaving those intent on self-abuse/enlightenment to
get on with it.

Mick Farren, 1977

Blackbushe Festival - Nice To See Ya, Bob
Phil Sutcliffe, Sounds, 22 July 1978

Backstage it was one of the most sumptuous

liggers' playgrounds yet constructed outdoors. A
series of record company tents provided almost
limitless food and drink for those with the aplomb to
collect the various badges, stickers and cards that
were needed to gain admission. The Saturday Night
Fever Tax Loss Award was won by RSO , who
managed to hang chandeliers inside their marquee.
The Egalitarian/Let's Make This The Big One For
Joan Armatrading Award went to A&M who
eschewed a tent in favour of trestle tables that didn't
require 27 separate passes to approach.

...OR RATHER, IT would have been, but at least

we heard him and that made the hassles
worthwhile, reports our survivor of the million
dollar (and then some) bash at Blackbushe.
In a miserable summer, the weather held good for
the second open air mega-binge to be staged this
year. Some 80,000 'pop fans' (who does the
Sunday Times think its insulting?) had already
decided to risk buying a ticket in advanced to the
opening of a new rock hypermarket at Blackbushe
Aerodrome on the Surrey/Hampshire border and
the unexpected arrival of the sun lured untold
thousands more out of their laundromats to see Bob
Dylan's Thank-You' British concert.

Unfortunately, anyone attending the concert with an

official function to perform who wasn't directly
employed by Harvey Goldsmith faced something of
a lean time. Photographers were harassed to the
point of extinction whether they had official passes
or not. In fact a photographer's pass didn't actually
permit you to photograph the stage at all. Despite
the fact that dozens of these passes were handed
out by press officer Alan Burry, no-one was allowed
access to any vantage point that might enable them
to take a worthwhile photograph (with the exception
of Harvey's own man of course).

Maybe it was the site flat, and uncomfortable,

especially if you happened to be sitting on the
runway but the Great British 'festival' spirit never
seemed to permeate the multitude. The atmosphere
remained restrained, even among the most
committed punters who occupied the first 100 yards
or so in front of the stage. Further out to the fringes
an air of bemused detachment pervaded. You had
to be a good deal closer to the stage than in the
natural 'bowl' at Knebworth to feel involved.

They, and any journalist reviewing the event, were

restricted to the Press area which permitted a view
of approximately one thirtieth of the stage (give or
take a thirtieth). Only those performers venturing
forward to within imminent danger of toppling off the
edge were visible their backing bands were never
seen. Perhaps the best evidence of these privations
came when the corrugated iron protecting the
'privileged few' in the liggers' area was broken down
by the seething populace outside but as soon as
the inrushing hordes saw that their view was
actually worse than before they turned and fled
back, one of them even helping the security guards
to replace the barrier.

Disconsolate at not being able to see the bands,

many people opted for treating the whole affair like
an open-air hi-fi demonstration squatting in
clusters, paying as much attention to the music as
they might to their own records at home. Or they
found their own distractions in the form of drink,
dope and each others' bodies. They certainly
weren't a contemporary festival crowd, and for
some the realities didn't match up to memories of
the way we were (or thought we were).
In many ways the site let down the music, which
deserved a better response. For a start the show
ran pretty much to time. The gaps between acts

The fact that these difficulties, and your Sounds

persona being non grata (obscure politics we won't

95

trouble you with), could be shrugged off in the petty

spirit in which they were presumably intended is
due entirely to Robert Allan Zimmerman who
performed a lengthy and magnificent set which
provided adequate compensation for all those who
missed him at Earls Court and a few extra goodies
for the people who caught him twice. The changes
made to his set during his European travels have
added further dimensions to his performance in
particular the addition of 'Gates of Eden', played
solo with a harmonica slung round his neck, gave
an intriguing flashback to the early 60's Dylan,
outweighing the loss of "Love Minus Zero/No Limit'.

'That's how we like it... TO BE' they sang whacking

into the delayed-action high harmony like Yes in
their early days. Another Starcastle? No. Their next,
'Lost By The Wayside', was much more Steely
Dan/Eagles smooth Americanism. That was the
extent of their surprises and diversification though
they did have a puzzle to pose. The word was that
they were German. Then the singer made an
announcement and Hugh said ''They're Irish!" and I
said "They're Scottish" but further enquiries
revealed that they are in truth two-thirds Krautrockers augmented by Britishers James Hopkins
Harrison (vocals) and Geoffrey Peacy (organ etc).
In fact this duo supplied most of Lake's limited
quota of rock 'n' roll grit but, competent as they
were, there was no way round -the feeling that they
were misplaced on such a powerfully creative bill as
this.

If he couldn't produce the same electric atmosphere

at Blackbushe that he did at Earls Court, he didn't
disappoint anyone who could get close enough to
feel enveloped in the sound. In return he seemed
genuinely grateful for the response (not to mention
the fee) and told us he'd be back before long. With
the evident enjoyment he's getting from playing at
the moment that may not be too far away.

The crowd tolerated rather than welcomed them.

Mostly they were all right but if you remind me of
their attempt at a Beatles melody I shall be forced
to sully this page with vile epithets.

Merger, his last-minute addition to the line-up,

opened the concert while the Sounds undercover
reviewing squad were tramping through the woods
close to the Fleet service station where they'd
abandoned their motor for fear of becoming
involved in severe auto- carnage leaving the site.

GRAHAM PARKER
At times you might have suspected you were in a
monastery. Tonsures everywhere. Well no, bald
patches was the truth. Incipient middle-age, the wife
and kids. The grandchild generation not on view as
yet however. This was only in certain geriatric
pockets though. For the rest the blue-denim sea
was mid-teens upwards.

While Merger provided an excellent sound beacon

for your reporters to hack their way through the
underground towards the aerodrome, the full flavour
of the reggae rhythms got lost across the three-mile
gap. Mindful that other publications might well
designate Merger the Real Cultural Event Of The
Day your team were embarrassed that they could
not see the band's hour of triumph in front of their
biggest ever audience. Little did they know...

They behaved equably apart from some can

throwing by the sat-down at the stood-up set. Were
they happy and enjoying it? Movement was next to
impossible __ a pee in the portabogs a half-hour
trip.
Some people had the technique though. Instead of
inching they charged. The rest of us stepped aside
politely for them. By the look in their eyes they were
either drunk, crazy or budding executives.

LAKE
"If you go right up to-the wire fence at the end you
can just see the drummer's hands," said Joan
Armatrading.

If Lake were not perhaps the most suitable act to

have on the Picnic menu they'd probably have
scored better at Knebworth Graham Parker And
The Rumour most emphatically were. They ladled
out a solid dollop of rock and soul that simmered in
the afternoon sunshine and deserved a better
reaction than the sluggish audience was prepared
to offer until near the end of the set.

Speeding into the Press/liggers' enclosure as Lake

struck their first chords I bumped into her and she
apologised for the place, though it wasn't exactly
her fault. This proved optimistic. Actually I could just
see the singer's beard and rather prominent
abdomen. Joan was fretting about her chances of
seeing Dylan. She reckoned she might take a
chance 'outside' after dark. In her black shirt and
black trousers who would notice her? I didn't see
her again so I don't know what became of her plan
but by then Lake had moved on to a song called
'Welcome To The West'.

For Parker this was virtually a home-town gig he

comes from Deep Cut near Camberley and he
pushed his work rate up even higher than usual to
bridge the gap between the shadow-covered stage
and the basking crowd.

96

Lyrically, it can be extremely difficult to project to

huge audiences such as this but Parker's defiant
delivery cut through the somnolent atmosphere to
give numbers like 'Love Gets You Twisted' and
'Don't Ask Me Questions' the kind of impact that's
normally restricted to clubs and the like. (I was
pushing through the crowd while Parker was on,
failing to find a vantage point, and still the lyrics of
his newer songs got through the distractions with a
succession of what you might call tough puns that I
really liked 'Love makes you twisted/screw
yourself up', 'I pretend to touch/You pretend lo feel'
and 'We're just a joke they sometimes crack Phil).

Not exactly what you might call ideal reviewing

conditions but the lack of any visual aid at least
increased the concentration on the sound to
compensate. And Clapton sounded good! Vocally
he seemed relaxed and more confident and
instrumentally he exercised a control over his band
that I haven't heard before and displayed a
refreshing appetite that meant that George Terry
was relegated to a strictly supporting role except for
the occasional solo. Tough on Terry it may be but
it's definitely encouraging for Clapton.

The Rumour dug in quickly with 'Stick To Me',

'Thunder And Rain' and 'Fools Gold' with an ease
that belied their lack of recent match practice
although they'd warmed up at the Manchester Rock
Against Racism Carnival a couple of days earlier
and then started slipping in a selection of new
songs to dispel any notions that we were in for a
Parkerilla replay.

We got four songs from Slowhand, opening up with

'The Core' which put the band into immediate focus
as they growled around the central riff before Levy
and Clapton began chewing the vocal cud between
them. All the makings of a fine set were in evidence
by the time they hit the chorus line and the solo
passage confirmed the promise. Clapton's guitar,
resonant with occasional twangy edges, contrasted
well with Terry's milder tone and they worked the
same trick again on 'Lay Down Sally' which rolled
along with a positively lascivious gait to judge from
the energetic gyrations of two liggerettes in front of
me. By the time they got to 'Cocaine' the band were
in prime condition with Jamie Oldaker's drumming
filling every corner of the song. Even 'Wonderful
Tonight' where the sentiments sweet and tender
were altogether different, had a sure poised
presentation.

He leant more heavily on his last album,

Of these, 'Passion Is No Ordinary Word' came over

as a rhythmic ballad in the 'Watch The Moon Corner
Down' mould but far superior. The firmer-paced
'Waiting For The UFOs' had Parker exploring an
unusual (for him) lyrical direction and towards the
end they threw in a rousing little ditty called 'l've Got
Mercury Poisoning' which to judge from the words
was a 'dedication' to their record company.
They misjudged only one song, 'Heat In Harlem'
where the lengthy slow passage was allowed to
drag on beyond its usefulness. It could have been
saved by returning to the original tempo but they
chose to put it out of its misery instead. It made the
next song, 'Tear Your Playhouse Down', harder
work than it need have been but they restored the
earlier vigour on 'Don't Ask Me Questions' and left
an almost visible buzz in the air with the rollicking
'Soul Shoes', probably leaving a few people wishing
they'd got off their butts a little earlier.

If only Clapton had treated earlier albums like No

Reason To Cry, There's One In Every Crowd and
even 461 Ocean Boulevard with the same
determination. He's always given them short shrift,
even when they were his latest album. And at
Blackbushe he gave us nothing from any or them. If
he chose, Clapton could deliver one hell of a set
drawn entirely from post Derek And The Dominos
material, with perhaps a couple of favourites to top
it off.

ERIC CLAPTON
Presumably Eric Clapton had his reasons for
coming out at teatime before Joan Armatrading
instead of playing the pre-Dylan spot. To catch the
crowd before their limbs started stiffening maybe?
Certainly he reaped the benefit of the audience's
growing enthusiasm and sounded fresher and
perkier than I've seen him in a long time.

Mind you, he's not so far off that now in many ways.
There were fewer 'Clapton standards' than usual
and some of those were blues songs which are
exempt from the observation above. Mainly
because Clapton's blues playing is a timeless
reminder of his greatest strength. 'Worried Life
Blues' (which included some fine piano playing from
Dick Sims) and 'Key To The Highway' both brought
forgotten emotions scuttling forward to jostle the
senses.

He may well have looked it too, except that he and

his band remained quite invisible from the 'viewing
area' throughout, apart from an occasional glimpse
of the tambourine waved by an elegant female hand
that presumably belonged to Marcy Levy.

Marcy Levy has also blossomed forth since Yvonne

Elliman's departure. Her two solo efforts the
abrasive 'Fools Paradise' and the swinging 'Nobody
Loves You When You're Down And Out' allowed

97

her vocal talents full rein and her harmonica playing

(at least, I assume it was her) on 'Knocking On
Heaven's Door' which Clapton dedicated to 'the star
of the show' played a vital part in establishing the
the song's lilting character. Not surprisingly, 'Badge'
hotted up the audience's mounting enthusiasm
which had taken wing with 'Cocaine' and 'Layla'
(which coincided with a particularly unpleasant
piece of heaviness from the generally restrained
and friendly security staff) was greeted with the
customary sea of raised hands. It deserved it too,
and Clapton was awarded the first encore of the
day, a sprightly version of 'Bottle Of Red Wine'.

corner, waving, swaying her hips, smiling in

enjoyment of her band.

There's more-to come from Clapton this autumn. I

think I'm gretting the fidgets already.

But in part it's the risk factor in her free flow of

inspiration. Contrary to the suggestion that she is a
stiff stage performer she actually never does a
number the same way twice. Her songs veer from
passages as soft as a zephyr with barely a pulsebeat to driving choruses which she loves to work in
new directions, soaring and diving to defy the
imagination (sometimes even her own I mean).

My overall experience of this day was niggles,

irritations, hassles man. Joan Armatrading gave it
warmth and heart, a glow in the chest and a tingle
at the top of the spine, all those enigmatic little
tricks your nervous system plays to tell your intellect
that you are being touched and moved in ways that
pass your own understanding. In fact she wasn't
'perfect' or even 'better than ever'. She slipped offpitch more than once and probably not because of
the monitors (no-one else had any trouble).

JOAN ARMATRADING
So Clapton dared to play the blues. Still. He was
great.
Next on display in the rock hypermarket: Joan
Armatrading. Who will buy?

'I said I'm strong/Straight/Willing/To be a/Shelter/In

a storm'. She told the crowd that 'Willow' could be
an anthem. Strength through delicacy is a strange
idea but she showed us how it may be so. 'Cool
Blue Stole My Heart' was the romantic beauty of the
afternoon, the one from 'Back To The Night' she will
always play." 'Steppin' Out', retained as her solo
spot, added further dimensions of attack to her
guitar work, wonderfully energised and tensile.
Then she said "Here's the song you've been waiting
for all day" introducing 'Love And Affection', a
startling, likeable trace of arrogance. She closed
with 'Get In The Sun' and 'Mamma Mercy' to match
the steamy afternoon and the huge hydrogen
balloons jostling jokily in the breeze above the
stage. An encore was demanded but refused for
reasons unannounced (possibly to do with getting
Dylan's 12-piece on stage).

'But oh when you fall / Oh when you fall / Fall at my

door'. She began with 'Down To Zero'. Down to zero
with a word. That's what she sings. And how can 'A
word' get across to 100,000 people at the same
time? Intimacy and a mass audience surely are
mutually exclusive.
The gentlest of tinkerbelling electric pianos led into
'Help Yourself' and she murmured the first verse
just about as quietly as a murmer could be
murmured through Edwin Shirley's zillion-watt PA. 'If
you're gonna do it/Do it right'. Exactly. She wasn't
going to make any stylistic concessions to the
vastness of it all.
Right beside me a guy was hammering nails into
corrugated iron to strengthen the barrier against the
hordes encroaching on the liggers' defences but
what I heard was Joan floating on her upper
register like a clean stream: 'Show some emotion/
Put expression in your eyes'. She had proved
herself already. Singing for a mass she knew how to
sing to the people.

No 'Flight Of The Wild Geese' which may have

been a tacit comment by Ms Armatrading on that
unsatisfactory movie-theme job. No new material at
all though Parker proved the chance could be taken
with this aimiable/passive crowd. But a hot, strong,
satisfying set. Her latest line-up with Steve Bentley
(bass), Matt Betten (drums) and Bill Ham (guitar)
joining Young and Quitman Dennis from the '77
model is quieter and a hint more dedicated to
backing rather than making individual impressions.
They could be her best accompanists since The
Movies. As I turned away from the stage everyone
around me seemed to be grinning. We were happy.
Pardon us.

Should you be aware of my track record as

Armatrading fan you will appreciate that by now I
was grinning like a cream-filled cat and not in a
condition of abrasive objectivity. Her physical
presence was giving me almost as much pleasure
as her music (yeah, even from behind our chickenwire). Her body talk suggested she played
aerodromes every day. As Red Young took a
sparkling piano break she strolled stage left and
leant against the PA stack as if it was a street

BOB DYLAN
Like moths to a flame they came from as far away

98

as Camberley and Basingstoke: Bianca Jagger,

Ringo Starr, Wilko Johnson, Mick Jones, Billy
Connolly, Brian Lane (Yes manager), John Ameson
(Penetration manager), Jenny Agutter, John Cooper
Clarke, Barbara Dickson, Bob Harris,
RoryGallagher, Terry Wilson Slessor, Jeff Bannister,
Denny Laine and a Dulux dog that could have been
Paul McCartney's Martha though she refused to
comment.

it's quite a discovery after all these years: he makes

sense!

Bianca graced all the back-stage hospitality tents

with her presence. Our fashion correspondent
writes that she was wearing clothes with a matching
body. Ringo, grey and worried-looking, complained
that he couldn't see the stage from the liggers'
enclosure and was plonked (that is, placed) on a
chair in the open stage front area for Clapton 's set.

'Shelter From The Storm': I offered up my

innocence and I get repaid with scorn'. His new
band and his new arrangements are chopping the
songs up into edible bites, jerky chunks of stiff riffs,
segments of word and sound like a long but well
punctuated sentence. Coherence is the key. Sound
sense.

Billy Connolly said "Hi!'and gripped a Sounds man

firmly by the urinal. By the arm, by the urinal. They
had never set eyes on each other before but the Big
Yin was obviously playing safe. John Cooper
Clarke's record company had slapped 'Hippie's
Graveyard' stickers on all the 'Dylan Concert' road
signs but the laureate elect was there, browning it
out.

He puts aside his guitar, holds the mike to still his

hands because he's never had much practice at just
standing there singing, finds that tipping his hat like
Oliver Hardy is some- thing else he can do. Alan
Pasqua at the piano is shaking tail for his leader,
curtain of long hair swinging, swaying through 'It's
All Over Now Baby Blue'. With the almost
nonchalance of an almost-classy conjurer Dylan
produces his harp from the palm of his hand and
blasts his first raucous solo for which a mighty
whoop rises from the crowd (because it hasn't all
changed?). 'Girl From The North Country' touches
me more than ever before. A hopeless love and
tenderness. The guy who can't think of a message
for the woman he's lost and wonders about whether
she's got a coat to keep her from the howlin' wind.

He mutters "Thank you, we're starting to get going"

or something like and around me people ask each
other urgently "What'd he say?" because they can't
make out that Brando drawl and they want to
because anything this man says might be, you
know... IT.

Wrong-end-of-the-telescope figure walking through

the last bars of his band's testing-testing workout of
'My Back Pages' into the spotlight. A slow roar from
the far-flung crowd. He steps into the square foot of
stage I can see, which is a relief. That is, I can see
his top half at least. Black leather-jacket, black top
hat, and... is that shades or black eye make-up?
Shades. I'm not close enough to see his face as I
could at Earl's Court, and I'm going to miss that
contact, that closeness which focusses the misty
myth (to hell with the divinity crap and listen to the
man).

The liggers are starting to wilt, skulk back to the

Moet Et Chandon champagne tent and the major
business of their visit being seen and getting
bombed. They miss scalding versions of 'Maggie's
Farm' and 'Like A Rolling Stone'. I had always
curled my lip at these songs becuse these were at
the centre of his transition from protester to rocker
which I took a while to accept. But these '78
treatments I can't resist. Everybody is bellowing
choruses, moaning with pleasure, bopping into
each other in the gloom.

Though maybe that whine of a voice will be

immortal. 'Baby stop crying/it's tearing me apart'. Of
course, what he used to write was far more
elaborate in its imagery. These words could as
easily be hack Tin-Pan-Alley. So everything rests on
the performance. And Dylan has the indivisible
quality, of saying it and meaning it and being able to
project it no matter what the setting.

The band, which is generally no better than

workaday, gets inspired. Pounding brick on brick of
thick music. Sod me! Completely different from the
best songs earlier in the set because these words
could just as well be gibberish. The girl singers are
hollering as if they are naked (I can't see' them but
their voices are stripped bare).

The distant dwarf leans intently into the mike and

'Baby Stop Crying' emerges from the stacks as a
giant a hundred feet high and almost crying with
passion a great span of emotion behind the
quarrelsome words from anger at the womanly wall
of grief to guilt at having been the cause of it. The
ground is familiar to everyone, the aural
cinemascope experience of it something quite new,
so big yet so clear. More than he has ever done on
record Dylan live delivers his meaning. Sometimes

This is an obvious crescendo. And Dylan is

precisely a third of the way through his set. No
interval here as there was at Earl's Court so instead

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he seems to deliberately slacken pace and tension.

A couple-more from 'Street Legal' then a slightly
bizarre section in which the backing singers and the
Alpha Band each do a song of their own choice.
Only Carolyn Dennis's black old blues 'A Change Is
Gonna Come' works at all. When Jo Ann Harris
warbles through 'The Long And Winding Road'
disbelief and dismay contest supremacy on the
faces near me and Steven Soles of the Alphas is
appalling, singing 'What would we do if nobody's
dreams came true?' then advising us with extreme
unction 'Think about it'. Dylan introduced him as 'a
genius' which I take to be an atypically loose use of
language.

'All Along The Watchtower'. 'It's All Right Ma':

roaring rock 'Even the President of the United
States must sometimes have to stand naked'. He
finishes the set with 'Forever Young'. Cynicism a
burnt-out shell, this is his purest song perhaps,
fusing his own innocence (it does survive, another
reason we trust him) with the audience's. Hope, if
not faith. My girlfriend says 'it's a hymn." Wood for
the fire. He encores with 'Changing Of The Guards'
then "The Times They Are A-Changin'. Hope, if not
faith. Dylan says "Thankyou" and time and again "I
wanna come back to see you real soon."
I've loved Bob Dylan for half my 31 years. Seeing
him at last this summer has only deepened that
feeling and strengthened it with respect for his care,
energy and boundless imagination. He is the only
rock artist I know of who could do a live album
every year and each one be an original gem. For
confirmation have another listen to 'Lay Lady Lay'
on Nashville Skyline, Before The Flood and Hard
Rain. That's the sort of radical approach he brought
to bear throughout the Blackbushe epic. Physical
discomfort and isolation from the stage made it a
less magical occasion than Earl's Court.
Nevertheless it was richly satisfying.

But it's all right. A blue spotlight picks out Dylan

alone, strumming an acoustic (which we thought we
would never see again) and he sings 'The Gates Of
Eden'. The details don't reach me though I used to
know them by heart. Just the cool blue
concentration spreads.
'True Love Tends To Forget'. Another new love
song. I haven't got the flavour of it yet. It's probably
quite mediocre. But it occurs to me that, whatever
else, he is never sentimental and that's one reason
why we still trust him (despite wealth, fame and star
paranoia).

Despite the high finance and heavy-duty wheelerdealing surrounding him he stays straight. Show biz
only takes. Dylan gave us everything he'd got.

'Blowin' In The Wind' has taken on a quiet, musing

tone, the questions asked rather than spat out as
militant rhetoric. 'I Want You' is slowed almost to a
full stop and the imagery remains opaque even
though every detail is now audible. What it does is
pitch you back relieved on to the totally
understandable chorus 'I want you so bad' and that
is moving enough though the thought seems a bit
pretentious on writing it down.

Phil Sutcliffe, 1978

Clapton: Driving Sideways Again
Steve Turner, Melody Maker, 8 October 1979
DEAR Eric, On Sunday I came up to Staffordshire
to see your warm-up concert with the new band.
When you came out dressed in that dark suit with
the white shirt and tie and with your hair all cut short
and combed back, clean shaven again, it took me
back to that picture of you with the Roosters in
1963.

For the last hour I'm conscious that the end must be
close and I'm a cup running over but wanting more.
'Masters Of War' is menacing, stunning, sung over
arock-solid riff culled from 'Louie, Louie'. 'Just Like A
Woman' simplified, calm and friendly. 'Ramona'
magnificent,' an eternal song swirling out of the
ether with the crisp instrumental phrasing
delineating new moods and meanings, my favourite
love song, it's lovely ('Your cracked country lips I
still long to kiss as to be by the tuch of your skin!).

I supposed, in a way, you've always strived to get

back to those old days when you were just a
member of a band, a "labourer musician" as you
once put it to me, and I sense that with Albert Lee
on guitar, Dave Markee on bass, Chris Stainton on
keyboards and Henry Spinetti on drums you're on
your way to recapturing that feel. Your first British
band since Blind Faith!

'Don't Think Twice' a vicious cynical joke against

white men singing the reggaes, a vicious bitch
about women, avicious selfparody and throwback to
the desperate mood of the Hard Rain album. Yeah
Dylan is still shocking, over-the-top, chilling. Still. I
keep saying 'still'. But who am I reassuring? Did
anyone who matters ever doubt him?

But I have to say that I believe you've been blessed

in such a way that you'll never be a simple band
member, even though that's where your heart is.
Your gift is too great. You tried being a guitarist for

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Delaney and Bonnie, and then you tried to hide in

Derek and the Dominoes, but it's always you that
they came to see, and always your spirit that lifted
things above the ordinary.

If audience reaction affects your choice of songs,

this will be where you'll major. Still, I know your
feelings about living up to expectations!
Personally, I'd like to see you pushing out a bit more
musically. When you were a young man you never
seemed content to rest with the same hairstyle,
band or music for more than a year or so but
since 1974 your music hasn't changed a lot. Now
that you've changed the barnet and the band, isn't it
time to take a few more risks with the music?

One of the feelings I had on Sunday was that again

you were trying to submerge yourself in "the band",
but when you were most successful at this your
music was least successful. The last time I saw you
play was at Crystal Palace in 1976, and you got
Larry Coryell to step forward and cut loose. The
crowd went crazy because that's what they'd
wanted to see you do. On Sunday you did a similar
thing with Albert Lee, and his 'I'm Just A Country
Boy' likewise went down a storm.

The excitement of your own music has always had

a lot to do with the excitement of risk-taking and
while I'm very glad that certain elements of risk
have gone from your life, I don't want to see you
settled behind that guitar.

Your respect for your fellow musicians is always

good to see, but there are times when it seems to
have the effect of subtracting from your self-respect,
and the result of this is a rather subdued Eric.

Steve Turner, 1979

Anyway, this concert was a low-key try-out for a tour

of the world, which is starting this week and ending
in April of next year. Your intention wasn't to place
yourself under critical gaze or even to give the
punters what they wanted.

Eric Clapton: Timepieces

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 29 May 1982

I must say that I was surprised at the lack of new

material, but then maybe that's my fault for
assuming that "new band" meant "new sound" and
"new songs." Basically what you gave us was the
same as the last band did old favourites plus a
selection from the most recent albums, not
forgetting your hits, of course. So I should say that
my biggest surprise of the concert was that there
was no surprise.

IN A SENSE, it doesn't really matter whether one

thinks of Eric Clapton as the man whose pioneering
plagiarism helped black artists ranging from B.B.
King to Bob Marley to take their earliest steps
towards the lucrative white rock audience, or as the
drunken shithead whose disgusting onstage
outburst at a Birmingham gig several years ago
provided the impetus that ended up creating Rock
Against Racism.

You were at your best towards the end of the show

with 'Key To The Highway', 'Cocaine', 'Further On
Up The Road' and your encore of 'Blues Power'.
The things about you, Eric, is that you always play
well. There's never much doubt about your talent.
Your sin is not to let go, not to play as though you
were Eric Clapton, not to exploit your emotions
enough, and there were times on Sunday when you
were guilty.

As far as this anthology is concerned, Clapton

appears in his '70s guise: that of a mild-mannered
crooner whose work draws on the most easily
assimilable aspects of reggae, country music and
downhome r&b. Apart from 'Layla' admittedly an
epochal recording, but one which has been
anthologised and reissued so endlessly that it is
hard to believe that anybody who wants it hasn't
already got it the album's best moments are the
covers of numbers from the repertoires of Bob
Dylan, Bob Marley, J.J. Cale and Johnny Otis, and
even those seem little more than adequate.

I think that's why there were kids shouting "Liven it

up, Eric" and "We want to rock", because some of
the numbers just don't make use of your talent.
'Watch Out For Lucy', for instance, is neither here
nor there and what's that new song, the one you
announced as being "about a load of rubbish" with
"Tra la la la la" lyric? These songs don't use you or
your band. You should give them to someone else.

It seems unlikely that Clapton could have launched

a significant career of this stuff without the
considerable backlog of goodwill that he had
created in the '60s during his 'guitar hero' period.
After all, what is he now but J.J. Cale without the wit
or Ry Cooder without the guts or the curiosity?
Timepieces is simple proof that, these days, a
stopped clock can't even guarantee to be right twice
a day.

You were all at your best when you were hitting the
blues, lifting the volume up a bit and launching out.

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 Charles Shaar Murray, 1982

But it was, perhaps surprisingly the old favourites

which revitalised Clapton most: a rousing 'Layla',
and a positively tumultuous 'Badge', which started
as a deceptively lazy shuffle and ended in a
frenzied climax, Clapton wreathed in smiles, lights
flashing, in the faces of the audience. A most unEric like thing to do.

Eric Clapton: Live At Wembley

Mick Brown, The Guardian, 1984
ONE HAS ALWAYS suspected that Eric Clapton's
worst enemy was his own reputation. Few people
live with much less live up to the absurdly
obsequious hyperbole of his 'guitar hero' days and
Clapton soon gave up the ghost, becoming an
honorary Okie, and retreating to the relaxed and
undemanding pastures of Southern countrified
shuffle. Alas, Clapton confused relaxation with
lethargy, and has never fully recovered. An
oppressive torpor has overshadowed his work since
the early Seventies as he lost the capacity not only
to surprise his audience but, worse, himself.

Mick Brown, 1984

Can Blue Boys Play The Whites Revisited?
Don Snowden, Boston Phoenix, 19 March 1985
ANYONE WHO TAKES the crapped-out lethargy of
his recent output as proof positive that Eric Clapton
never played a worth while lick in his life is hereby
directed to side 1, track 3 of White Boy Blues
(Compleat). Choker is 81 seconds of pure
guitarzan brilliance. Jimmy Page lays down a
piledriver rhythm riff, the indomitable Wyman-Watts
tandem keeps up the pace and Clapton just blazes
through a series of savagely fluid runs that stand as
a microcosmic encyclopedia of Anglo blues lead
guitar.

There were at least gratifying signs in this

performance that if Clapton is not exactly ready to
broach new ground, he is rediscovering long-absent
vitality and enthusiasm in his appraisal of his
established canon.
On the surface, this appeared strictly a period
piece. A four-piece group of old redoubtables; two
girl-singers who might have escaped from the Mad
Dogs tour (rave on, Leon, Delaney and Bonnie) and
a suntanned Clapton in chinos and tennis shoes, as
diffident and unassuming as ever.

Clapton follows with another barnburner on John

Mayall's I'm Your Witchdoctor but the real story of
White Boy Blues lies in the loose, offhand
performances of musicians playing for their own
sake more than posterity. Culled from three
mid-'60s Immediate LPs, this largely instrumental
double album chronicles Brit blues from its purist
beginnings (Cyril Davies & the Allstars) to its
ultimate bastardization in the 12-bar rifferama that
presaged heavy metal (Santa Barbara Machine
Head, featuring Jon Lord and Ron Wood).

At best, the group offered Clapton solid

reassurance and support, if seldom any provocation
or challenge. At worst, they sounded as pedestrian
as any group he has played with, a repository of the
laziest mannerisms and clichs of 'white blues'. This
was nowhere more apparent than during the
obligatory 'blues jam' which threatened to ground
the performance entirely midway through.

Most of the participants here obviously were in the

process of becoming rock icons by playing some
variation of this music but the catch-as-catch-can
atmosphere provides an ever-present opportunity
for studio pratfalls by the celebrated and soon-tobe-famous alike. Mick Jagger's ill-advised
harmonica sortie triggers a chaotic climax to West
Coast Idea while an apparently confused Page
literally comps about three times before taking a
tentative, jazzy solo near the end of Boots.

Clapton's technique as a guitarist is unquestioned,

but he has never struck me as a particularly feeling
player; he invited admiration, rather than emotional
involvement, and on 'Have You Ever Loved A
Woman', 'Eric' appeared to be synonym for a
dutiful, plodding proficiency, conjugated by the
entire band with the enthusiasm of a Latin verb as
in: 'I Eric; he Erics; we all Eric'.

Not that the presence of big names in a relaxed

setting guarantees great music or a fully satisfying
package. Two or three cuts of Clapton and Page
working duet and small band permutations on
classic blues themes might make for a nice change
of pace but tossing seven into the first nine tracks is
just plain tiresome. The All-Stars tracks featuring
Jeff Beck and Page are more jamming showcases
for Davies' backing band (especially Nicky Hopkins

Much more enjoyable and clearly relished more

by Clapton himself were those moments when the
band stepped up two gears. 'Tulsa Time' issued a
challenge to Z.Z. Top for concise boogie, and a new
song, 'Tangled In Love', sounds like the most
overtly commercial piece Clapton has tried in years:
a strong melody, and a driving arrangement a
dance song, yet.

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on keyboards) than buried treasures revealing

guitar gods at play. White Boy Blues is hardly earthshattering but I've always felt partial to this kind of
casual music played for love and the hell of it--it just
cuts closer to the heart of the rock 'n' roll beast than
sanitized studio perfectionism.

mid-'80s listeners a sample of mid-'60s perspective

and context. If the Butterfield Band can nail us to
the wall 20 years after the fact, imagine the boltfrom-the-blue jolt it must have given folkies then
and the magnitude of the betrayal purists felt when
Dylan chose these wild men as the instrument of
his first electric heresy.

Clapton also pops up in Powerhouse, the lone

British representative on Crossroads: White Blues
of the '60s, a classily packaged three-LP
retrospective of blues-oriented Elektra artists.
Limiting the choices to one label roster inevitably
places severe limitations on compiler Lenny Kaye-sorry, the Lovin' Spoonful just does not spring to
mind as a representative white blues band of the
'60s--but Crossroads ultimately proves its worth in a
peculiarly roundabout way.

Don Snowden, 1985

Eric Clapton: Behind The Sun
Deborah Frost, Rolling Stone, 11 April 1985
Nobody ever said it was easy being God. Nobody
ever said it was a gig Eric Clapton even asked for.
The man has spent most of his career trying to
deny both the implications of the graffiti first
splattered all over London almost two decades ago
and the magnitude of his gifts. With each
post-'Layla' effort, his message became clearer: I'm
only human; allow me to fail.

Divorced from the era in which they were recorded,

most of these performances come across as white
boys lovingly but self-consciously copying
traditional styles without really fashioning them into
a new creative hybrid of their own. Okay, Koerner,
Ray and Glover may have played a vital role in
introducing folkies to country blues forms back then
but you're more likely to learn that by reading
Kaye's meticulously researched essay than
listening to their selections here.

After his well-publicized bouts with drugs and a

string of lackluster records, Clapton sounded as if
he had finally gained control of his life and his
music on his last studio album, 1983's Money and
Cigarettes. Unfortunately, since that record lacked a
solid single and was terribly untrendy, it was not a
major success.

The first two records are valuable chiefly for historic

curios--Dylan playing a weird-sounding barrelhouse
piano on Geoff Muldaur's Downtown Blues, Al
Kooper deep in a Ramsey Lewis bag for his first
crack at I Can't Keep From Crying Sometimes. The
three Powerhouse tracks are under-rehearsed and
most notable for Clapton's star-studded supporting
cast--Winwood, Bruce, et al--and a nascent runthrough of his Cream-era showcase Crossroads.

Perhaps that explains why and how Clapton was

persuaded to participate in the slick but inconsistent
Behind the Sun, instead of the great comeback he
seemed so ready to record. The good news is
Clapton's singing. Even on the perfunctory cover of
'Knock on Wood' (a classic song, but he should
have saved it for a concert encore and let it appear
on the obligatory live album), his voice has a rich
new depth, like whiskey aged to perfection. But
neither Phil Collins, who produced most of the
album, nor Warner Bros. honchos Ted Templeman
and Lenny Waronker, who tried to rescue it with
three formula "hits," ever push Clapton to pull one
truly memorable moment out of his big old bag of
guitar tricks. Perhaps Collins, who is, by any
account, a fine singer, an excellent drummer and an
inventive producer, was either too awed by
Clapton's stature to make any changes in his songs
or had used up all of his best ideas on his many
other projects. Maybe he just didn't have time to
finish the job properly. Only on 'She's Waiting' does
Collins employ his trademark cannonlike drum
sound or creative imagination.

It takes the Butterfield Blues Band to electro-shock

us back to live-wire reality from the realm of polite,
academic listening. Blasting off with Born in
Chicago, high-stepping through Shake Your
Moneymaker, you don't need to consult liner notes
to recognize the visceral vitality and importance of
this music. New revelations (I'd forgotten how
insistently Sam Lay's clicking cymbals drove the
first band) mingle with remembered delights ("I've
got a mind to give up living/Yes, and go shopping
instead" remains a blues couplet for the ages) on a
cannily selected blend from the first two LPs
seasoned with one dash of Butter's later horn
sound.
Hell, for my money, a better package would be the
first two Butterfield LPs en toto with a third
compiling highlights from the horn era.
Paradoxically, the aesthetic shortcomings of
Crossroads contributes heavily to its value by giving

It's also possible that, like an outsider stumbling

upon a scene of private sorrow, Collins was afraid
to intrude or tamper with the material. In contrast to

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the buoyant mood of Money and Cigarettes,

Clapton's originals on the new album are filled with
heartbreak and love's failure. (While recording
Behind the Sun, he temporarily split up with his
wife, Patti.)

viciously painted cowboy boots can make up for the

fact that Eric is about four inches shorter than
expected and looks, in T-shirt terms, on the small
side of medium.
The second thing that strikes you is the unaffectedly
friendly and relaxed way in which this shy, bearded
guitar hero who only gives "rare" interviews, guards
his privacy, lives alone and so on, greets a
complete stranger. Eric by name and Eric nature,
Clapton comes on as a convincingly Regular Bloke.
The hard shake is firm, the grin is easy, the eye
contact immediate and regularly maintained.
Whatever you want to talk about is fine by him, he
says, lighting the first of several Rothmans and
sinking back into the sofa at his managements
offices near Regents Park. This modestly
proportioned, private man and his gigantic public
reputation seem more than comfortable with each
other. At the age of 44, Eric Clapton, you feel, has
learned to quite enjoy being a legend.

Maybe that's why Templeman and Waronker

stepped in with their light and happy songs all
written by someone named Jerry Lynn Williams. But
Templeman's Doobie-proven cosmetic approach to
production the heap of synthesizers, conked-out
congas, gooey cooing and tired Totos almost
buries the artist himself. Even when local nut
Lindsey Buckingham shows up on rhythm guitar on
'Something's Happening', his contribution is
negligible. Of course, it's possible that in these days
of easy-listening radio and heavy promotion,
Clapton may have a hit anyway. On his last tour, it
was apparent that the soppy ballads like 'Wonderful
Tonight' that have so disappointed Clapton's original
rock fans have earned him a whole new young
(and, surprisingly, very female) audience. And he'll
probably be able to fill arenas by virtue of his
greatest hits for a few years now.

He's certainly had enough practice at it just recently.

A South Bank Show all to himself in 1987; a special
"Silver Clef" trophy from the BPI in 1988 for being
legendary for so long; an American "Elvis" award
early this year in the "Best Guitarist" category; a
half-hour of mellow self-celebration with Sue Lawley
on Desert Island. Discs this summer. Try as the
tabloids still do to portray him as a foul-mouthed
philandering reprobate, Clapton today is more
widely perceived as a monument of popular culture
than as a monster of rock 'n' roll. And that, give or
take an "I never really wanted to be famous",
evidently suits him as well as the elegantly floppy
hairdo and the expensively baggy clothes.

One shudders to think of Clapton really going in the

direction Behind the Sun is pointing him toward.
One can almost see him, like B.B. King, tucking his
guitar beneath his armpit and segueing from 'Layla'
into a double-time verse of 'Sunshine of Your Love'
in Vegas. Maybe that's why he sounds so desperate
and convincing, like a man who wants to jump not
only out of his skin but right off the track, as he
sings 'Just Like a Prisoner'. For Clapton, there's still
time and hope for escape.
Deborah Frost, 1985

Far and away the oddest thing about him, and the
one point at which his behaviour seems out of step
with the informal protocol observed by rock legends
the world over, is his attitude to live performance.
Clapton can't leave it alone. For most major artists
now, tours follow albums as slowly and predictably
as night follows day.

Eric Clapton: The Solo Artist

Robert Sandall, Q, January 1990
Quietly reinvented, curiously coiffeured,
steadfastly single, and with an unprecedented
18 sold-out shows at the Albert Hall, Eric
Clapton enters the '90s more a battered
monument to popular culture than an
unrepentant monster of rock'n'roll. But there's a
price. "My personal life is chaotic," he tells
Robert Sandall. "It's like something out of
Fellini..."

But for Clapton, touring isn't a promotional

necessity to be conducted on a three or four yearly
cycle; it's a personal need which drives him out on
to the road for months at a time every year and has
brought him back to the Albert Hall every January
now since 1987. Next year's stint an
unprecedented 18 nights will be different: there is
the new album, Journeyman, to support. There will
be three shows of pure blues with guests Buddy
Guy and Robert Cray. There will be a Special Event
on the last three nights. But these, apparently, are
beside the point: he's there because he's there.

The first thing you notice about Eric Clapton is his

size. In accordance with one of the stranger
unwritten laws of rock legendarines, hes smaller in
person than his stage, screen and album cover
appearances lead you to anticipate. Neither that
fashionably roomy Italian leather jacket, not those

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"I'm a very habitual person, and I like nothing more

in my life than to have a kind of routine, even if it's
only a yearly project at the Albert Hall. I don't see
any reason for it to end. To me it's like setting up a
new proms. Because, yes, I do tend towards
delusions of grandeur. It's a failing of most
musicians I find. And next year's had to be a
mammoth production. It started after the nine
shows we did there last year, when I said to Michael
Kamen, who I worked with on the scores of Edge
Of Darkness and Lethal Weapon 2, Would you write
me a concerto? I thought it would be nice to have a
concerto, not just for guitar, but specifically for my
guitar, composed around the way I play."

Could this laissez-faire approach to technique have

given rise to the curiously uncomplimentary
nickname, "Slowhand"?
"No. That was a joke on my surname: slow hand
clap-ton. The thing with my technique is that I have
to re-learn it over and over again in the presence of
other musicians. That's why I always make sure
that the band and I have got a good long stretch of
rehearsals. Because I'm a lazy bastard and I think
it's very important for me with my personality that I
walk into a rehearsal room with the least amount to
offer. I have to work twice as hard. The other guys
will come in hot from doing a session the day before
and I'll be all over the place. It's a challenge for me
to climb back up again."

Strange to relate, however, Kamen is composing

this hour-long, three-part opus for blue guitar on a
piano, with Clapton in close attendance, "saying,
Oh I can't do that, or, Look, I can bend five
semitones but I can't bend six." Unable to read
music, Clapton will have to learn his part by ear.
The adagio and allegro must be memorised, but he
does get to make up the best part himself.

This picture of our senior axeman "reinventing

himself" in the presence of his hired hands is
confirmed by Clapton's accounts of his live
performances. While most guitar solos today are
portion-controlled affairs, as carefully planned in
advance as concert ticket prices, his, he insists, are
in the lap of the gods.

"It's up to me to write the second movement. Are

you familiar with the Rodriguez guitar concerto?
Well, you must have heard the second movement,
that's where all the heavy melodies are. It's very
slow and passionate."

"For the most part can't even remember what I

played the night before, so I make it up as I go
along. Mark Knopfler is a stickler for detail and he
has to play his solos exactly the same every night
as signals for the band. But I use the song as a
launch pad for going off on a groove. The songs
aren't as important to me as the grooves I get out of
them. You know how we used to do I Shot The
Sheriff after Crossroads and White Room, as the
third song in every set? Well the reason for its being
there was to provide a platform for me to gauge the
audience and the band and myself, so that
everyone will know whether it's gonna be a good
night or not. If it's a good solo it's gonna be OK. If
not, it'll be a struggle.

Slow and passionate with grandiose classical

overtones is how Clapton prefers his music
nowadays, as anybody who heard him choosing
Puccini, Prince's Purple Rain and Bizet for
company on his Desert Island will remember. More
attentive listeners to that programme may also have
noticed Clapton's puzzling lack of interest in the
guitar which Sue Lawley had almost to remind
him he might like to take with him as his one
luxury item. (A Ferrari and an Armani suit were the
items which sprang to his mind.)

"I don't dry up. Not completely. I can usually fool an

audience. I mean, I can play an adequate solo
anytime, but what I try to do is to put myself into a
state of mind where I empty myself of all ideas and
let something develop. It's like rolling the dice. You
don't know what will happen. And if it doesn't work
I'll have to come back to it and start again in the
next number, and so on all night. Because for me
it's not just a case of going on and doing a show, it's
got to be better than the night before, and if it's not,
everyone comes off disappointed. The band always
knows. They give me a bollocking if I'm not pulling
my weight. I wouldn't work with anyone who didn't.
And that's one of the reasons I think I can sell out
the Albert Hall for so many nights. Because people
it know it can go either way."

Clapton's explanation for this omission is typical of

the man himself: straightforward and direct in
manner, a shade eccentric in substance.
"I just don't find it very inspiring to play the guitar on
my own. Playing the guitar is a very sacred
experience, and I feel kind of lonely doing it with noone around. Music's got to be a shared experience
and if I don't play onstage or on tour I don't play at
all. It's my only way of disciplining myself. I never
play at home. I don't have the necessary selfcontrol and discipline to sit down and practise.
Which is perhaps just as well because if I did I
would probably develop a style which is totally
unsuited to live music and quite alien to an
improvised situation. As a matter of fact I haven't
played properly now for almost a month and a half."

105

Part of the key to Clapton's present success and

presumably also his occasional lack of it is his
present band. In the past he has worked with some
great and famous names, Jack Bruce, Ginger
Baker, Steve Winwood, Duane Allman and Ry
Cooder to name but a few. But these have all
tended to be unstable, provisional alliances.
Clapton claims now that he was "always playing
underneath what I was capable of. I wasn't really
inspired by any of them. Not even with Cream." His
current lineup is the best ever, he says, and it's
about to become the longest-serving ever too.
Interestingly enough, it's also the one whose
recruitment has had the least to do with him.

adult-oriented-rocker who coasted through the

commercially massive, but dull, August.
When reminded that he had talked, at the time of
August's release in 1986, of the "dynamism you
lose when you turn 30," Clapton cheerfully and
emphatically "must contradict that statement." He
talks instead now of "the wealth of experience" he
can draw on. Of "something" having happened to
him since he turned 40. "I think also that I'm lucky in
that I've allowed myself to be led astray musically
over the years. Muddy [his hero] Waters problem
was that he only had his own songs to do. He didn't
let himself get involved in country music or reggae
the way I have. Muddy had nowhere else to go."

"It started with that abortive attempt to put out

Behind The Sun in 1985. We [producer Phil Collins
and himself] had it sent back to us by the record
company because they said there wasn't a
commercial song on the album. Now, I never
wanted hits. I never wanted to have to deal with
that. But faced with the prospect that this record
would be a flop, that it would be hard to promote
and that it was self-indulgent, I agreed to re-record
a third of it. So Warners sent me some Jerry
Williams song which I really loved and off I went to
Los Angeles. There in the studio I met Greg
Phillinganes and Nathan East. They'd been hired to
play on the songs by the president of Warner
Brothers, Lenny Waronker. I thought they were
great. That's why I like this company after all the
struggles we've been through, because all the
senior executives, like Lenny, Ted Templeman and
Russ Titelman (producer of Journeyman) are
experienced ex-record producers."

He continues in this upbeat vein praising what he

sees as democratic improvements in the music
scene around him, singling out the rise of African
and other world musics as a particularly good thing.
"This stuff was around back in the 1960s, but if you
listened to esoteric music then you were part of an
exclusive club or an occultist sect. There was a lot
of elitist thinking back in the '60s. For me to be a
blues and R&B fan was like being a junkie. It had
same exclusivity attached to it. Now you can turn on
the TV and it's normal to see Salif Keita or singers
from Bulgaria. And they're not being promoted in
any way. You listen to these things next to each
other and you can't say one is better another. It's
much healthier."
These sunny observations all suggest that Clapton
is, in himself, a happier man these days. Yet he still
lives in glorious, high-security isolation down in
Surrey. And one of the most eligible bachelors in
rock talks publicly (and most recently on the South
Bank Show tribute to Jimi Hendrix) about the
loneliness that being a bit of a genius can bring. But
what may once have been a painful predicament
now seems to have been assimilated, almost as if it
adds mysterious polish to the legend.

The band has since expanded to include drummer

Steve Ferrone and percussionist Steve Clarke.
They are an informal unit but their loyalty, according
to Clapton, is absolute. Well, nearly absolute.
"Michael Jackson beats me with Greg. But now you
see he left me to play Michael Jackson's world tour
and he ended up being unhappy because there
wasn't that much for him to do. It was a very tightly
scripted show with a lot of machinery and
programming involved, whereas with me Greg gets
a lot of freedom. So does any musician if he's worth
his salt. They can all write their own parts. I treat
them well. And they know I can deliver the goods
live."

"My dedication to my music has driven everyone

away. I don't particularly like it but I don't see a way
round it. I've had girlfriends but I always end up on
my own. I used to find that lonesome image very
attractive, very bluesy, but now I'm stuck with it
whether I like it or not."

Perhaps it's down to his feelings about playing with

the band; maybe it's response to all the media
garlands and awards ballyhoo, but this year's Eric is
far more bullish about himself and his music than
the man who told Q three years ago that he "sold
himself a long time ago" and "to make life easy."
Indeed the new album sounds like the work of a far
more energetic and committed performer than the

And what does that image conceal?

"An isolated, cold, rather intimidating, generally
selfish person to be around. That's what my
occupation has done to me. But given a choice I
wouldn't have it any other way. I wouldn't want to be
a happy family man, semi-retired, running a music

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publishing business with a photo album of Me And

The Yardbirds and Me And John Mayall. I'd rather
be doing this. The loneliest thing is when I come up
to town to have dinner with people for a couple of
hours, then get back in the car and drive home
again. But I'll go out and create all kinds of personal
dramas to keep myself amused. My personal life
now is chaotic. It should be filmed. It's like
something out of Fellini: two or three different things
going on that almost clash. But I dunno, I quite
enjoy it."

Surely he must see a lot of his close neighbour and

musical collaborator Phil Collins? "I don't see him
very much at all, actually. He's a lot like me in that
he keeps to himself. He lives about ten miles away
but if we do meet socially we don't know what to do.
We're so work-oriented that we find it almost
impossible to just sit and talk."
Work, Clapton says, is now his "fun". Italian
designer clothes are "my only vice". Outdoor leisure
pursuits have been gradually moved to the backburner. The locals around his tiny village near
Guildford report a lack of interest lately in the flyfishing at which he is so expert. The Eric Clapton
charity cricket XI featuring Bill Wyman, the
brothers Kemp from Spandau Ballet and a few real
cricketers as well has also been less active this
summer. "I'm never at home for more than two
weeks at a time."

He doesn't, he admits, particularly enjoy being

separated from his three-year-old son Connor
the product of a temporary relationship with an
Italian actress and photographer Lori Del Santo.
Mother and child are both now back in Milan and
outwardly at any rate Clapton accepts this with
the same stoicism that he treats his single status.
Some suggest, however, that Clapton's currently
lean and hungry look is not the result of a hectic
year's live work but of his worries over his son's
upbringing, that he is in fact looking not so much
trim and healthy as thin and haggard. Reticent on
this point, Clapton will only acknowledge that the
way he lives now "has more rewards than
drawbacks." And the new slimline appearance? A
reflection perhaps of the fact that he is now
permanently and completely off the booze after
lapsing back into alcoholism two years ago.

Accompanying this mixture of restlessness and

industriousness is a renewal of his old missionary
zeal to spread the word about The Blues. It's written
all over the Journeyman album his bluesiest for
years and it enters his conversation at regular
intervals in the form of lengthy orations that make
you wonder if some of those South Bank Showstyle interviews might not have turned the man's
head.
"I still feel protective towards the blues. It's a
maligned art form and I get angry when I feel
people are taking it too lightly. I go back to the blues
because of its rawness. It's got more energy and
vitality than anything I can think of. And you know
black music is very deceptive. On the surface it
looks like it's moving forward the whole time, but the
bass lines and the vocal lines stay more or less
exactly the same. If you take a line of Bobby
Brown's and compare it to Bobby Bland you'll find
there's not a lot of difference between them and
what James Brown was doing 30 years ago. It's
elaborated and addressed differently but the beat
isn't that different. And most musicians who've been
around will accept that the blues is the bottom line.
It's always given me more out of life than sex,
booze or any kick you can think of."

"I was enjoying life as a social drinker for a while.

But having a drink now and again led to having a
drink all the time. I can't exercise any control over it.
And one day I found myself drinking on my own at
home, up to the old level, and it scared the life out
of me. I was sober for two years, then drank for
another two years and now it's been two years
sober again. It takes a while to enjoy it but I find I
like being sober now. I'm getting back on course."
And what of his illustrious colleagues and
neighbours? That much-fted company who
assemble in public to give and receive Brit awards,
induct each other into America's Rock and Roll Hall
Of Fame or pass around the statuettes at the "Elvis"
awards, held in New York back in May?
"I haven't seen any of those guys since that day. It's
very difficult to be close to them. They're very
blessed people and to be in their company warms
my heart. We go, Oh, we were there in 1967,
weren't we? But although you sort of love them, you
never see them. I mean, I see George [Harrison]
and I see Pete [Townshend], but I know they're
going through the same sort of lonely shit that I am.
We never admit it to each other, of course. We all
play that game."

"I set myself a lofty set of principles at a very young

age. It was very instinctive and very serious. And a
lot of people doing it back in the '60s didn't, sad to
say, have that kind of commitment. I was very
dogmatic and if you hadn't heard of the people I
liked, like Freddie King and Muddy, then I wouldn't
talk to you. But it is an art form. And if you can see it
that way and take it that seriously then you will get
something out of it. If you don't, it will use you up."

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The guitarist who shares this lofty commitment to

the blues and whom Clapton most admires
nowadays is Robert Cray. Cray plays on some
tracks on the Journeyman album and just having
him around in the studio, Clapton reckons, had a
decisive influence on the final shape of the record.

veins. And we did invent something, the English

gentleman, which is really something to be proud
of, I think. We've all got that sense of it, even if
we're not born well. We all know when we're
offending somebody and back off. No one else has
that. There are no French gentlemen. There are no
American gentlemen. But the great thing about
English people is that they moan and groan a lot
but they'll get on with it."

"The great thing about players as good as Robert is

that when they're around you play to the top of your
capability straight away. Like when he came in to do
the solo on Old Love, I had the worst 'flu
imaginable, but it was just like if Duane [Allman] or
Jimi were there. You've got to do it. There's no
rhubarb, no fucking around, you count it off and you
play. There's nowhere to hide.

He rises to leave, shakes hands, apologises for

having another appointment. And, quite the model
of English courtesy and with just a hint of English
evasiveness too Eric Clapton is gone.
Robert Sandall, 1990

"We had a couple of days when we were dying to

play and record something but we couldn't think of
the right vehicle. We were both so keyed up it was
like taking too much coke or something, you have to
let it go. So we ended up playing Hound Dog and
that slow blues on side two, Before You Accuse
Me. We never really meant for those to go on the
record, we were just soaking the energy up."

Eric Clapton: Blues God Without An Axe To

Grind
Barney Hoskyns, The Times, 2 February 1991
WHEN THAT crazed blues fanatic scrawled the
words "CLAPTON IS GOD" on a London wall in
1966, he ushered in the cult of the guitar hero which
has dominated Anglo-American rock music ever
since.

Clapton is justifiably proud of this album. He says

it's the only one he's ever made that he has carried
on listening to after he finished the recording.

It has been as one of his own blues heroes

would have put it a heavy load for Eric Clapton to
bear. Perhaps the single most remarkable thing
about the man is that he has survived the Clapton
legend intact. While Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones
died young, Clapton emerged through the second
half of the Eighties as a revamped, Armani-clad
elder statesman, one of the elect company of
charity rock grandees that includes Mark Knopfler
and Clapton's Surrey neighbour, Phil Collins. "The
blues was about one man with his guitar versus the
world," he told Melvyn Bragg on a 1987 South Bank
Show, but the post-Live Aid Clapton has been
anything but a tortured blues hero, lost in guitar
solos.

Defender of the blues, composer of concertos, rock

prommer; Clapton is an ardent traditionalist these
days, a small 'c' conservative whose continuing preeminence in his field combined with his readiness to
perform for uncontroversially Good Causes such as
the Prince's Trust and Amnesty International must
make him a strong candidate for a knighthood.
(Only last year Prince Charles presented him with,
yes, another award, to mark his 25 years in the
music business.) And although Clapton is
dismissively modest about his vast accumulation of
such honours "it's nice to get a pat on the back"
you sense that they actually mean a lot to him.
It is possible that they provide him with a more solid
identity than any he can derive from his "chaotic"
personal life. Maybe they appeal also to the side of
him that loves formality, distance and has an oldfashioned hankering after Englishness.

Perhaps the graffiti prophet got it wrong from the

start: could a man called Eric really be a god? The
first thing that must strike anyone about Clapton is
his profound ordinariness. No amount of changes in
image and hairstyle has ever altered the fact that he
has one of the least interesting faces of any rock
superstar. He has never said anything remotely
surprising or shocking, unless it was the ill-judged
remark about immigration that provoked the
formation of Rock Against Racism and made him
terminally unfashionable among pop cognoscenti
and arbiters of style. Even his bouts with heroin and
alcohol addiction have been characterised by a

"I am English. I don't fit anywhere else. I've

considered going to live in Switzerland for tax
reasons, and for the privacy, because I've had an
unnecessary pasting in the tabloids over here in the
past two years. Which is not only a bitter pill for me
to swallow, but it's terrible for my grandmother,
who's 83. But there's something about the English,
the working, complaining ethic, this working-class
attitude. I don't approve of it but it runs through my

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singular dearth of outrageous or scandalous

escapades.

Had Clapton known what was going to happen

when, together with bass guitarist Jack Bruce, he
left Mayall to form Cream, he would perhaps have
been less self-righteous about his blues purism.
Although Cream used blues as "a take-off point",
the highly volatile combination of Clapton, Bruce,
and drummer Ginger Baker quickly led to
experiments and improvisations that made John
Mayall's Bluesbreakers look positively archaic.
Banded together as the first supergroup power-trio,
the "cream" of British musicianship began pushing
out the boundaries of rock music in ways that had a
direct and immediate impact not only on Jimi
Hendrix, but also on a legion of American hard rock
trios. Like jazz soloists, they let their improvising
take them where it would, and if in the studio they
recorded almost-classic pop singles such as
'Badge' and 'I Feel Free', live they let rip like a
Charlie Parker trio through giant Marshall stacks.

All the more extraordinary, then, that highly

regarded rock writers such as Dave Marsh and
Robert Palmer should have written so fervently of
Clapton's immersion in the legend of Robert
Johnson, the demonic Delta bluesman said to have
traded his soul for his almost supernatural guitar
technique. Observed Marsh: "The classic Clapton
pose back to the crowd, head bowed over his
instrument, alone with the agony of the blues
suggested a supplicant communing with something
inward and elevated, a muse or a demon." It was
even said that Clapton, like Johnson, had
disappeared for nigh on a year before the formation
of Cream, and that when he emerged his playing
had been transformed.
The truth is rather more prosaic. A lonely,
illegitimate boy, abandoned by his mother to her
parents, he grew up in post-war Surrey, heard the
blues of Muddy Waters and Big Bill Broonzy on his
uncle's radio, and set about reinventing himself as
the neophyte of a mysterious and forbidden culture
an imagined Mississippi. Heroin had nothing on
the young Clapton's obsession with the great
bluesmen: knowing he couldn't sing, or even write
particularly compelling songs, he dedicated himself
to mastering the guitar. He would be the greatest
blues guitarist in the world, and none of the other
shaggy miscreants jamming in pubs around
Richmond and Twickenham would be able to touch
him.

Strangely, although it serves as the main bedrock of

Clapton's legend, Cream's music has not fared well
since the group disbanded in 1968. Unlike Led
Zeppelin, whose oft-sampled and now gloriously
remastered back catalogue seems only to improve
and appeal the more with age, Cream sound dated
today. Nonetheless, it is on Wheels of Fire (1968)
that one finds the most thrilling guitar playing of
Clapton's career. He may never have broken the
kind of ground that Hendrix, transcending the very
nature of his instrument, did, but if there is any
more livid, frenzied guitar soloing than on the live
version of Johnson's classic 'Crossroads', I should
very much like to hear it.
As if one super-group were not enough, Clapton
departed Cream only to form another with Baker.
This was the ill-fated Blind Faith, which in June
1969 made its debut before an awesome crowd of
100,000 Clapton-is-God-fearing fans in Hyde Park.
They recorded a solitary eponymous album
featuring 'In the Presence of the Lord', Clapton's
enduring song of religious enlightenment, but
collapsed under the weight of the hype heaped on
them by critics and fans alike.

The first test of Clapton's purist fanaticism came

after he had graduated through various local rhythm
and blues combos and joined a bunch of middleclass louts called the Yardbirds in 1964. Poised on
the brink of major pop success with the band's
distinctly un-bluesy hit 'For Your Love' (1965),
Clapton kept the faith and quit in search of follow
disciples.
His playing, on the Five Live Yardbirds album in
particular, was already several cuts above the
messy jangling of most of his guitar-toting rivals, but
it was only as sidekick to the goateed blues
evangelist John Mayall on the seminal
Bluesbreakers Featuring Eric Clapton album that he
truly made his mark as the most accomplished
student of blues guitar greats such as Buddy Guy
and Otis Rush. If the fills and solos of 'All Your Love'
and 'Hideaway' fall short of the searing fluency he
would soon muster with Cream, they served
virtually as a primer in blues-rock guitar for the
many apprentice axemen rising up in his wake.

Clapton's next stop was the makeshift

agglomeration of American hippie soulsters known
as Delaney & Bonnie & Friends, whose 1969
European tour he helped to organise, and out of
whose ashes he formed Derek & the Dominoes in
the autumn of 1970. Everyone knows the dazzling
'Layla', title track of the Dominos' double album,
recorded in Miami that year; the recent Polydor
reissue of Layla and other Assorted Love Songs in
a box set with alternative masters and out-takes
offered the chance to hear again just how good
some of the other tracks were, too 'Have you
Ever Loved a Woman?' and Hendrix's 'Little Wing',

109

for example. The sparring with slide guitarist Duane

Allman on 'Layla', a song born out of Clapton's
attempts to win the love of George Harrison's wife
Patti, was the key to an epic track Dave Marsh
described as 'perhaps the most powerful and
beautiful song of the Seventies'.

With painful self-deprecation Clapton titled his latest

album Journeyman (1989), and if it was a marked
improvement on August, it still amounted to a pretty
characterless, all-bases-covered kind of collection.
In 1990, he was well and truly accepted as a
national monument, with a previously unheard-of
residency at the Albert Hall (where Cream played
their farewell concerts in December 1968) and a
boxed set of greatest hits, Crossroads (what else?),
that you could find advertised on the back of the
News of the World magazine. Somehow this man
without a personality has transcended the context
of rock'n'roll altogether and become a pure celebrity
for the Nineties: the Survivor as Hero.

The experience of losing Patti was enough to

shatter any faith Clapton had managed to establish
and send him down the slippery slope of heroin
addiction. A three-year narcotic hibernation only
came to an end when the Who's Pete Townshend
persuaded him to make a comeback at London's
Rainbow Theatre in 1973. Then, a not-yet-detoxified
Clapton could manage only tired versions of
'Badge', 'Little Wing' and 'Presence of the Lord'.
Another song on the Rainbow Concert album, JJ
Cale's 'After Midnight', pointed the way forward to
the sleepy, southern rock-style music he would
make on albums like 461 Ocean Boulevard (1974)
and Slowhand (1977). This was the official new
Clapton: a cleaned-up, tanned troubadour who had
discovered country and reggae and shaken off the
image of the tormented guitar hero for good.

When Hendrix died at the age of 27, Clapton said

that he felt "so alone in the world". He must
subsequently have wondered how he survived
himself. The awful truth is that Hendrix was the
genuine article the demonised, Dionysiac
insurrectionist where Clapton was only an
outstanding adept. At the crossroads where
Johnson and Hendrix entered into the Faustian
pacts that killed them, Clapton, the deified Home
Counties bluesbreaker, turned back to the world of
the living and the mundane. And as he limbers up
for yet another record-breaking run of 24 shows at
the Albert Hall, who can honestly blame him?

For Robert Palmer, in his book Deep Blues, it was

the ultimate evidence that Clapton had turned tail
and fled in terror from the legacy of Robert
Johnson. As the likes of second-generation metal
axemeisters burned up their fretboards ever faster,
Clapton stepped back, confining himself to mere
punctuation and the occasional low-key, sweetly
lyrical solo. America lapped it up, and a string of
breezily relaxed hit singles 'Lay Down Sally',
'Promises' 'Cocaine' put him back in the
limelight. Even Bob Marley's 'I Shot the Sheriff'
became an exercise in good-time reggae.

Barney Hoskyns, 1991

Eric Clapton: 24 Nights
Tom Graves, Rock and Roll Disc, January 1992
CORRECTION. Eric Clapton was God.
It beggars belief that the tired, limp-dicked,
becluttered music we hear on 24 Nights is from the
same artist whose very name once was the blues.
In that magic time of the mid-60's, when great guitar
players seemed to be turning up on every street
corner, Britain's two other great bluesmen, Peter
Green and Mick Taylor, worshipped the ground Eric
Clapton riffed on. During his stints with the
Yardbirds, John Mayall, Cream, Blind Faith, and
Derek and the Dominos, Clapton burned a hole
right through even the tritest material making junk
like Cream's 'Anyone for Tennis?' required listening.
His playing was at its zenith during the Layla period
until both heroin and alcohol addictions robbed him
of whatever fire was left.

Another fallow period followed in the early Eighties

with the bottle replacing the syringe as an exit from
reality. The non-stop touring continued, but it was
only with his appearance at Live Aid in 1985 that
Clapton found his true niche in the ultraprofessional, mega-global world of Eighties rock.
The horrible Phil Collins-produced August (1986)
said it all: a homogenised meltdown of rock, blues,
and soul set up by the bigwigs at Warner Brothers
and resulting in a slew of dreadful hit singles.
Like Dire Straits and Collins's own dismal waxings,
this was rock music for people who do not
particularly like rock music. Railroaded into blatant
commercialism, Clapton was suddenly a spruce
and airbrushed survivor for the masses of good
ordinary folk who buy ten CDs a year and regard
the sight of Clapton and Knopfler cranking out the
worn old riff of Dire Straits' 'Money for Nothing' as
the ultimate rock epiphany.

It was Miles Davis who once said what I consider

the wisest truth about making meaningful music:
"The secret," he said, "is finding the melody within
the melody." In all of Eric Clapton's great music he
is endlessly redefining the melody. Take the seminal

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'Crossroads': Every lead run is like a song-within-asong. It is beautifully melodic, muscular, and each
note tells - there is no superfluous riffing, no antics
for show. The lead breaks are so airtight and full of
authority that they scarcely sound improvised. To
the contrary, every fretted note of 'Crossroads'
sounds rehearsed to perfection.

Still, the best of Pilgrim demands time, and

openness to its depth of suffered, stoic passion. It
begins candidly by offering the key. 'My Fathers
Eyes' sways in, hinting at reggae days, guitar
holding long notes undemonstratively mid-mix.
Then Clapton thinks/sings about the father he never
knew (a Canadian soldier) and his own four-yearold son who died six years ago. He remembers
watching his "seedling" grow: "Where do I find the
words to say? How do I teach him? What do I
play?" (He means games, not licks.) Then, "How
could I lose him?" he sighs. He looks at himself,
"Just a toerag . . . How did I get here?" and
wonders about his own death, "When the jagged
edge appears/As my soul slides down to die." He
snatches consolation by imagining a moment when
his father and his son merge; for reasons beyond
the rational, this makes sense of his grief: "When he
was with me, I looked into my father's eyes."
Clapton says his piece with concision, discipline
and restraint. No sentimentality. He requires only
that the listener get down to details.

But, alas, what do we get on 24 Nights, the highly

anticipated culmination of his 1990 and '91 tours at
London's Albert Hall? Try as he might, there's not a
glimmer left in old warhorses like 'Badge' (which,
here, has an unbelievably lame vocal), 'White
Room' and 'Bell Bottom Blues'. In fact he often
requires help on vocals from his sidemen, who
oblige by stepping in during the requisite hard parts.
Eric Clapton has become the Perry Como of the
rock world, with glassy-eyed, tepid pop ditties like
'Pretending' and 'Bad Love' anchoring his sets
between aimless blues noodling. Anyone who can
remain awake during the endless droning of Disc
Two (the pop disc) should get an automatic license
to operate heavy machinery.

Although 'My Father's Eyes' is outstanding, 'River

Of Tears', 'Pilgrim' and 'Inside Of Me' are cut from
the same cloth solemn with strings, ripples of
Hammond organ and women singing back-up
harmonies very straight, no gospelly emoting. The
lyric sheet is characterised by question marks, the
summing-up left to the final track, 'Inside Of Me':
"I'm resigned to a world that is falling apart." The
fade-out folds in the voice of a girl reading a school
essay in which she worries about the apocalypse,
as children often do.

Even when Clapton seems to suggest he is actually

trying, his guitar is so weenie sounding that you
wonder if he remembers how a god is supposed to
sound.
24 Nights confirms what I've felt for about two
decades about Ole Slowhand: That he has
permanently traded in his blue suede shoes for a
pair of brown Hush Puppies.
Tom Graves, 1992

Some other songs, including 'One Chance' and 'You

Were There', are less personal, more formal
exercises in hard times music, but even the same
old rhythm and blues punch their weight in the
immemorial 'Going Down Slow', the rockin' 'She's
Gone' and the gruff parody 'Sick And Tired' ("I'm
gonna buy me a parrot, baby/Teach him how to call
my name"). If his latest Dylan cover, 'Born In Time',
proves oddly stodgy and Circus loses the intimate
sense of his dear "little man" amid acoustic
prettiness and the overworked image of the big top
leaving town, this hardly constitutes a price to pay.

Eric Clapton: Pilgrim

Phil Sutcliffe, Mojo, April 1998
WHITE GUYS from the '60s R&B generation don't
get the same latitude as black "originals" to spend
their last 20 or 30 years nestling back on the laurels
won in their youth. Essentially, they're rock, no
excuses; the day they stop doing something new is
the day they just grew old. So, following the
traditional showcases Unplugged (1992) and From
The Cradle (1994), it's easy to imagine a queue
forming to brandish the pension book at Clapton
after Pilgrim. This is a generally quiet album; slow,
reflective. No big apassionato solos. His producer
and, on six songs, co-writer is Simon Climie,
probably best known for his association with Sir Cliff
Richard (although he has dallied with Pulp too). A
quick look and a half-listen from critic, or even loyal
fan, might well suggest this album is smoothed over
middle-of-the-road.

It may not apply to many of his peers, but the

message from Eric Clapton's middle age is, stay
tuned.
Phil Sutcliffe, 1998
Eric Clapton: From Sex and Drugs to Domestic
Bliss
Robert Sandall, Daily Telegraph, 20 August 2005

111

It's day four of Eric Clapton's week off from paternal

duties, and the born-again family man doesn't know
what to do with himself. On Monday his 29-year-old
American wife Melia flew to Columbus, Ohio, with
their three small daughters to spend some time with
her parents - leaving him to, well, whatever it is that
60-year-old rock stars get up to when left to their
own devices in gated mansions in the Guildford
area.

dozen lyrics. He came back with just one. So he

promptly went into default mode - the blues - and
knocked off an album of Robert Johnson covers,
Me and Mr Johnson.
Last October, after several more months of
agonised pencil-sucking, he came up with another
cracking displacement wheeze: he decided he
would re-form Cream. "That was very much a part
of this album. It was born out of my home life,
because what happened when I started to enjoy
being a member of my own family was that I looked
outside of it and thought, 'Where can I apply this?'
And Cream are one of the few bands from that era
that can actually re-unite because we are all alive
and just about in good health."

Today so far has been much like any of the other

rare days Clapton wakes up alone in the rockbroker
belt: he rose early, jumped into the black Porsche
and drove to his townhouse-cum-office in Chelsea.
"I just can't be on my own in the country without the
family, it's dreadful," he grumbles. "In my perversity
I was really looking forward to this week, and now
I'm climbing the walls. I can't wait to get on the
computer to do the webcam and see the girls and
talk to them. All I ever seem to do is drive to
London, make up things to do till the evening and
drive back again."

With that project jogging along in tandem, he finally

delivered Back Home in February of this year. The
Cream's Albert Hall concerts he thought were "all
right", though he says he can only remember the
last one because he had terrible flu for the first
three.

In fairness, Clapton will be usefully employed this

morning talking about his new album. Then again
this is unlikely to assuage his separation anxieties
because the album is called Back Home and most
of the songs on it deal with - guess what?

This new, self-effacing Clapton looks every inch the

family man.
An informal uniform of jeans, white T-shirt and
sneakers has replaced the rock-and-roll gigolo gear
he wore on the covers of albums such as 1987's
August. Farewell Armani suits and floppy coiffure:
with his weatherbeaten, beardy visage, wirerimmed specs and tufty, bed-head hair, he could
pass now as a regular middle England dad, the sort
you would hardly notice in a DIY superstore, or a
country high street.

There's a jokey tune about him being kept awake all

night by feeding babies ('So Tired'), a finger-picked
acoustic hymn to domestic tranquillity (the title
track), and any number of loving odes to his second
wife, Melia, whom he married in 2000. It's the most
clearly personal set yet from a musician whose
best-loved songs - think of 'Layla', 'Wonderful
Tonight' and 'Tears In Heaven' - have always
spoken from, and of, the heart. "This album had to
be about the family because what else in my life
could I sing about? I don't have any interest in
politics."

The change was a long time coming. It began with

the appalling, accidental death of his four-year-old
son Conor, who fell 700 feet out of a window from
his Manhattan apartment in March 1991. And it
ended seven years later in Los Angeles when
Clapton started seeing the only woman with whom,
he says, he has ever enjoyed a genuinely equal
relationship, an American of Korean-Irish
parentage, Melia McEnery.

Back Home has been three years in the making and

it was, he says, a struggle to finish. The music,
which he sketched out with his regular writing
partner Simon Climie, came easily. A tour of vintage
R&B styles with a dash of reggae, a mandatory
slow blues and some outrageously flash solos that
put most young guitar-slingers firmly in their place,
Back Home sounds like effortlessly classic Clapton.

Prior to meeting her, Clapton was, by his own

admission, an out-of-control womaniser for whom
love had become just another drug. Following the
break-up of his marriage to George Harrison's ex,
Patti Boyd, in 1988, he embarked on a frantic dating
spree which saw his name "linked" to a succession
of models, actresses and rock chicks, including
Naomi Campbell, Sharon Stone and Sheryl Crow.
Well, it was probably better than moping at home.
But it wasn't good for his soul, he found.

But the lyrics were a nightmare. "Writing about a

relationship that is productive and successful and
loving without being boring or self-indulgent is
difficult," he says. "It's so much easier writing in
anger or sadness about something that's gone and
lost. I kept stopping because I didn't think it would
work." In late 2003 Clapton's first break took him off
to France on his own for a week to write half a

112

"I used to identify my self-esteem with sex.

Girlfriends became a way of avoiding being with
myself. I'd see a woman in a room and I'd be
magnetised and usually that would be dangerous,
because I don't think you can be any good to
anybody unless you're OK on your own."

scared and not really sure. It was like, 'What's this

going to be like when they're teenagers and I'm 70?'
That's something I ought to try to put in a song one
day."
The family love the new album. Melia's favourite is
'Run Home To Me': "She only has to hear the
opening and she starts to cry, and me too, because
that song is about us sitting on the stony beach in
Bognor in winter. It was cold but beautiful and
nobody was there and it was the most real picture I
had of us becoming a family. That was the moment
of realisation."

With Melia, by contrast, he played the perfect gent.

"I started asking her out, and we became friends.
And with her I found I was able to respond to
something that was actually good for me."
They met at a party in LA in 1998 thrown by Giorgio
Armani, Clapton's partner in the Crossroads re-hab
centre on Antigua. Melia was working for Armani at
the time and she and others in his staff had been
asked to host the event on the strict understanding
that they were not to fraternise with any of the
guests. " So Melia came straight up to me and said,
'My uncle's a big fan of yours, can I get your
autograph?' And that was that. There was
something about her... strength. She occupied her
space with absolute authority. It was clear that even
though she was half my age she was capable of
being an adequate partner for anybody."

Julie Rose, on the other hand, prefers the album's

jolliest number, 'One Track Mind'. "I didn't want to
put Melia on the spot but I would run things past
Julie, singing words to her, and if she sang along
then I figured they were OK. She actually chipped in
a few things on that track," the indulgent dad smiles
proudly, then the grizzled old pro remembers
something. "She's not credited though."
Robert Sandall, 2005

Falling in love properly for the first time was one

thing, but starting a family was another. Clapton's
experience of his own parents did not make
fatherhood an easy or natural role for him to adopt.
He hadn't enjoyed a close relationship with either of
the mothers of his two previous children - Conor
who died and Ruth, now 22 - and, regrettable as
this was, he had a readymade excuse.

The
Beatles

An illegitimate child born at the end of the war, Eric

Clapp was brought up by his grandparents and told
that his mother Patricia was his older sister. He
never knew his father. In 1997 he was confronted
with evidence, which he doesn't find convincing,
that his dad was a Canadian ex-serviceman, Ted
Friar, who died in 1985. The only person who could
confirm the truth of this was his mother Patricia.

When the Beatles Arrived in America, 1964

Michael Lydon, Yale Daily News, 20 February

1964
When the Beatles hit America in the winter of 1964,
the event created a tidal wave in pop music that
swept all before it. I was in my third year at Yale,
and a bunch of us gathered at the student
newspaper office to watch the Moptops on Ed
Sullivan. I remember most how their huge smiles
embarassed me, made me jealousthey were
having too much fun!

"She was non-committal. And much as I loved her, I

don't know whether she wanted to tell me the truth.
I didn't press it with her because I sensed I was
treading on thin ice. And I don't know if this is my
suspicious nature, but I wonder if anyone was
telling the truth, or even if they really know." Patricia
died the year he married Melia, just after the birth of
their first daughter, Ella.

This is the piece I wrote for my column in the Yale

Daily News, February 20, 1964, my first "rock
writing."

The Claptons have since had two more girls, Julie

Rose, who's now four, and Sophie, six months, and
while he's thrilled to be the head of a real family at
last, it took a thoroughbred bachelor such as
himself a while to get into it. "At the beginning I was

THERE IS A SCENE in Genets The Blacks when

the White Queen, cowering in fear of revolution,
recites a jumbled litany of Western
accomplishments and symbols to give herself

113

strength. "Virgins of the Parthenon," she cries,

"stained glass of Chartres, Lord Byron, Chopin,
French cooking, the Unknown Soldier, Tyrolean
songs, Aristotelian principles, heroic couplets,
poppies, sunflowers, a touch of coquetry, vicarage
gardens..." Her court responds with emotion,
"Madam, were here."

whose appropriate motto reads, "Its whats in the

grooves that count," the disc combines perfect
artistic form with rare insight into the world of
todays youth.
Beginning in a complexly rhythmic combination of
guitar, piano, drums, and clapping hands, 'Heat
Wave' wastes no time in setting a compelling mood.
A deep and solemn sax soon adds more melodic
conent while adding body and depth to the rhythm
(this solidity, essential to the form, is something the
Britishers never achieve; note the fragmented and
one dimensional quality of their sound). Then we
hear Marthas voice, backed by the lyric "oohs" of
the Vandellas. The Vandellas repeat key idea
words; Martha, whose range of tone and nuance is
extraordinary, weaves her melody around the
contrapuntal and contrasting background, at times
leaving it for expressive vocal flights. After a short
instrumental theme recapitulation, this time
combined with gentle "oohs" and climactic shouts of
"Heat Wave" from the Vandellas, Martha returns
with even greater passion which finally overcomes
her. She can no longer sing words, only the sublime
"yeah" to the ecstatic shouting of "burning, burning"
by her accompanists.

Confronted with the revolution caused by the four

famed Liverpudlians, I can identify with the hapless
Queen. Whenever the first strains of 'I Want to Hold
Your Hand' begin to twitch my stirrup bones, I send
out silent screams for help to Chuck Berry, Elvis,
Carl Perkins, Little Richard, the Orlons, the
Impressions, Martha and the Vandellas, Major
Lance, the Drifters, and those other greats who
have long defended the American way of rock. With
a heart-warmingly gutteral "Yeaaah" of affirmation,
they bring me peace again.
Thankfully the height of the storm has been passed,
but the memory of Americas desertion of its homebred heroes galls me still. I weep for you, Drifters,
creators of the lyric and moving 'Up on the Roof',
and for Ruby and her Romantics who touched us all
with 'Our Day Will Come'. I weep for the now lost
chords of 'Blue Suede Shoes' and 'Jenny Jenn', for
the unsold inventories of 'Monkey Time' and 'South
Street'. I weep for Little Stevie Wonder, plunged
again into obscurity at the tender age of 13. I weep
for all the artists and masters of the complex craft of
rhythm and blues left stranded in sudden loneliness
by the treacherous wave of adulation for a bunch of
poor foreign imitations. I weep for you, America.

Few songs of any era have achieved such a

synthesis of music and meaning. We become
profoundly sympathetic with this girl who feels
passion as a consuming fire, as something that
destroys her as it gives her life. And all the while the
inexorable beat carries her along against her will;
she is caught in something larger than herself.

As Athens spurned Themistocles, we have spurned

these dedicated and gifted interpreters of American
soul. The rejection was not, of course, complete.
'Talkin Bout My Baby' can still be heard; 'Good
News', a refreshing fusion of traditional and modern
blues tonality and rhythm, is experiencing a welldeserved success. Murray The Ks "Blasts from the
Past" continue to celebrate legendary oldies like
'Get a Job'. But that does not lessen our guilt. And
we must bear a double burden of guilt: some
traitors have had the nerve to say that the English
string and percussion quartet are a welcome return
to the "classic" rock n roll of the early fifties. Oh,
rise up Wild Bill and Gene Vincent with your
Comets and Blue Caps, and lay low these smirking
fools. Let 'Shake, Rattle, and Roll', 'Blue Jean Bop',
and 'Be-bop-a Lula' be heard in the land once more.
Show them what made our generation great.

These few words show us how the song is

revalatory of our times. Old orders have broken
down, all is chaos. We can hear in 'Heat Wave' all
the violence of breaking glass, dragsters, steets of
neon lights, gang fights, screaming crowds. We can
feel the fear of kids running from a petty crime, their
fear of cops, school, of not being cool, of dark
tenement stairs. In Marthas pathetic cry of "I dont
unerstand it, cant explain it, aint never felt this way
before," we hear resentment and bewilderment. We
hear young America.
This is the artistry we abandond for the English
synthetics so much admired by the Queen Mother.
Me, Ill stick with the cool mothers and hope that the
pain suffered by these musicians at our hands
brings new profundity to their songs.
Michael Lydon, 1964

That no one may think my passion misguided, I ask

you to listen once again to that classic song, that
transcendent evocation of adolescent love, 'Heat
Wave', by Martha and the Vandellas. Produced by a
Motown Productions affiliate, Gordy Records,

The Beatles: Music's Gold Bugs

Al Aronowitz, Saturday Evening Post, March 1964

114

BRIAN SOMMERVILLE is a balding 32-year-old

Londoner whose jaw juts out like the southeast
corner of England when he thinks he is about to say
something important. At Kennedy International
Airport in New York on February 7, 1964,
Sommerville's jaw was projecting so far he was
almost unable to open his mouth to speak. A
thousand screaming teenagers were trying to
wriggle toward a thin white line of nylon rope that
had been stretched across the terminal building
lobby. Three thousand more were screaming from
behind bulging metal railings atop the roof, where
they were the guests of New York disc jockeys, who
had invited them to take the day off from school.

something?" "No," replied another Beatle, "we need

money first." Still another reporter asked, "Do you
hope to take anything home with you?" "Yeah," a
Beatle replied, "Rockefeller Center." At first, few of
the reporters could remember which Beatle was
which. But by the end of their two-week visit to
America, each of them had become a distinct
personality. Each of them, in fact, had become a
star.
Ringo is the one that some observers have
compared to Harpo Marx. He has bright-blue eyes
that remind one of a child looking through a window,
although he sometimes deliberately crosses them
as he sits dumbly at the drums, playing his corny
four-four beat. "I hate phonies," he says with the
absolutism of somebody who thinks he can spot
one a mile away. "I can't stand them." The most
popular of the Beatles in America, he evokes
paroxysms of teen-age shrieks everywhere by a
mere turn of his head, a motion which sends his
brown spaniel hair flying. When he flips his wig, the
kids flip theirs. "Riiinngo! Riinngo!" the kids call out.
He acquired the nickname because he wears two
rings on each hand. He wears different rings at
different times, changing them like cuff links. "I like
the gold ones," he says. "The fans send a lot of
silver ones too, but I send them back." Then he
adds, "Do you know I have 2,761 rings?" His fame
has brought Ringo other treasures, but he seems
not to have forgotten what it was like to grow up
amid the grimy row-house streets of Liverpool.

Next to Sommerville a New York Journal-American

photographer was tugging angrily at his arm,
shouting, "We bought an exclusive story, and we
can't even get a picture of them looking at us
what did we pay you money for?" At Sommerville's
other arm a phalanx of British correspondents was
complaining that the police wouldn't let them into
the pressroom.
There wasn't space left in the pressroom anyway,
and one of the cops tried to throw out a Capitol
Records executive who had arrived without an
identification badge. Disc jockeys equipped with
tape recorders were pointing cylindrical
microphones at the mob. Flashbulbs exploded.
From the back of the lobby came word that two girls
had fainted. Hemmed in and harassed,
Sommerville's jaw signaled a pronouncement.
"This," he said in the intonations of a nation that has
been accustomed to ruling the world, "has gotten
entirely out of control." Sommerville is press officer
of a rock'n'roll group known as the Beatles. Their
plane had just landed.

He was born Richard Starkey, the only son of a

father who was a house painter and a mother who
was a barmaid. He never finished school. He was
kept out by pleurisy and more than a dozen
stomach operations. Also, it seems, he never
started growing. Asked how tall he is, he snaps
back, "Two feet, nine inches!" actually he is five feet
seven. "When I feel my head starting to swell," says
John Lennon, "I just look at Ringo and I know
perfectly well we're not supermen." Without proper
schooling, Ringo worked as an electrician's
apprentice and at various odd jobs before turning to
drumming.

Amid a fanfare of screeches, there emerged four

young Britons in Edwardian four-button suits. One
was short and thick-lipped. Another was handsome
and peach-fuzzed. A third had a heavy face and the
hint of buckteeth. On the fourth, the remnants of
adolescent pimples were noticeable. Their names
were Ringo Starr, Paul McCartney, John Lennon,
and George Harrison, but they were otherwise
indistinguishable beneath their manes of moplike
hair.

"When I was sixteen, you know," he says, "I used to

walk on the road with the rest of the lot and we'd
have all out drape coats on and we'd have a few
laughs with the rival gangs, and then I got the
drums and the bloke next door and I got a job and
we started playing together, and another bloke and
me made a bass out of an old tea chest and this
was about 1958, mind you, and we played together
and then we started playing on dances and things,
you know, and we took an interest in it and we
stopped going out and hanging around corners
every night."

After they were ushered into the floodlit uproar of

the pressroom, Brian Sommerville, acting as master
of ceremonies, stepped to a microphone, again
thrust out his jaw, and addressed the reporters.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen," he said, "will
you please shut up!" The first question from the
American press was, "Do you believe in lunacy?"
"Yeah," answered one of the Beatles, "it's healthy."
Another reporter asked, "Would you please sing

115

These days still lie close behind him. When an

American reporter asked him if he liked fish and
chips, he answered, "Yes, I like fish and chips, but I
like steak and chips better." One of his greatest
moments was when Beatles played before Princess
Margaret and the Queen Mother at the Royal
Command Performance in London last November.
"It was the first time I ever felt British," he says.
"You know, you never think about royalty. But the
Queen Mother, she was a nice lady."

sunglasses both indoors and out, as a sort of

declaration of privacy. "John," says Brian Epstein,
the twenty-nine-year-old personal manager who
discovered the Beatles, "is the most intellectual of
the boys." Though he has a habit of falling asleep at
odd moments, he is also the most intense and has
a temper that reddens his face at the slightest rub.
At a cocktail party in the British embassy after the
Beatles' Washington concert, John found himself
besieged by dignitaries, their wives and girlfriends,
all of whom were thrusting autograph books at him
with such official commands as, "Look, sign this for
my daughter! Cawn't think why she likes you! Must
be out of her mind." Finally John pushed away the
pens. Forcing his way to the bar, he ordered a drink
and said, "These people are worse than the fans.
These people have no bloody manners. Now, the
Ambassador, I liked him; we talk the same
language. But I wouldn't give a thank you for his
friends." At that moment a young embassy official
approached John and said, "Come now and do your
stuff." John glared back. "I'm not going back
through that crowd I want a drink," he said. "Oh
yes you are," the official said imperiously. Livid,
John turned to Ringo and said, "I'm getting out of
here!" With a smile, Ringo put an arm on John's
shoulder and said calmly, "Oh come on, let's get it
over with." The "stuff" consisted of drawing names
out of a box in a charity raffle.

He sits with his drums behind the group as the

other three perform, and he rarely sings, although
that is what he would most like to do. At twenty-five
he is the oldest of the Beatles, but he is at the
bottom of what sociologists would call their pecking
order. When he joined the group it already had a
record contract, and the unspoken feeling in the
quartet is that Ringo was hired by the other three.
When they disagree on anything, Ringo is the last
to get his way. "You'd be nowhere," Paul McCartney
says to him in the ultimate squelch, "if it weren't for
the rest of us."
The fans call Paul the handsome one, and he
knows it. The others in the group call Paul "The
Star." He does most of the singing and most of the
wiggling, trying to swing his hips after the fashion of
Elvis Presley, one of his boyhood idols. In the
British equivalent of high school, Paul was mostly in
the upper ranks scholastically, unlike the other
Beatles. "He was like, you know, a goody-goody in
school," remembers one of Paul's boyhood friends.
He also, as another former classmate remembers
him, was a "tubby little kid" who avoided girlish
rejections by avoiding girls.

John began with ideas of becoming a painter,

spending two years at the Liverpool Art Institute. He
also writes short stories and poems, a collection of
which, combined with his sketches, is being
published in London. He has since written two
books, In His Own Write and A Spaniard in the
Works. One editor calls Lennon's literary efforts
"British hip, a sort of conglomeration of funny Lewis
Carroll jabberwocky and an almost Joycean word
play."

Paul, who plays bass guitar, wears the same tight

pants that are part of the uniform of the Beatles,
although he often distinguishes himself by a vest.
"Paul," says one member of the troupe, "is the only
one of the boys who's had it go to his head."
Sometimes, talking with the other Beatles, he finds
himself using accents much more high-toned than
the working-class slang of Liverpool, where he grew
up. When he does, John Lennon mockingly mimics
him.

When John first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show,

a subtitle identifying him carried the parenthetical
message, "Sorry, girls, he's married." His wife
Cynthia is a quietly beautiful twenty-one-year-old
blonde whom he met at the Liverpool Art Institute
and whom the newspapers now call, to the
Lennons' disgust, "Mrs. Beatle." When the Beatles
traveled from New York to Washington, she wore a
black wig so she could get through the crowd. In
Washington, she remained alone in her hotel room.
In Miami Beach, she sunbathed by herself. "Ever
since the boys became famous," says Cynthia, "it's
become more and more difficult for me to see
John." They have an infant son, John, whom the
newspapers call, again to their disgust, "Baby
Beatle." When the Lennons have business visitors,
Cynthia serves tea and recedes into the
background.

Paul and John have collaborated in writing more

than 100 songs, including such hits as 'I Want to
Hold Your Hand' and 'She Loves You'. "None of us
really knows how to read or write music," says Paul.
"The way we work it is like: just whistling. John will
whistle at me, and I'll whistle back at him."
John doesn't smile when he sings. "That's
because," says Neil Aspinall, the twenty-two-yearold road manager who grew up in Liverpool with the
Beatles, "he's giving you his soul." He likes to wear

116

John is the leader of the Beatles. "We have no

leader," he might argue with some annoyance.
"We're a team, y' know, pull together and all that."
As a matter of fact, each Beatle has a veto on what
the four of them do together. "But it's John who
usually wins out," says one of their friends. "John is
the hippest and the sharpest of the lot. They've all
learned from him. Even their humor, the way they're
always sending people up, they got that from John."

George's ambition, he say, is to retire with "a

whacking great pile of money." He recalls that in the
early days of the group in Liverpool, "we got what
would work out to two dollars a night apiece and
all the soda we could drink. We drank until that stuff
came out of our ears, to make sure we got our
money's worth."
Although by no means the quietest of the Beatles,
because none of them really is quiet, George
remains the least prominent. At a press conference
for fan magazines in New York's Plaza Hotel, a
young woman asked, "Mr. Starr is known for his
rings, Mr. McCartney obviously for his looks, and
Mr. Lennon for his wife. What about you, Mr.
Harrison?" George swallowed a bite of chicken
sandwich, fluttered his long eyelashes in the same
manner that Paul often does, and answered, "As
long as I get an equal share of the money, I'm
willing to stay anonymous."

Just twenty-three, George Harrison is the youngest

of the Beatles. "He doesn't have the maturity of the
others, so he tends to play it a little safe," says a
member of the troupe. "It's as if he is the baby of
the family." Being the baby of the family is a role to
which George is accustomed. The son of a bus
driver, he is the youngest of four children. "George
was always the one who tried to please," says his
sister, Mrs. Louise Caldwell, the pretty platinumblond wife of an engineer who lives in the Midwest.
"When the fire needed more coal, he would always
say, 'Mummy, I'll do it. Let me get the shovel.' Or,
when we'd be going to church, George would polish
everyone's boots."

These are the Beatles the four young men who

brought with them to America a phenomenon
known as Beatlemania. So far, Beatlemania has
traveled over two continents. In Stockholm, the
arrival of the Beatles was greeted with teenage
riots. In Paris another congregation held screeching
services at the airport and the Beatles'
performances at the Olympia Theater were sold out
for three weeks. In the Beatles' native Liverpool,
sixty youngsters collapsed from exposure after
standing all night in a mile-long line of 12,000
waiting to buy tickets to the Beatles' performance.
When a foreman shut off the radio in the middle of a
Beatles record at a textile mill in Lancashire, 200
girls went out on strike.

George plays lead guitar for the Beatles, often with

a look of unconcern that seems to reflect a desire to
be strumming elsewhere. "Well," he says, "the
songs that Paul and John write, they're all right, but
they're not the greatest."
His boyhood idols were guitarists Chet Atkins and
Duane Eddy, although he recently discovered
Andres Segovia. He listens on the radio to other
pop artists from the start of his day, which often
begins when road manager Aspinall drags the boys
out of bed at 10:30 to keep some 10 A.M. date. He
keeps a transistor radio in his hand, even during
conversations. He adjusts the volume according to
his interest in what is being said.

While the Beatles toured the United States, three of

their singles were in the top six and their albums
ranked one and two in the record-popularity charts.
Beatle wigs were selling at three dollars apiece,
high-school boys were combing their forelocks
forward, and hairdressers were advertising Beatle
cuts for women. Beatle hats, T-shirts, cookies,
eggcups, ice cream, dolls, beach shirts, turtleneck
pullovers, nighties, socks and iridescent blue-andgreen collarless suits were on the market, and a
Beatle motor scooter for children and a
Beatlemobile for adults were being readied for
production. "I think everyone has gone daft," says
John. Adds Ringo, "Anytime you spell 'beetle' with
an 'a' in it, we get the money." In 1964, Beatlelicensed products grossed $50,000,000 in America
alone. As for the Beatles, their total income that
year reached $14,000,000.

"You have to be very careful of what you say to

George," says disc jockey Murray (the K) Kaufman
of New York's WINS, who glad-handed the Beatles
when they stepped off the plane in New York and
who was George's roommate when the Beatles
traveled to Miami Beach. "You have to be sure that
every word means what you want it to mean. He
takes what you say very literally."
"George, as a matter of fact," says manager Brian
Epstein, "is the only one who asks questions. He's
the only one who takes an active interest in the
business aspect of the Beatles. He wants to know
how I book them, how the discs are distributed, and
everything that has to do with the financial working."

It all began in Liverpool, a smog-aired, dockfront

city that overlooks the Mersey River. When the
Beatles first put their brows together eight years

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ago, there were an estimated 100 rock-'n'-roll

groups in the city. Today Liverpool is the pop-music
capital of the British Isles, and what newspapers
have come to call "the Mersey sound" dominates
the English hit parade. "Do you want to know what
the Mersey sound is?" says one American critic.
"It's 1956 American rock bouncing back at us."

Nevertheless, that hype helped stir the interest of

thousands of fans who greeted the Beatles at
Kennedy Airport. Many thousands more waited for
them at New York's Plaza Hotel. Outside the hotel,
stacked up against barricades, the mob chanted,
"We want the Beatles! We want the Beatles!"
According to one maid, the Beatles found three girls
hiding in their bathtub. Dozens of others climbed
the fire exit to the twelfth-floor wing in which the
Beatle entourage had been ensconced. Still others,
with the names and pocket-books of prominent
families, checked in at the hotel and tried to get the
Beatles via the elevators.

In the beginning, the group was called the

Quarrymen Skiffle Group, then the Moondogs, and
then the Moonshiners. John, Paul, and George
were in the original group; Ringo Starr joined in
1962. Hired in 1959 for a job in Hamburg, Germany,
the Beatles worked their way up to a wage of $25 a
week, and became one of the main attractions
along the Reeperbahn.

On the twelfth floor the Beatles rested in their suite,

while the phones rang with requests for interviews
and autographs. One call was from a man who
wanted to produce Beatle ash trays. Another was
from a promoter in Hawaii who wanted to book the
Beatles.

"When they got back to Liverpool, that's when they

really started to swing," says Neil Aspinall. It was
then that Brian Epstein discovered them. A
delicately mannered young man who once wanted
to be a dress designer, Epstein at the time was in
charge of the television-radio-records department of
his father's department-store chain. When several
customers began demanding Beatle records,
Epstein signed them up, got them a test with Decca
Records (they flunked), then brought them to
Electric and Musical Industries Ltd.

Telegrams came in by the handful, and boxes

loaded with fan mail. "We get 12,000 letters a day,"
Ringo later said. "Yeah," added John. "We are
going to answer every one of them." The road
managers, meanwhile, were busy signing the
Beatles' autographs for them, and the room-service
waiters kept bringing up tables loaded all sorts of
drinks. Murray the K also came in, bringing with him
the Ronettes, an American recording group of three
exotic-looking girls. "We met the Beatles in Europe,"
one of them said, as if she were singing it.

"They were impressive it was like striking oil,"

recalls an E.M.I official. "I remember I gave them
back their first tape and told them, 'If there's
anything you don't like, let me know.' And George
came right back and said, 'Well, I don't like your tie
for a start.'"

As the Beatles' stay at the Plaza extended, so did

the throngs. Each time the Beatles left the hotel, the
mobs would break through police lines in a jumble
of lost shoes, falling girls, and Beatle sweat shirts. A
deputy chief inspector of police accused the
Beatles' press agents of bringing in teenagers by
the busload. The Beatles, meanwhile, spent their
time watching TV, dining at the 21 Club, sightseeing
from their car, twisting at the Peppermint Lounge,
and flirting with waitresses.

In short order the Beatles had four hits, and

teenage mobs began following the Beatles
throughout England. But it wasn't until they played
London's Palladium and several thousand fans
mobbed them that all Beatles became national
heroes. They had to be rescued by police. "Well,
there were no assassinations that day," recalls
Brian Sommerville. "There were no wars, no
invasions, no great crises of state, and the Beatles
were the only good story the London dailies had, so
they gave it a big display."

The remainder of the Beatles' tour of America was

more of the same. In Washington, to which the
Beatles traveled aboard a private railroad car called
the "King George," 2,000 teenage fans mobbed the
locked metal gates of Union Station. At their concert
in the Coliseum that night the Beatles were
showered with flash-bulbs, hair rollers, caramels,
and jelly beans, in some instances a bagful at a
time. "They hurt," Ringo said afterward. "They felt
just like hailstones."

In the United States, Capitol Records, which has

first rights to any E.M.I release, originally turned
down the Beatles' records. As the craze grew, it not
only issued them but poured $50,000 into a
promotion campaign. "Sure there was a lot of
hype," says Capitol vice-president Voyle Gilmore.
"But all the hype in the world isn't going to sell a
bad product."

When they flew to Miami, they were greeted at the

airport by a chimpanzee, four bathing beauties, a
four-mile long traffic jam, and 7,000 teenagers, who
shattered twenty-three windows and a plate-glass

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door. The flight engineer of the plane wore a Beatle

wig. As they were getting off, the wife of the
president of National Airlines came aboard with two
teenage girls, but was blocked by Sommerville, who
stormed, "No, no, madam! We cannot spend time
giving autographs to employees' families."

performers like Mayfield, Keith Richard and Mick

Jagger of the Rolling Stones, and the Beach Boys
who attempt something new, these 13 years of
evolution and synthesis provide a rich tradition of
themes of rhythms, harmonies, and effects to
create upon. No one has done this more
successfully or with more verve than John Lennon
and Paul McCartney.

After their American tour, the Beatles flew back to

England to make their first movie. When they
stopped off at Kennedy Airport to change planes for
London, they again found several thousand
teenage fans screaming from the observation roof,
after waiting there for hours. Four girls collapsed.
When it was all over, America relaxed again.

The duo's claim on immortality can be established

purely by their commercial success. In the three
and a half years since 'Love Me Do' became the
first Beatles hit, they have published eighty-eight
songs (not including another hundred or so, some
dating back to the earliest days in Hamburg and
Liverpools Cavern Club, which have never been
published or recorded).

Al Aronowitz, 1964
Lennon and McCartney: Songwriters A
Portrait from 1966

By February 1, 1966, the eighty-eight LennonMcCartney songs had been recorded in 2,921
versions, and by now the figure must be well over
three thousand. They have been recorded by other
beat groups like Billy J. Kramer, the Rolling Stones,
Peter and Gordon; jazz singers like Ella Fitzgerald;
rhythm and blues groups like the Supremes; ballad
singers like Marianne Faithfull; dance orchestras of
every variety and singers in every country of the
world to which electricity has penetrated.

Michael Lydon, unpublished, March 1966

Just after the release of Rubber Soul, I had the
chance to meet John Lennon and Paul McCartney
in London, and I conducted in-depth interviews with
them about their songwriting. The following piece,
used as a research file for Newsweek, has never
before been printed ML

Versions by the Beatles have by now sold close to

200 million record tracks; total sales of all
Lennon/McCartney-recorded compositions must be
pushing half a billion. Only songwriters established
for 30 years or more, giants like Cole Porter,
Rodgers and Hart, Irving Berlin, and Jerome Kern,
could hope to match the records set by the two
boys in three years. And when their life as
performing Beatles begins to die a natural death,
their lives as writers become increasingly important
to them.

IT IS NOW ABOUT A DOZEN YEARS since the pop

music revolution since Alan Freed began to play,
instead of soupy white imitations, straight rhythm
and blues in New York and called it rock'n'roll; since
Wild Bill Haley and his Comets roared to the top of
the Top Ten with 'Shake, Rattle and Roll'; since the
advent of the 45 rpm record and the post-war
prosperity stretched that Top Ten into the Top 40,
and even the Top 100.
Despite adult accusations of the sameness of all
the bleating sounds, pop has changed many times
in those years. Those "indistinguishable" songs
from the teenagers transistors have in fact been
the country rock sounds of Carl Perkins, Gene
Vincent or the Everly Brothers; the sweet
harmonizing of the Platters, the Shirelles, the
Drifters or the Five Satins; the plaintive blues
orchestrations of Curtis Mayfields Impressions; the
funny, guttural blues of Chuck Berry or the
Coasters; and the jazzed-up beat of the Tamla
Motown groups, the Miracles, Marvelettes, and
Martha and the Vandellas.

The extraordinary response to their songs, aside

from their appeal as Beatles, indicates their
instinctive feel for the pop idiom developed from a
lifetime immersion, to the exclusion of all else, in
popular music. Growing up in Liverpool, they
absorbed both the fruity tradition of music hall
ballads and the constant imports of popular records
from America. John was a poet first, scribbling
verses as soon as he could write, then writing his
first song when he had learned one chord on a
guitar at the age of 14. Paul met him in the mid-'50s
when skiffle, an English adaptation of American folk
music, was popular, and the team began work
instantaneously.

The list merely hints at the diversity. Most of the

songs, however, are poor, quickly recorded
imitations of a seemingly successful formula written
by songwriters with a facile ear for discerning what
sound has "teen feel". But for those few writers and

"When I first met John, hed written the words to a

skiffle song," Paul told a British journalist recently.
"It still had a skiffley sound, but hed changed the

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words to Come and go with me, Down at the

Penitentiaree or something like that. Then I did
one, When I Lost My Little Girl, with the three
chords I knew at the time. We got out of that stage
and worked out chords together. We used to play
truant and go to his house or mine and mess about
all afternoon. It was a great feeling of escape. One
song of that era was Love Me Do. It wasnt good,
but it was only a little bit worse than the kind of
things on the hit parade then."

anybody can pinch bits from other songs, but not

everybody can get the same result. You dont just
stick it together. We go into the studio with a song,
play it over and talk about what other groups it
sounds like. Then we see how we want to do it, and
we end up with our interpretation of their style."
The second LP, With The Beatles, is still from the
early days, but the Lennon-McCartney trademarks
are stronger: the choppy rhythm section at
beginning and end with a more melodic chorus
section in between. Their arrangements are more
complex: John introduces organ behind the drums,
and they call in their producer George Martin to play
piano. 'Not A Second Time' shows more concern
with melody, and they try for the first time a heavy
blues song, 'I Wanna Be Your Man', which became
the Rolling Stones first hit record.

In those days when they were still the Quarrymen

and then the Silver Beatles, they were fans of Little
Richard, Buddy Holly, Elvis, Carl Perkins, and
Chuck Berry, and in the four or five-hour sessions at
the Cavern Club they pounded out their versions of
the American hits over and over again. The
Liverpool scene, then swarming with groups, many
now long disbanded, was also a formative
influence.

According to Dick James, head of Northern Songs,

which publishes all their music, by this time John
and Paul were extremely competent commercial
songwriters. "Take From Me to You," James said
last week. "It is a perfect Tin Pan Alley song,
extremely commercial. It could have been written
30 years ago and will be listened to in another 30
years. It is simple, direct, repetitive, yet touching in
an odd way. There are no frills, but it supports one
idea. There is nothing special about it, but it is good
a standard pop song as has ever been written."

"If we hadnt played so long or so much, we never

would have made it," John told me last week. "It
was a funny place, Liverpool then. You were half
friends with the other groups, half rivals. In a way it
was like a school of painting developing among a
group, but people who see the school side forget
there were jealousies and feuds. Sure, we learned
from the others; you couldnt help it. But we were
smart heads, we thought from the start we were
better. We were the only group then writing songs,
so we used to say we had written about a hundred,
even though it was only thirty, Some of those are
lost by now. We had one, Thats My Woman
Standing Over There, Ive forgotten how it went."

Each of these LPs were heavily interspersed with

American songs, and the songs Lennon and
McCartney wrote had for the most part been written
long before they were famous. A Hard Day's Night
marks the first real break with what John calls "the
cocoon of Liverpool. All the things there we
dropped. It was like going to the next class in
school."

The early songs on their first LP, Please Please Me

the name taken from their first hit single show
these influences clearly, and, in fact, includes
several covers of songs by American groups. 'PS, I
Love You' has a melody and harmony straight from
the Shirelles; 'I Saw Her Standing There' is a
mixture of Chuck Berrys beat and Little Richards
falsetto. 'Thank You Girl' has the ooh-ooh sound in
the back up vocals that was a Buddy Holly
trademark. But even there they were able to mix
different sounds so that no song was simply an
imitation. 'P.S.' has an an almost calypso beat, John
plays a very bluesy harmonica on many tracks, and
some songs have a bit of Holly, a bit of Little
Richard plus the quick, driving beat, and
Liverpudlian "Yeah Yeahs" that owed nothing to
anyone but themselves.

The film began shooting in the winter of 1964, and

for the first time they had to write on demand. "I
remember during the filming we needed the title
song," recalls producer Walter Shenson. "Dick
James mentioned it to them, the title came from
Ringo, the boys got to work, and they had written,
arranged, rehearsed, and recorded the song in just
over 24 hours." With their success they were more
confident and more professional. The LP includes
two of Pauls most beautiful ballads 'If I Fell' and
'And I Love Her'. Both match in the setting of a
mood and the restrained sweetness of melody any
of the older standards, and are both well on their
way to becoming standards themselves to be
played at every dance with 'Smoke Gets in Your
Eyes'. 'And I Love Her' has been recorded 132
times. The lyrics are not sophisticated, rather as
innocently direct as adolescent love:

"Theres nothing wrong with pinching ideas from

other people," Paul told me. "Everybody does it
Handel did it but most people arent as honest as
Handel or us. Its the same thing as abstract art.
Anybody can throw paint on canvas just like

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I give her all my love

Thats all I do
And if you saw my love
Youd love her too
And I love her...

Paul. "Thats how we feel about the early stuff and

Rubber Soul. Thats who we are now. People have
always wanted us to stay the same, but we cant
stay in a rut. No one else expects to hit a peak at 23
and never develop, so why should we? Rubber
Soul for me is the beginning of my adult life." As
Paul told Francis Wyndham in an article in London
Life, "You cant be singing 15-year-old songs at 20
because you dont think 15-year-old thoughts at 20
a fact that escapes a lot of people."

'If I Fell', with the lines "Cause Ive been in love

before/ I found that love was more than just holding
hands", is, if not a great lyric poem, a wonderfully
straight statement of the hesitancy of teenage love.
The title 'A Hard Day's Night' lets them express
Liverpool slang for the first time, as does 'Eight
Days a Week'. 'I Should Have Known Better' is a
chance to explore rhythm while 'Tell Me Why' gets a
Tamla-Motown style opening, another instance of
them mixing styles.

Part of this excitement is purely an excitement

about the present, and both boys admit it. But the
songs of Rubber Soul do mark a new maturity, both
in music and lyrics. Steve Race, a well-known
British jazz critic who has long been a Lennon and
McCartney fan, admits he was astonished when he
first heard the LP. "When heard Michelle I couldnt
believe my ears," he said in heated excitement
recently. "The second chord is an A-chord, while the
note in the melody above is A-flat. This is an
unforgivable clash, something no one brought up
knowing older music could ever have done. It is
entirely unique, a stroke of genius. In fact, when
Billy Vaughn recorded it, his arranger was so
attuned to the conventional way of thinking he didnt
even hear what the boys had done, and wrote an Aflat into the chord below taking all the sting out. I
suppose it was sheer musical ignorance that
allowed John and Paul to do it, but it took incredible
daring. And Girl, why, its like a folk song from
some undiscovered land, its so new the
alternation from major to minor is fantastic. The use
of the sitar on Norwegian Wood, plus the
involutions of the opening three phrases, is sheer
brilliance."

*
WITH A HARD DAY'S NIGHT, THEN, the Beatles
began their maturity. The fourth LP, Beatles For
Sale, the single 'I Feel Fine'/'Shes A Woman', and
the LP from Help! continued their exploring of their
talents. "We started off first with songs like 'Love Me
Do', with easy, stupid rhymes that didnt mean very
much," Paul says. "Then we moved to a middle
bunch of songs which meant a little bit more. Not an
awful lot more, but they were a little deeper. There
was no mystery about our growth, it was only as
mysterious as a flower is mysterious. Theres no
more point in charting it than charting how many
teeth I had as a baby and how many I have now.
Nobody thought that was miraculous, except
perhaps my mother. We were just growing up."
Of these songs virtually all are better than their
early output. Their lyrics improve: the melancholy of
"Please lock me away, and dont allow the day here
inside/Where I hide with my loneliness"; the
Dylanesque rhymes of "Gather round all you
clowns/Let me hear you say, hey, youve got to hide
your love away"; and the poignancy of "Suddenly
Im not half the man I used to be/Theres a shadow
hanging over me." The harmonies and counterpoint
of 'Youre Going to Lose That Girl', the strings on
'Yesterday', the rowdy cocksure mood of 'Another
Girl' all marked steps forward.

Paul himself talked for two hours on Rubber Soul to

Francis Wyndham. On 'The Word': "This could be a
Salvation Army Song. The word is love, but it could
be Jesus (it isnt mind you, but it could be). 'Its so
fine, its sunshine, its the word'. Its about nothing,
really, but its about love. Its so much more original
than our old stuff, less obvious. Give the word a
chance to say/ That the word is just the way then
the organ comes in, just like the Sally Army."
On 'We Can Work It Out' (released as a separate
single in Britain): "The middle eight is the best it
changes the beat to a waltz in the middle. The
original arrangement was terrible, very skiffley.
Then at the session George Martin had the idea of
splitting the beat completely. The words go on at a
double speed against the slow waltz music."

During the fall of 1965, in two weeks of constant

writing and recording, they produced Rubber Soul,
which, they feel, marks an almost total break with
what they had done before. "You dont know us now
if you dont know Rubber Soul," says John. "All our
ideas are different now."

On 'Girl': "Johns been reading a book about pain

and pleasure, about the idea behind Christianity
that to have pleasure you have to have pain. The
book says thats all rubbish; it often happens that

"If someone saw a picture of you taken two years

ago and said that was you, youd say it was a load
of rubbish and show them a new picture," adds

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pain leads to pleasure, but you dont have to have

it, thats all a drag. So weve written a song about it.
'Was she told when she was young that pain would
lead to pleasure/ Did she understand it when they
said, that a man must break his back to earn his
day of leisure/ will she still believe it when hes
dead?' Listen to Johns breath on the word 'girl': we
asked the engineer to put it on treble, so you get
this huge intake of breath and it sounds just like a
percussion instrument."

answer as truthfully as possible, but avoid getting

involved in detailed discussion of how and why they
have changed. "It all comes back to this," Paul said
after an hours talk. "We just happen to be
songwriters. We write songs that people like. We
wrote worse songs, we hope to write better songs."
They are almost as vague about the process of
writing the songs. Paul has just begun to learn
written notation and for practice recently wrote a
simple piece for his girlfriend, Jane Asher, who
plays classical guitar. Otherwise they write in their
heads or work out a tune on a guitar. "Ive never sat
down to write a simple song," John explained to me.
"I might think the song wont be complex, but Im
not of those writers who chomp out songs to a
formula. The beginning idea could be anything on
earth. A bit of melody might come to me, and if it
sticks, Ill find my guitar and play it into a tape
recorder, try to fool with it and extend it. Maybe Id
call Paul up and tell him to come over and well
work on it together. Norwegian Wood started as a
guitar bit. I was just fiddling when it came to me. It
almost never got written, but then I found some
time."

All the lyrics are imaginative, either probing

problems usually too serious for pop songs or
having touches of the wildly inventive humour that
marks Lennons poetry. Part of 'Norwegian Wood',
written by John after a late night and a hangover,
Goes: "I had a girl, or should I say she once had
me/ She showed me her room, isnt it good,
Norwegian wood, She asked me to stay and she
told me to sit anywhere, I looked around and I
noticed there wasnt a chair."
Every song on the LP has something new. This
time, instead of picking up a country and western
song for Ringo to sing they wrote their own: 'What
Goes On'. They fulfil an ambition of long standing in
writing 'Drive My Car', a near perfect one-note song
in which, strictly speaking, there is no melody but
the rhythmic singing of one note. "Melodic songs
are in fact quite easy to write," Paul told me. "To
write a good song with just one note in it like
'Long Tall Sally' is really very hard."

*
IN LIVERPOOL, IDEAS USED TO come from
playing together, and a new song might have grown
from improvisation on stage. Now, except for
occasional late night sessions when they play for
their own enjoyment, they tend to develop ideas on
their own. Many songs, however, get written just by
sitting down to write. "When we have an LP to do,
we know have to write twelve songs, so we will sit
down to write a raver or a ballad on order," said
John. "We want to write more this way, Ive never
liked the idea of going to an office just to write, but
we might do this soon. Otherwise a lot of ideas,
good ones, get lost."

Into 'Im Looking Through You', a piece with a loping

beat, they stick riffs of what is known in England as
"rave-up" guitar, until it comes out as part country
and western and part blues-shout. And yet, despite
all the innovation and the radical expansion of the
pop idiom on Rubber Soul, the LP has become their
biggest seller to date. That is one of the advantages
in being both a Beatle and a songwriter, Paul says.
"We are so well established that we can bring the
fans along with us and stretch the limits of pop. We
dont have to follow what everyone else is doing."

Many songs John and Paul write together, both

doing words and music; others are done solo. But
just as they are distinct personalities, their musical
abilities differ. Paul, more open, gentle, and
articulate, tends to write the "soppier" songs
"John doesnt like to show hes sentimental; I dont
mind." John, a deeper, more explosive, and
enigmatic person, is more willing to try less
conventional sounds. John also tends toward a
greater interest in lyrics; Paul towards music. But
their tastes and personalities complement each
other, and they are close and trusting friends, a rare
thing in creative partnerships.

Like many artists, however, Lennon and McCartney

find it both difficult and hardly relevant to explain in
words what they are doing and how they do it.
When a now-famous January 1963 article in The
Times referred flatteringly to their use of
"Aeolian cadences" and "chains of pandiatonic
clusters, "melismas," and "submediant switches,"
they were as baffled as the ordinary fan. They do
not find extraordinary what they have done. In
interviews there is hardly a trace of introspection or
critical analysis of their work. If pressed they try to

"A perfect example of how we work is Drive My

Car, Paul said. "I wrote it with the repetitive line

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being 'You can give me golden rings'. When I

played it to John at the recording session, he said,

Mirror] would say What would they do without

amplifiers? But thats as silly as saying, If God
wanted us to smoke, hed have given us chimneys.
We havent got chimneys, but we smoke so
what?" What would the theatre be without a stage
and make-up, or movies without a camera?"

Crap! It was too soft. I thought about it and knew

he was right, so we went on to other songs, then
that night we spent hours trying to get a better idea.
Finally we ended up with You can drive my car.
The idea of the bitchy girl was the same, but it gave
the song a better story line, and made the key line
much more effective."

Both men say that other influences are hard to pin

down. "If we say we are influenced by someone or
we like them, that will make them too important. Our
best influences now are ourselves," says Paul. "We
listen to records every day, a big mixture of stuff,"
says John. "You cant pick out anyone person." But
John did mention Steve Cropper, guitarist/writer
with Booker T. and The MGs, suggesting that they
would like to have Cropper produce Beatle
recording sessions. Paul mentioned a wide range of
people he likes now: from groups like the
Marvelettes and rhythm and blues singer Otis
Redding, through Stockhausen and John Cage, and
onto Albert Ayler, a pioneer of random jazz. Cage,
he felt, is too random. "I like to get ideas randomly
but then develop them within a frame." As an
afterthought he put forward the Fugs, a New York
group who sing wildly obscene songs, purposely
using verbal shock as a musical technique. "Its like
a new development in discordancy. Anyway, its new
and very funny," he explained.

Lyric ideas come on everywhere. They once wrote

a song called 'Thinking of Linking', picking up the
phrase from the television commercial for the Link
Furniture Company. Noting the ambiguous
meaning, however, they never recorded it. Some of
Johns ideas stay semi-conscious for years before
they come out as songs. As a child he was amused
by a religious motto that hung in his home:
"However black the clouds may be, in time theyll
pass away. Have faith and trust and you will see,
Gods light make bright your day." This appeared in
Spaniard in the Works, Johns second book, as:
"However Blackpool tower may be, in time theyll
bass away. Have faith and trump and B.B.C., Griffs
light make bright your day." And in the song 'Tell Me
What You See' as:

Summed up, their musical achievements have been

breathtaking. Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, and Richard
Rodgers all had written songs, and good ones, by
their early twenties, but none could have matched
the sheer output, range, or originality of John
Lennon and Paul McCartney, aged 25 and 23
respectively. Yet they feel they have done nothing
extraordinary, rather that they have just begun, and
fairly modestly at that.

Big and black the clouds will be,

Time will pass away
If you put your trust in me,
Ill make bright your day.
Both stress that since they do not write their songs
down, the finished record is really the song they
write. In the studio they do most of the arranging,
but are aided by George Martin, who has recorded
everything they have done, and by the inventive
playing of George Harrison and Ringo Starr.
Though they would blanch at the comparison, they
are rather like Duke Ellington, who writes and
arranges with particular musicians in mind. "George
Martin is important because he knows what we
want," John told me. "He acts as a translator
between us and Norman Smith, the engineer who
actually runs the recording machines."

In interviews they stress over and over again the

obvious facts: they have been at the game seriously
just over six years; that much of their early work
was adolescent and imitative; that they can hope to
live and create for another forty years; and that they
have total financial freedom to develop in any way
they please.
"None of us has barely started," Paul says. "At first
we wanted to make money, now weve got it, a
fantastic platform of money to dive off into anything.
People say weve had a fantastic success and that
is all. We dont look at it that way. We look at our
lives as a whole, think in terms of forty more years
of writing. I wouldnt mind being a white-haired old
man writing songs, but Id hate to be a white-haired
old Beatle at the Empress Stadium, playing for
people. We might write longer pieces, film scores
I know we want to write the whole score of our next
film. We might write specifically for other people,

Now they are interested in getting more

complicated electronic effects, using more overdubbing, feedback, and "hyping" their sounds. One
of their biggest recent influences has been a newly
popular British group, the Who, who use
tremendous amounts of feedback. "They started us
thinking again," Paul said. "We had that feedback
idea in I Feel Fine but the Who went farther and
made all kinds of weird new sounds. I suppose
Donald Zec [a disparaging music critic on the Daily

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write for different instrument you name it, and its

possible we could do it."

A Conversation with Paul McCartney

Miles, International Times, November 1966

Their development has already, in fact, brought

them fully around one circle: Marshall Chess, head
of Chess Records which records Chuck Berry, has
asked John and Paul to write songs for Berry, who
until now has written all his songs himself. The boys
now influence their influences.

This was recorded at Paul's house in Cavendish

Avenue, Saint John's Wood in November 1966 for
International Times, known as IT, the London
Underground newspaper. It was Paul's suggestion
that I interview him so that IT, could get some
record company advertising.

John and Paul like to write songs and so far they

have hardly had to work at it. "Id never struggle
writing a song till it hurt," John says, "Id just forget it
and try something else." The direct sense of their
own enjoyment comes through in the songs. Each
one, from the first to the last, is a direct statement of
a simple emotional idea. Perhaps in some cases
the emotion is a juvenile one. They would be the
first to admit that. Yet each song is honest. None
has the syrupy sentimentality of the songs written
by adults for teenagers. This transparent honesty is
the key to both the appeal and quality of songs. In
that way their work is a perfect mirror of
themselves, the boys whose candid simplicity has
baffled and annoyed their elders.

Before the conversation began, Paul played me an

acetate of 'Strawberry Fields' which they had just
recorded and we also smoked a joint, as is probably
obvious to the reader. The interview is really just a
recorded conversation as I had not prepared any
questions in advance. The conversation rambles on
into a number of different areas, but it shows the
frame of mind that Paul was in just as he was about
to embark upon the Sgt. Pepper recording
sessions. Because it was not for a normal
newspaper or magazine, and because I knew him
as a friend, we were able to deal with subjects that
he could not possibly talk about with a regular
journalist.Miles: How about talking about
environment? Is that important to you at all - in
ordinary living rather than the studio environment?

"One thing that modern philosophy, existentialism

and things like that, has taught people, is that you
have to live now," says Paul. "You have to feel now.
We live in the present, we dont have time to figure
out whether we are right or wrong, whether we are
immoral or not. We have to be honest, be straight,
and then live, enjoying and taking what we can."

Paul: Yes, it's important. But it's important just on

the one level. Just because it's there, because it
has to be, you have to have an environment of
some kind.
M: Which do you find you function most easily in? I
mean, is London a good environment for you?

Each song can stand as a statement of that idea.

Thus any comparison of their work with that of
earlier generations of songwriters is beside the
point, not just because the boys have been totally
grounded in the idioms of rock n roll, but because
their rough and straightforward presentation has no
more to do with Cole Porters ironic sophistication
than Levi's and the direct fashions of today have to
do with the gauzy silks of the the Thirties.

P: No it's all the same, the world's the same

environment, that's all one environment that. I
thought you were talking about that environment
there. (pointing to settee & chairs)
M: More that tables and chairs.
P: No I think of it all as one environment, the world
as it is going on now.

To stretch a point, Lennon and McCartneys music

is pop art, not just pop music; but unlike pop art,
which with time is increasingly evidencing its
sterility, their music shows every sign of deepening
in meaning and mood. Their work to date has
shown an unbounded, joyful inventiveness
unparalleled in popular music; it has also shown a
deep, if not "serious," insight into the emotions of
growing up. Nothing so far has curbed then. As
John and Paul grow, they are losing none of their
fey freedom or their youth. With that, as they have
proved, they can do anything.

M: You don't find that you have to create a special

one for yourself?
P: Doesn't matter any more. You see, it's important
just because you're in it, you know, to that extent.
But the specific little environments don't matter.
They used to, for instance, you go to America and
you've, and you suddenly realise it doesn't matter
where you are. You're still the same and people still
treat you the same and it's still the same kind of
scene. The environment stops mattering for that

Michael Lydon, 1966

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kind of thing, and it doesn't matter if you're in Bruce

Wayne's stately manor. It doesn't matter if it's the
stately manor deal or anything else because it's all
the same, everywhere. Everybody's exactly the
same in their treatment of the four of us for
instance. You see that's it - it's stopped becoming a
collection of little environments and its become one
big environment. . .

M: Perhaps we should start with music?

Yes, I don't know about the environment thing,

because you know, you just threw it out like a
question and immediately there's a lot of things to
think about. Because there I go saying everybody's
the same and I know they're not. No, the only drag
is that the words are pretty bad, you can't say much
with words.

P: There's been millions. We started off being

influenced by Carl Perkins and Chuck Berry and Bo
Diddley and people. But after a bit I think we just
got bored with 12 bars all the time so we tried to get
into something else. Then people came like Dylan,
The Who and The Beach Boys. I suppose with us
and all of them, we're all trying to do something,
vaguely the same kind of thing. We were all trying
to make it into something a bit, something we know
it is, but not many people know it is. Most people
just think it's all just pop you know. It's a bit below
every other kind of music, which of course it isn't.
But those influences, they're just the obvious ones,
they're just the obvious musical people we pinched
things off. But apart from then, anyway, there's lots
of things, I mean, I mean you might as well say
Hughie Greene (a UK TV Quiz Show presenter)
was a big influence on me, 'cause he was you
know. You know what I mean? Everybody is, they
all are.

P: Yes, right. I mean, not necessarily in the

interview because that's where people always put
music in interviews . . .
M: What about influences on your music? Do you
think there is anyone in particular?

M: Well, that takes us into the "everything is related"

thing we're always talking about. Everything else fits
into it.
P: I can only look at it as a whole now because the
way we were suddenly treated by people as stars
and as famous people changed it all. It didn't
change, people changed it for us and they started
making the whole thing all the same when they
started treating us the same everywhere, sort of
thing.
M: Has it made it easier for you to operate?

M: There are quite a lot of classical influences in

your music, particularly on things like 'Eleanor
Rigby,' the handling of the strings there. . .

P: Don't know really. Yes, it has a lot of things.

There's no sort of perfect thing. It makes it a bit
easier, then it makes it a bit more difficult to
compensate. So I really don't know about
environment.

P: I know that's a joke. I really don't like that kind of

classical music. I can't stand it. It's influenced me.
That's what I mean about Hughie Greene. It's all
things like that, that I just don't like but can see how
you could use them. Because Eleanor Rigby, if it
had been about anything else I think it would have
been a real mess, having the violins like that on
there, having it arranged like that. But it fitted, it was
just lucky that it fitted, I think I like that kind of sound
of things but I but I haven't got an LP for instance
like that, that I like. You see, I think we are being
influenced at the moment by what we know we
could do, and what we know we will eventually be
able to do. There's no great big idols now. That's
one of the main pities about making it in anything,
you look at things so objectively and they are no
longer idols, you just see them for what they are.
This is sometimes a great thing but you loose that
sort of fan thing. You loose the bit about being
influenced. So that's why I think we are getting
influenced now by ourselves, more and more. I
think, for instance, The Beach Boys are getting
influenced by themselves. . .

M: For some people it's all important. They have to

live in just the right part of town and have the right
sort of atmosphere on the streets otherwise they
feel anxious and can't function properly.
P: No, no, that doesn't bother me.
M: Let's try another one.
P: Yes, right, because that's a bit of a dead end.
You see the only trouble is, with a question like that,
we could just go on forever in it's answers. I see
what you mean.
M: I thought it was a good all - purpose. . .
P: Yes but it was too good, it's too good all purpose.
It throws you right into the middle of it all. Let's sort
of lead up to environment.

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M: Is what you are trying to do confined just to

music or is it extended to a general attitude?

he's done that, and how he's done that, and how
he's done that" and I'll learn from it. But I tend to
just take it in and file it instead of being knocked out
by it - unless it's something very special.

P: It's so difficult to say anything about it. Every

thing I say will come out just a little bit different. As it
leaves my mind and comes through my mouth it
gets a little bit fucked up where the words start.. .
.doing it. There is no end in view, there is nothing
we are trying to do. So it could be infinite but we
may get bored along the way and it may just sort of
fade but there is nothing we are definitely trying to
do. It isn't confined within music or within anything.
It can't be, nothing can be.

M: Does this apply to other art forms as well?

P: This is what I was trying to think of. With
everything, with any kind of thing, my aim seems to
be to distort it. Distort it from what we know it as,
even with music, with visual things. But the aim is to
change it from what it is to see what it could be. To
see the potential in it all. The point is to take a note
and wreck the note and see in that note what else
there is in it that a simple act like distorting it has
caused. It's the same with film. Take it and
superimpose on top of it so you can't quite tell what
it is anymore. It's all trying to create magic, it's all
trying to make things happen that you don't know
why they've happened. I'd like a lot more things to
happen like they did when you were kids when you
didn't know how the conjuror did it. And you were
happy to just sit there and say, "Well, it's magic!" I
know a lot of people now, if something magic
happened to them - I mean I use magic instead of
spiritual because it sounds as if it fits into too many
of the other categories, you know, spiritual
experience - But if something magic happened to
most people at the moment, they'd explain it by
taking a little cross-filing out of their brain and
saying: "Well, of course that doesn't happen you
know. There aren't ghosts." And they just explain it
with great realistic 20th century explanation for
ghosts: which is that there aren't ghosts! Which is
no fucking explanation at all! But I mean, still, that's
good enough for most people. They just say:" Well
it couldn't have been a ghost because there aren't
ghosts and it couldn't have been a sort of magic
vision that happened just then - I must have been a
bit drunk. I must have just been high then." And this
is it, so. . . But I don't believe that it just ends with a
western logical thought. It can't do because it's so
messed up anyway, most of it, just ordinary
everyday thought is so messed up that you've got to
allow for the possibility of there being a lot lot more
than we know about. Therefore to take things that
we already know about is one way: to bang one
note on the piano, instead of trying to put millions of
notes into it, just to take one note of the piano and
listen to it shows you what there is in one note.
There's so much going on in one note, but you
never listen to it! So many harmonics buzzing
around. that if all that's happening in one note and if
in one frame of a picture all that's happening. . . The
thing is, it could take a bit of looking into!

M: With the demolition of idols, do you find that you

are able to get a lot more from them. Because,
once you make someone a star then whatever they
are trying to say to say to the public automatically
gets distorted.
P: Well that's true. But there's the other thing about
a star and that's that it's nice to have a star. A lot of
people like it and I think I do. It's always exciting for
instance when someone's brought and plays you a
great record, when someone plays me a great
record . That's great you know to have some
incentive, to be able to think: "Oh great!", "So and
so's doing something great there", "Stockhausen's
on to something, be nice to do something like that".
So when you loose them as idols, that's the only
thing, it wrecks the incentive a little bit. Because
you're looking at them so objectively, you know just
what they are doing and you just see their scene
and it's better in a way that you don't see their
scene when you are a fan, from that point of view. I
mean, think of us as idols, and how many groups
must have started up because of it and how many
musical thoughts must have got going because of it.
I imagine that even the Beach Boys new scene was
in a way because of it - because they were sort of
going down and suddenly really took off with a
complete new thing in sounds.
M: Is this why you go back to people like Jarry
(French playwright Alfred Jarry) sometimes,
because he is dead, and you can't possibly meet
him and find that he's just an unpleasant little
Frenchman?
P: Yes, all right, there is that. I think that is true
actually. This is the thing I've noticed about
everything I seem to be doing. I'd prefer it if there
was such a thing as magic. You know, if magic
things happened, so that for instance there was
music. If magic happened in music. . . It used to for
me a lot, magic used to happen a lot more in music
for me until I started looking at it objectively after
having written a bit. Then, what is still magic for
other people, for me, it's a bit: "Well OK, I see why

M: In the last few thousand years man has lost what

used to be known as his soul. Just his materialistic

126

side has developed and built up and up so that now

we have just that one side.

about peace, because when you talk about peace,

you are a crank. You're pigeon-holed, you've
associated yourself with Viet-Nam and sitting down
in Trafalgar Square. And if you were to burn
yourself they'd know why you'd burned yourself so it
wouldn't matter that you'd burned yourself. So that's
it. There's this thing that's grown up out of this
materialist scene that everyone's got into: which is
that for everything to exist on a material level you've
got to be able to discount any things that happen
which don't fit in with it. And they're all very neatly
disposed of these days. It's great. It's really very
neat, I mean the way for instance IT would just be
immediately labelled as "just one of those papers,
that's all" and that's it. And pot is just that, pot is
"just drugs" and LSD is "just drugs" and every form
of drugs is "just the pit of iniquity, the black pit of
terrible decadent disgusting people always fall into."
There is no thought on anyone's part WHY anyone
takes drugs but there's thought on their part why
they take drink. They're quite willing to think about
why they take drink, why they need a drink though
they're not maybe willing to admit that they take a
drink to get drunk! I mean most people think: "Oh
no, no, no, I don't drink to get drunk! No, no, no, I
take a drink occasionally. I do take a drink at parties
but I must say I don't take a drink to get drunk." You
know, this sort of Annie Walker attitude to it all. . .
There's something sort of dirty about drinking to get
drunk, but if you do happen to get a bit drunk, it's all
right. But nobody will ever admit that they're all
standing there pissed because they wanted to get
pissed which is the truth of it. It must be the truth,
otherwise they'd stick to orangeade.

P: Right. But the drag about this is that everybody

having realised there aren't such things as ghosts,
there isn't such a thing as God, and there's no such
thing as a soul, and when you die you die. Which is
great, it's fine, it's a brave thought really. The only
trouble is, then, you don't have the bit that you did
when you were a kid for instance, of innocently just
accepting things. For instance, if a film comes on
that's superimposed and doesn't seem to mean
anything; immediately it's weird or it's strange, or it's
a bit funny to most people, and they tend to laugh at
it. The immediate reaction would be to laugh , and
that's wrong! That's the first mistake and that's the
BIG mistake that everyone makes: to immediately
discount anything they don't understand, they're not
sure of, and to say: "Well of course we'll never know
about that. I mean what is our brain anyway? Our
brain is not much!" There's all these fantastic
theories people put forward about "it doesn't matter
anyway" and IT DOES. It does matter! In fact that
matters more than anything . . . that side of it,
eventually. Because, you see, we've been in the
lucky position of having our child-hood ambitions
fulfilled. We've got all the big-house and big car and
everything. So that then, you stand on that plank
then, having reached the end of space, and you
look across the wall, and there's more space! And
that's it! You get your car and house and your fame
and your World Wide ego-satisfaction, then you just
look over the wall and there's a complete different
scene there, that it really is, and which is really the
scene. And looking back, obviously you can still see
everybody in the world trying to do it - trying to do
what you've just done, and that is what they believe
life's about! And it's right! Because that is what life's
about, at that moment, I suppose, for them. But,
you know, I could tell a few people that I can see a
few rungs further down the ladder, trying to do
exactly what I've just done: I could tell a few of
them: "That's completely the wrong way to do it,
because you're not taking into account this scene
on the other side of the wall. This is the bit you've
also got to take into account and then that bit will be
easier, it'll all be easier then!

You see then, the drag is then, that if you've seen

the possibility, not only the possibility, the probability
of there being many many more things than you
know at the moment. I mean, I told you for instance
that I didn't like dogs and cats, until I got a dog and
a cat and love them for what they are, just 'cause
they're dogs and cats. I'm quite willing to accept
that dogs and cats are dogs and cats. And I still find
that there's a vague little sort-of sadistic thing in me
about dogs and cats and if I ever have to punish her
(his dog Martha) I can do it quite easily. Which I
hate.

M: It's hard to take into account though, because to

gain material things there is a well established
method, but how do you investigate the other
scene?

M: If you're able to see everything in it's own terms,

do you find that this has eliminated the western
thing of finding some things beautiful and others
repulsive?

P: Well, did I tell you that George Martin was talking

to us in the recording studio and he came down and
he said: "Somebody wants to see you, somebody
wants to talk to you" and we said: "Who is it then?"
and he said: "Oh it's some crank talking about
peace." . . ..and he was right, it was a crank talking

P: No. You see, the pity about operating like this is

that my act is not adapted to this. All that I have
learned and the way I talk and the way I act doesn't
really fit in. There are still the kind of hang ups like
"I don't like dogs and therefore. . ." There is still a lot
of me which has learned a lot of wring things, that

127

has based a lot of things on fallacies. I can't just

accept everything, that's it, because I can't just
suddenly say, "Right, everything is as I know it is
and I know I ought to accept it all." It's difficult when
you've learned for 22 years of your life that it isn't
like that at all, and that everything is just the act and
everything is beautiful or ugly or you like it or you
don't, things are backward or they're foreword.

sure they're not. So I buy books but then I don't

read them. I leave it until these first two years have
had time to stick a bit more, have had time to. . .
You see, that's it, you need a bit of time to. . . It's
what most people do around this age anyway, one
way or another, but I'm lucky enough for instance
never to have to cut my hair to go and see anyone,
to impress anyone EVER again in my life. So,
obviously that bit of it now needs some adapting to
because always my natural reaction before going
out is to straighten up a bit, or it was. Now a days
there's no need and there's no point in it. and
unless I've got someone I specially want to impress
there's no need to do it. But, I still find myself doing
it so there's still a lot of that to sort out, but it can
makes it easier to talk to people because of that,
because. . . but it can also make it difficult because
if you say something according to the New Book of
the Prophet, they say things in reply to the Old
Testament, and you find yourself saying: "Well, yes,
but I don't quite mean that, I know it sounds like
that, but it's not what I mean, what I mean is,
working on a new assumption of everything being
fluid. . . " You know, you find yourself getting into
cock-ups with words. It's a big battle at the moment:
trying not to say too many words and if there's a
pregnant pause in the conversation, not feeling that
I've got to fill anymore. But let someone else who
fears the silence fill it. Don't fear it anymore, but of
course it will need a bit of training, it's going to need
a bit. But the good thing about it is, that if you're
prepared to accept that things aren't just broad and
wide, they're infinitely broad and wide, then, there's
a great amount to be learned then. That's it. And the
change over. . . But it can be done. It just takes a bit
of time, but it will be done, think.

And dogs are less intelligent than humans, and

suddenly you realise that whilst all of this is right, it's
all wrong as well. Dogs aren't less intelligent. . . to
dogs, and the ashtray's happy to be an ashtray. But
of course we think it's just an ashtray and that kind
of hang up still occurs. I still keep thinking of things
just like that, people just like that as well. It's pretty
difficult to accept someone who's lousy. I still
impose the old rule of "Do I like them or don't I like
them? then I can't see anything in them, it's still
difficult to see the good in bad because I've been
trained that bad is bad.... there's no bad in bad, and
I know I'm wrong. And all this is on wider level.
M: How does this approach effect your dealings
with people? I mean it's a very isolated position,
very objective, existentialist. Does to make contact
easier or . . .?
P: It can do. The trouble is, at the moment I haven't
got it going yet. It's really a question of now seeing
more of what it's about. It's now a question of trying
to put those things into practice and when I think
something which sort of says the kind of thing that
I've learned in days gone by, it tends just to stick.
Instead of being able just to say: "Oh well now,
that's rubbish, obviously, because I've found since
that I do like dogs". But obviously a little bit if the
other, just because of sheer weight, 22 years as
opposed to two, trying to learn it like this, see I'm
really at the beginning of this stage. This is why
other people say: "I see all your ambitions as
Beatles have been fulfilled. You know you've done
just about everything, you've played in every
country in the world. What does it feel like?" And it
feels exactly the same as it did when I was trying to
get five quid for a guitar. It's a beginning again,
there's no end. But I know I'm going to need a new
set of rules and the new set of rules have got to
include the rule that there aren't any rules. So I
mean. . . they're pretty difficult. They're pretty
difficult. . .

M: Are you trying to take anyone with you on it?

P: Yes I'd like to. I've been talking to a few people to
do with electronic music, that's on the music scene.
I'm trying to take people with me of course, I don't
want to be just shouting to people: "Listen, I've
found it! Listen, this is where it's at!" and everyone
going: "Oh fuck-off you fucking crank!". You know, I
don't want that to happen, because, I see the
potentiality in them as well, not just in myself. I'm
not just the great wizard who's going to sort it all
out. I'm just one of them. And if I can see how I
ought to have compassion then it would be nice if
they were going to see that too. Rather than me just
standing there getting slapped on the other cheek
all the time. (laughter) And with music too! This is
the gap in electronics, the one where people, quite
a few people, that are prepared for the next sound,
they're ready, they're waiting for the next scene in
music, the next scene in sound. A lot of people now
are ready to be led to the next move. The next
move seems to be things like electronics because it

M: How about Zen?

Paul: Right, that's true, probably would, but also I've
got this thing at the moment, I was telling you
about, about books. Which I'm sure is all wrapped
up in that a bit, the fact that books are, they seem to
me, to be a bit of then, and I know they're not. I'm

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just is a different field, it's a complete new field and

there's a lot of good new sound's to be listened to in
it. But if the music itself is just going to jump about
five miles ahead, then everyone's going to be left
standing with this gap of five miles that they've got
to all cross before they can even see what scene
these people are on, and for instance, with the
people. . I can see that it is in a way a progression
to accept random things as being planned. Random
is planned, as well, but most people won't accept
that and they'd need a lead into it, to accepting that.
You can't just say to somebody: "That machine
plays random notes, but it's planned and I can
control the amount of random in it". They'll say:
What for? Why don't you write a nice tune or why
don't you just write some interesting sounds?"
That's what I'd like to do, I'd like to look into that gap
a bit.

is. Isn't necessarily weird. Why is it weird? It's weird

because you don't know about it, because it's a bit
strange to you. It's new. And gravity was very weird,
gravity was very strange when he talked about it,
and microscopes, they're all very strange until you
know about them." So the most important thing to
say to people really is, "It isn't necessarily so, what
you believe. You must see that whatever you
believe in isn't necessarily the truth. No matter how
truthful it gets, it's not necessarily ever the truth
because the fact it could be right or wrong is also
infinite. The whole bit." And that's the point of it: the
whole bit of being fluid and changing all the time
and evolving etc. etc. This is it. It can't ever be as
cut and dried as we've got it now. And for it to be so
cut and dried it's got to be cut and dried in an unreal
way. It's got to be. . . It' a fantastically abstract thing
that people have got into without realising it.
They've got in to an incredible abstract way of living
really. I mean, "cause none of it's real! I was trying
to think of the people that I meet in a day that aren't
acting in some way, and of course I'm acting, you
know, all the time. But at least I'm making a serious
effort not to act, now, realising that most of my
acting is to no avail anyway. I mean there's no point
in anyone doing a Hollywood grin because
everyone knows it's a Hollywood grin. But everyone
goes on in this fantastic surreal way, of accepting it
as a genuine grin but knowing secretly that it isn't
really. But they take it and they do another grin back
and they get on famously. They really get on well
with each other doing those grins, and then one of
then breaks a leg and the other one walks away
and it falls apart a bit and something happens and
the one who's broken the leg wonders why the grin
didn't work when he had a broken leg. And it all gets
very strange and very very far out. But everyone
thinks that's just the normal thing, and that's life:
"Oh well, that's life!" and "Well, you can't have your
cake and eat it". . ."You can't burn your candle at
both ends, you know." That's great, very scientific
truths like "you can't burn your candle at both ends"
and who the fuck said that? (laughter). But
everyone knows it's true that you can't burn your
candle at both ends, but of course it isn't true! And
all the time they're working. . . I say they but I'm in
with they, I too am working on false assumptions. . .

M: Do people like John Cage help you, just by their

existence. Because they have done so much work
with random sound it enables you to be a bit more
free without worrying too much about it.
P: Yes right, right. But that always helps, doesn't it?
That always helps. Those people always help. It's
always good to see someone. . . But this is the
thing, these become the new idols. Not necessarily
Cage because I haven't listened to anything really
of his. This is the thing, like then it wasn't a question
of listening to Elvis for him to become your idol, it
was just that he was your idol. Elvis was the idol,
there wasn't ever any question of ever having to
seek him out. But now, the idols now, the people
that I can appreciate now are all much more hidden
away, much more in little back corners through
performing for themselves. They seem to be. . .
they're probably not, but they've been pigeon-holed
into that because they're cranks talking about
peace. But you've got to sort out these people then,
you've got to look much more, because, for
instance, Stockhausen isn't played on Radio
London every day, so there's not much of a chance
of his becoming an idol over night.
M: Do you think that someone like Albert Ayler
(avant garde jazz musician) can help. He reaches
quite a lot of people.

M: It stems from people being afraid of each other afraid to open up the armour a little bit.

P: Oh yes, oh right. Yes, if you're talking about the

communication thing, of helping in that kind of way,
then it's all helping, but only in a small way at the
moment, that's the trouble. I don't think it would be
very easy to explain, to say to people, not even to
explain, not even to put it down as a definite thing
but just to say to people: "Don't you think it's
possible that the scene that someone like Albert
Ayler or Stockhausen is getting into isn't necessarily
a bad scene? It's not necessarily what you think it

P: I really wish that I could . . . I mean. . ..see, at the

back of my brain somewhere, there is something
telling me now that . . it tells me in a clich too. . . It
tells me that everything is beautiful. Which
immediately comes out as phoney sort of, I don't
know, as "Ban the bomb!" . . At the back of my brain
there's a thing telling me that everything is beautiful
and everything is great and that instead of imposing

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things like: "I don't like that television show" or "No,

I don't like the theatre", "No, no. I don't like so-andso" that I know really that it's all great and that
everything's great and that there's no bad ever if I
can think of it all as great. But this gets back to the
bit that the other 22 years of me, it's only ever been
in the last two years at the most that I've ever sort
of tried to think of anything as being beautiful,
having realised that I could think of everything as
being incredible, with a bit of effort, on my mind's
part. If I could.. . .So I'm only just starting to try and
think of things like that, so it still is difficult to
communicate with people. But the aim is to just,
one day, really just to sit there and not feel any of
the hang-ups that people feel towards each other.
Not feel any of the hang-ups of say, food not being
up to standard or anything. That doesn't matter of
course it doesn't matter. But to me at the moment, it
still matters a bit, because of what I've learned
previously, so I've still got. . .I mean it would be too
much of a hang-up to. . . fight this other 22 years
and try to kill it off in a year and really try and sort it
out in a year is too big a project. So, at the moment
I'm just trying to operate within the new frame of
reference but not pushing it. Because, I mean, to
push it really would be to alienate myself completely
from everything. I mean, it really would make me in
to a very strange being as far as other people were
concerned.

anything I had to say, but now they're a bit more

willing because that's what they're trying to do.
They're trying to make the money like I've made it
you know. So they think: "Well, Christ, he must
have something to have made that. . ."
[An edited version of this conversation was first
published in International Times 6, Jan 16, 1967.]
Miles, 1966
The Way Out is L.A. - a George Harrison
Interview
Miles, International Times, 1967
GH: If you could just say a word and it would tell
people something straight to the point, then you
take all the words that are going to say everything,
and you'd get it in about two lines. Just use those.
Just keep saying those words.
M: Like the 'Hari Krishna' chants, except there the
meaning of the words gradually fades away
anyway.
GH: That's right. They get hung up on the meaning
of the word rather than the sound of the word. "In
the beginning was the word" and that's the thing
about Krishna, saying Krishna, Krishna, Krishna,
Krishna, so it's not the word that you're saying, it's
the sound: Krishna Krishna Krishna Krishna
Krishna Krishna Krishna and its just sounds and its
great. Sounds are vibrations and the more you can
put into that vibration, the more you can get out,
action and reaction that's the thing to tell the
people. You see it's all very obvious, the whole thing
of life and all the answers to everything are in one
divine law, Karma action and reaction. It's obvious:
everybody knows that if they're happy then usually
the people around them are happy, or that people
around them happy make them a little happier;
that's a proved thing, like "I give to you and you give
to me"; they all know that but they haven't thought
about it to the point of every action that they do.
That's what it is with every action that you do,
there's a reaction to it, and if you want a good
reaction then you do a good action, and if you want
a bad one, then you punch somebody. But that's
where it is at. Just that one thing. That's why there
is the whole scene of heaven and hell; heaven and
hell is right now, right at this moment. You make it
heaven or you make it hell by your actions...it's just
obvious, isn't it?

M: You have a more difficult situation anyway being

a Beatle, because people's responses to you are
always conditioned quite a lot by this.
P: Yes, sure, well that's very difficult, that bit of it.
But there is always the added advantage, the
advantage which always comes with the
disadvantage, that people being conditioned to
listen to me in one kind of way. That there is one
kind of conditioning which is that when your
listening to someone whose famous, you're
prepared to listen. You know, you're not going to
shout him down quite as much. So they are going to
say. . . I mean, if I knew how to say this all in three
words to get it over to everyone I would be in a
great position. At the moment it's not so good,
because anyone I do talk to talks to me in their
conditioned way, and I can break that down. That's
not too hard to break down. Because, I mean, it's
pretty obvious anyway that it does not exist within
me, it only exists within them. Having broken down
that, it sometimes is just easier to get through to
people because they've got a vague respect for you
- for what you've done in the one field. For instance
in the money field, that happens to impress a lot of
people you know? Which is in fact the least
impressive bit of it, but that's the bit that impresses
most people and so, for instance, you find that a lot
of forty-year-old men would have never listened to

M: People don't realise all of the possibilities, they

don't realise how much they are in charge of the
reality of their situation.

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GH: Well that's because of ignorance; everybody is

great really and has got to be great because they're
going to be here until they get straight and that's it...
Everybody would like to be good, that's the silly
thing, everybody always likes it when they're having
a nice time or when they're happy or when it's
sunny, they all dig it; but then they go and forget
about it, they never really try to make it nice. They
think that it just comes along and it's nice if you're
lucky, or if you're unlucky it's bad for you.

thing going on, only with other people doing it...I am

part of the cycle, rebirth death, rebirth death, rebirth
death. Some of the readers will know exactly what I
mean, the ones who believe in re-incarnation. It's
pointless me trying to explain things like rebirth and
death because I've just accepted that, you know, I
can leave that.
M: The final death comes when the energy of
consciousness reaches a point of complete unity
with the universal energy flow and then ZAP, no
more rebirth.

M:.......People act unconsciously at this level, they

don't realise that they are purposely going out to
stop things from getting any better.

GH: But that's in that book. That is the final release

of that bit of you that is God so that it can merge
into everything else. ("Autobiography of a Yogi"). It's
a far-out book, it's a gas. Through Yoga, anybody
can attain; it's a God realisation; you just practise
Yoga and if you really mean it, then you'll do it.
You'll do it to a degree...there's Yogis that have
done it to such a degree that they're God, they're
like Christ and they can walk on the water and
materialise bodies and they can do all those tricks.
But that's not the point; the point is that we can all
do that and we've all got to do that and we'll keep
on being reborn because for the law of action and
reaction; "What-so-ever a man soweth, that shall he
also reap"; you reap when you come back in your
next birth, what you've sewn in your previous
incarnation, that's I why I'm me and you're you and
he's him and we are all whoever we are. From
when I was born where I am now, all I did was to be
me to get this; Whatever you've done, you get it
back, so you can either go on, or you can blow it.

GH: They're all ignorant, they fear new things, they

fear knowledge somehow, I don't know why.
Everything that I ever learned was always so great.
I never thought so at the time, it was just that little
bit more in your mind an expansion of
consciousness or awareness. Even those of us who
are very very aware are still so unaware.
Everything's relative so that, the more you know,
the more you know you don't know anything'....
Christ was the one washing the leper's feet so he
was very, very humble, but it's not the way they're
putting it down now. They feel as though God is that
up there and they are that down there and they
don't realise that they are God and that Christ was
exactly the same as us but he realises that he was
God. That's all it is, we're God too but we don't
realise it....
I'm a person who's trying to live within divine law, to
the best, and. it's very hard because it's selfdiscipline, because the more you realise, the more
you've got to get yourself straight, so it's hard, you
know. I'm trying and there are a lot of people who
are trying, even people who are not conscious that
they are doing it, but they are really...doing things
for the good, or just to be happy or whatever. But
then there's those other people, but you've got to
have them to have this...I'm not a part of anything in
particular, because it's not really 1967 and it's not
half-past eight, that's still what people have said it
is. So it's just a little bit of time out of the cycle.
There's this Indian fellow who worked out a cycle
like the idea of stone-age, bronze-age, only he did it
on an Indian one. The cycle goes from nothing until
now and 20th century and then on and right round
the cycle until the people are really grooving and
then it just sinks back into ignorance until it gets
back into the beginning again. So the 20th century
is a fraction of that cycle, and how many of those
cycle has it done yet? Its done as many as you
think and all these times its been through exactly
the same things, and it'll be this again. Only be a
few million million years and it'll be exactly the same

the buzz of all buzzes

M: Are you concerned with communication?
GH: Oh, yes, of course, we are all one, I mean
communication, just the realisation of human love
reciprocated, it's such a gas, it's a good vibration
which makes you feel good. These vibrations that
you get through Yoga, Cosmic chants and things
like that, I mean it's such a buzz, it buzzes you out
of everywhere. It's nothing to do with pills or
anything like that. It's just in your own head, the
realisation, it's such a buzz, it buzzes you right into
the astral plane.
Nobody can become a drug addict if they're hip.
Because it's obvious that if you're hip then you've
got to make it. The buzz of all buzzes which is the
thing that is God you've got to be straight to get
it. I'm sorry to tell you (turning to microphone)...you
can get it better or more if you're straight because
you can only get it to a degree. You know even if
you get it, you only get it however long your pill

131

lasts. So the thing is, if you really want to get it

permanently, you have got to do it, you know...Be
healthy, don't eat meat, keep away from those
Night-Clubs and MEDITATE....

GH: Ravi's my musical Guru, but the whole musical

thing was too much just to be able to appreciate it
whether I play or not. I've never been knocked out
with anything for so long. But then later I realised
that there wasn't the real thing, that was still only a
little stepping stone for me to see. Through the
music you reach the spiritual but the music's very
involved with the spiritual JBS we know from Hari
Krishna we just heard.* It's so attuned to the
spiritual scene, it depends how spiritual the
musician is. Ravi is fantastic. He just sits there with
a bit of wire and just does all that and say all that,
things that you know and can't say because there's
no words and he can say it like that.

The clan. The Klu Klux Klan or whatever they are.

Do you know, it's stupid, isn't it, they're only little
fellows who just put on their outfit, it's like we could
be them, you just get your outfit and you go out with
your little banner shouting at somebody like that.
There was all that thing about the "Klan are coming
to get us" at a concert somewhere in the States
and there were about 4 or 5 of them walking up and
down, shouting, "Don't go in there...." something
about that Christ thing, and there was all the kids'
shouting at them and laughing at them and that and
then the police came around and told them to move
away. It wasn't like you imagine...people with all
fiery crosses and coming to burn us. Oh yes that
was silly.

M: Why does it come across best in music?

GH: Because music is sound, vibrations, whereas
paintings are vibrations of whatever you pick up. If
not actually an energy vibration you get from a
groovy painting, but music and sound seem to
travel along vibrations, you know the whole thing
with mantras is to repeat and repeat those
sounds...it's vibrations in everything like prayers
and hymns. They don't know about this over here.
Prayer is to vibrate, do the devotion, whatever it is,
to whoever you believe in, Christ or Buddha or
Krishna or any of them. You get the response
depending on how much you need it. Those people
become that because they give it out, they want it
so much, they give out so much, they get back so
much, it snowballs until you're Christ. You know
we're back to that again. I'm not really hip to too
much of the Zen or the Buddhist point of view, but
you see I don't have to because I just know that
they're all the same, its all the same, it's just which
ever one you want to take and it happens that I'm
taking the Hindu one...Be straight with yourself just
to maybe save a few more people from being stupid
and being ignorant. That's what we're doing here
now, talking, because we've got to save them,
because they're all potentially divine.

M: Did you find it easy to communicate with people

in India?
GH: With most of the people you just communicate
you don't have to talk. There are such great
musicians; it was so nice and it was really just so...
straight. They have a whole thing of trying to be
humble, you've got to be humble really to be
yourself or to get a chance to be yourself. If you're
not humble, your ego and your big cabbage head
are getting in the way. There were these musicians
who are all advanced students of Ravi's and he'd
been giving them a lesson. We were there just to
watch a bit, and he sat in the middle and sang and
they all followed him and went through about two
and a half hours...improvised the whole lot. He was
singing which was pretty far out. All these people
playing knocked me out so much, it was so great
yet they were so humble and saying "It's such a
pleasure to meet you," which was horrible because
I was trying to be humble there. I was there for that,
not for anything to do with being a Beatle. Ravi
Shankar is so brilliant and these fellows, as far as I
was concerned, were very far out....with people you
communicate, there is no bullshit, because they
don't create it. It's not so much a game as Western
thought because they're a bit more spiritually
inclined and they just sort of feel...

M: Does that concern you much?

GH: I couldn't cut off from everyone, because I'm
still leaning on them, so if I'm leaning on them then
there's someone leaning on me, only very subtly.
I'm part of a structure that's going on and rather
than cop out now, just at the moment, because I'm
not ready, I'll wait. Maybe later on I'll get into where
it's peaceful. We're already getting going, so that
we'll have somewhere nice to be, because that's
what it is you know, everybody should just stay at
home and meditate and they'd be so much happier.
That'll all come for us, because we are going to
make it. "You make and preserve the image of your
choice". But still we've got to communicate. We've
got to be doing things because we're part of it and

M: Did you just realise this yourself?

GH: I felt the vibrations all the time from the people
I was with. They've all got their problems but they're
just happy and vibrate.
M: You didn't search out a Guru?

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because it's nice. You've got to have an outlet. It's

like having a big intake in the front of your head and
there's so much going on, and it's going through all
this, and there's a little exhaust-pipe on the back,
that goes POW and lets a bit out. The aim is to get
as much going out the back as is coming in. You've
got to do that because for everything you get in
you've got to give something out. So The Beatles,
and whatever our own personal interests are, what
we're doing from day to day, then that's like our little
exhaust, coming out the back.

special thing on, and get nice and clean, and

washed up and get his joss-sticks going. He's very
straight, he doesn't drink or smoke or anything like
that and by his real devotion he's mastered the
thing. By his own discipline. He's playing for 18
hours a day for about 15 years, that's why he's that
good. I've got no illusions about being a sitar player,
I mean it's nothing like that. I really see it in
perspective because he's got about 10,000,000
students who are all so groovy playing the sitar and
yet he's only got hope for one of them to really
make it, so that's me out for a kick-off. But that's not
the important thing you see. The thing is, that
however little you learn of it, it's too much, it's too
much. Indian music is brilliant and for me, anyway,
(this is only personal) it's got everything in it. I still
like electronics and all sorts of music if it's good but
Indian music is just... an untouchable you can't say
what it is, because it just is.

M: Which seems to be getting bigger and bigger?

GH: Well it's got to be but it's great, just the
realisation of it all, everything feasible because its
all only a dream anyway and that gives you infinite
scope. You just go on and on and on until you go
right rut there. The thing is we could go; there's
times, I'm sure, where we hold back a lot with things
like Strawberry Fields. I know there's a lot of people
who like that who probably wouldn't have liked us a
year ago. And then there's a lot of people who didn't
like it who did like us a year ago. It's all the same
really. Just some people pretend it's not happening.
But they know, they simply must know. Because
we're all together on this thing, we're just part of it
and we'd like to get as many people who want to be
a part of it with us. And if we really freaked out....

...Your religion, or whatever you're doing, so if your'

re putting out something to make people happy and
something that's a bit devotional. It's got to be. If
you spend all your life in a studio; you can't last out
if it's not. Stockhausen (he's the one we mention in
IT, Stockhausen, he's really IT) and all the others,
they're just trying to take you a bit further out or in,
further in, to yourself. The way out is in. It's since
the newspapers started the drug craze. That's it,
you see, isn't that a bizarre scene, I mean you're
the only paper that can say this because you're the
only honest paper, really, when you get down to it.
What I mean is, that thing about the sales, that's all
they're concerned with how many... all this bullshit,
on the front page how many papers we've sold
today, and we're selling more than the Daily
Express, hup yer. All their silly little games, all that
crap. And another thing they always saying, "The
Daily Mirror carried 13,000 inches of advertising
and fuck-all to read, just a lot of shit. Actually
bragging about how, its stupid isn't it, it's a
newspaper, anyway, we forgive them, .as always.
But this is the great thing. When you've got yourself
to a point where you've realised certain things about
life and the world and everything like that, then you
know that none of that can affect you at all because
you know it's the same thing now with those
newspaper people they were always writing all that,
just making it up. The thing is we know what the
scene is, and we know them, they're all those little
fellows. They'd all really like to be happy and they
try to be happy but they're in a nasty little
organisation and it's great really. The whole thing of
hate, anybody who hates, I feel sorry for them you
know, that they are in that position and the
newspapers are like that. I feel we got away from
the point, whatever it was. The point was, you can
print your paper, you know that they can't touch you
because you know more than them and its obvious

M: Do you think you're bringing most of them along

with you?
GH: Well, we're losing a lot but we're gaining a lot
too, I think. I dunno. But what I think, whatever it is,
It's good. When somebody does something which
everybody really wants to do, then it makes
everyone else try a bit harder and strive for
something better, and it's good. If ever we've done
something like that then everybody's been there.
We're as much influenced by everybody else as
they are by us, if they are. It's just all a part of the
big thing. I give to you and you give to me and it
goes like that into the music you know.
guru and disciple
GH: The Guru and Disciple relationship is where the
person has a 100% belief in the Guru and that way
you put your trust in the Guru, that he's going to get
you out of this mess. If you are a Christian, then
Christ is your Guru, and they' re all disciples of
Christ. If they are. So to put your full belief in your
Guru, because it's for your own good, because
you've decided that...It's just having a lot of respect
for the person and it's like that with music as
well...You should love your instrument and respect
it. Whenever Ravi does a concert he'll put his

133

because they'd be the ones to puzzle about it. On

our side of the fence there's no puzzling to it. We
know what it is.

Derek Taylor, World Countdown News, 1967

When Beatles press officer Derek Taylor
swapped Swinging Britain for LA's Sunset Strip
in 1965, he played a pivotal part in bringing the
worlds of London and Los Angeles together,
doing press for the Byrds, the Beach Boys and
many other West Coast acts. (It was he who
conceived the famous "Brian Wilson Is A
Genius" campaign.)

The policemen are people as well. All those nasty

people aren't really nasty if they'd realise it. All
those policemen can't be themselves and they've
got to do that game and pretend to be a policemen
and go all through that shit about what's in the
book, they've got to make themselves into a little
part of themselves which is a lie and an untruth.
The moment they put a uniform on they're
bullshitting themselves, just thinking that they're
policemen, because they are not policemen. They
think that they created a thing called policemen and
so then they try and enforce their creation on others
and say "Now we've made a thing and it's called
The Police and we want you all to believe in it and
it's all for your own good and if you don't look up to
it you'll get your ass kicked and you'll go in the
craphouse".

Simultaneously, Taylor wrote about the LA

scene for various publications, including ultragroovy local rag World Countdown News. From
that splendid if short-lived paper, here is his
highly entertaining account of bringing two pop
giants together in the spring of 1967.
BRIAN WILSON and Paul McCartney met each
other through music darkly and then face to face in
my house, and the first meeting was the easier
because music is a more natural environment for a
musicianly relationship than a living room.

You just keep changing the subject onto what you

think we should be talking about and I'll just talk it
back out of it again onto this....to people who look at
the scene negatively, then it is, and they stay in
their drab world. We've got to get it back again,
after the war, and get it back to how it should be
everybody's happy and smiling and leaping about
and doing what they all know is there that they
should be doing. There's something happening. If
everybody could just get into it, great, they'd all
smile and all dress up. Yes that'd be good. "The
world is a stage". Well he was right, because we're
Beatles, and it's a little scene and we're playing and
we're pretending to be Beatles, like Harold. Wilson's
pretending to be Prime Minister and you're
pretending to be the Interview on IT. They're all
playing. The Queen's the Queen. The idea that you
wake up and it happens that you're Queen, it's
amazing but you could all be Queens if you
imagined it...they'll have a war quickly if it gets too
good, they'll just pick on the nearest person to save
us from our doom. That's it, soon as you freak out
and have a good time, it's dangerous, but they don't
think of the danger of going into some other country
in a tank with a machine-gun and shooting someone. That's all legal and above board, but you can't
freak out that's stupid.

There had been, for many years, a mutually warm

admiration society between the Beach Boys and the
Beatles an exchange of exultation at each other's
releases. The Beach Boys came first: they were
formed in the schoolroom and their debut hit was in
1961, in the very week that the late Brian Epstein
drew up his initial contract with the Beatles and
rhythm guitarist Al Jardine (one of the founder
Beach Boys) recalls returning from a tour of
Australia to find his country in the thrall of 'I Want To
Hold Your Hand' by the unknown Beatles.
Britain discovered the Beach Boys on a European
TV and promotional trip in 1964 the same year
that America fell for the Beatles but the British
response to the US group was an unworthy, "Well,
OK... so you're the Beach Boys. We have our own
homegrown scene going, but thanks anyway..."
It was three years later, on the foaming tip of the
crest of the tidal wave of Pet Sounds whipped to a
fury by the gale of 'Good Vibrations', that the Beach
Boys swamped Britain and the rest of Europe with
such a flood of success that, in London's New
Musical Express, voters decided the American
group should replace the Beatles as "Top World
Group".

*Krishna Consciousness. A.C. Bhaktivedanta

Swami Happening Records N.Y.C.

Influence On Each Other

Miles, 1967

During the years between 'Surfin' Safari' and

Revolver, Lennon/McCartney and Wilson watched
the development of each group's work with
increasing interest and with so musical people tell

A Hard Day's Surfin' Safari: When Brian Met

Macca

134

me substantial influence on each other's

experimentation. A long time ago, Lennon
commented in print that "Wilson is a bloody genius
who uses voices like instruments" and Wilson, for
his part, freely conceded that it was the critical
acclaim accorded Rubber Soul that had spurred
him to reach a new plateau with Pet Sounds a
climb, which though Beatle-inspired, did not tempt
him to use their footholds, steal their guidelines nor
filch any of their deft shortcuts. Why should he?
He ?had enough of his own.

"come on over", and Brian did, with brother Carl

and their wives.

I had left the Beatles before Rubber Soul and had

joined the Beach Boys at Pet Sounds time, and
there were moments when I sensed the unspoken
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of us
all?"

He played the extraordinarily fascinating 'Good

Vibrations' and it impressed Paul, who asked for the
dub "as a souvenir". Brian said he'd rather not part
with it. He wasn't completely happy with the sound.
Oh well. It didn't matter that much.

But apart from conversational slips of the tongue,

which may have been Freudian or simply phonetic
"Beach Boys" sometimes came out as "Beatles"
or vice versa I managed to steer a course in
representing the Californian fivesome which took
me safely along the narrow road from Beatle
Friendship to Beach Boys Loyalty, twin townships in
which there were signs of incipient rivalry.

We talked for a couple of hours, joined by David

Crosby of the Byrds and by George Harrison. It
wasn't a bad meeting but it wasn't the answer. Paul
and Brian knew that and I did too.

The lights were low in the house, the Los Angeles

basin twinkled blue, red-gold and silver, and we had
Glenn Miller's Latest Hits softly on the record player.
"Hi" said Brian and the Wilsons. "Hello" said Paul
and added: "Well, you're Brian Wilson and I'm Paul
McCartney so let's get that out of the way and have
a good time." Brian laughed and said, "Would you
like to hear a dub?"

Thus in the spring of this year when Paul returned

as a "private citizen" to LA we decided to do the
meeting again this time in a recording studio. I
took Paul to Sound Recorders in Hollywood, and
this time a real bond was formed between the
Englishman and the American a bond that will not
readily become unsealed. Brian was at his most
active and energetic as a producer that night, and it
was a fine three-hour music involvement.

Some members of the groups had met on the road

in 1965, somewhere in the North West where the
tours coincided. But the meeting had been one of
those scrambling handshake-scenes in a dressingroom physically inadequate to accommodate a duo
of dwarfs, let alone two man-sized rock 'n roll
groups with Fenders, Rickenbackers, Gibsons,
practice amps, cops, bouncers, promoters, boxes of
fan mail and piled up trays of half-chewed
hamburgers.

And Now to Capitol

The record under production was 'Vegetables', then
planned as a single, now to be an album track on
Smiley Smile, the Beach Boys' new album the first
LP to be released on the Brother Records label
distributed through Capitol.

Against such clutter there bad been, therefore, little

real rapport and in any case, Brian Wilson was not
around at the meeting.

I cannot see the fact of Capitol's continuing to keep

the Beach Boys and the Beatles as signed artists
as a coincidence, for there is nothing coincidental
about competitive commerce. After all, the Beatles
entered America on Vee-Jay and the Beach Boys
did not start on Capitol but on a label called Candix.
Also, of course, the group and Capitol have only
recently emerged (emotionally unharmed) from a
lawsuit instigated by the Beach Boys against the
label.

They Meet Again

A year later, however, after Pet Sounds and before
Revolver is it not strange how one measures
history in albums, yet not so strange as
measurement in wars it became clear that a
summit of some sort was timely and meaningful.
So when the Beatles came to Los Angeles in 1966
for the last-but-one concert in their lovingly
remembered career, I created a domestic climate in
which composer might collide with composer
without harrassment or pain.

I cannot say what it is that Capitol has to offer the

two groups, for a record label is many things to
many people, but whatever Capitol represents as a
company it must be worthy and valuable for the
Beatles to have re-signed with them for something
like nine years, and the Beach Boys are despite

Paul was the first to arrive, in the best of humour.

Brian Wilson called, Paul took the call and said

135

their new Brother Records family front still in

business with Capitol.

Their last album, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club

Band -- widely hailed as one of the most prodigious
musical achievements of this century -- is a work of
great beauty and intricacy, but not of emotion or
depth. Its beauty was in its description of everyday
events.

Derek Taylor, 1967

The Beatles: Magical Mystery Tour

Magical Mystery Tour is, rather, distinguished by its

description of the Beatles acquired Hindu
philosophy and its subsequent application to
everyday life. In The Fool on the Hill, Lennon and
McCartney speak of a detached observer, a yogin,
who meditates and watches the world spin: "Day
after day, alone on a hill, the man with a foolish grin
is perfectly still. But nobody wants to know him,
they can see that he's just a fool as he never gives
an answer. But the fool on the hill sees the sun
going down. And the eyes in his head see the world
spinning round.

Mike Jahn, Saturday Review, December 1967

WHOEVER IT WAS that wrote the Bhagavad-Gita
(the Celestial Song of Hindu theology) intended to
define the perfect disciple when he wrote: "Who
sees Me in all/and sees all in Me/For him I am not
lost/and he is not lost for me." The disciple has just
replied, and in surprisingly similar terms: "I am
he/as you are he/as you are me/and we are all
together."
Yin and Yang, the doctrine of opposites, where all
black contains a little white and vice versa, is not
new to Eastern religions, but its entrance into
Western rock is a little unnerving.

In I Am the Walrus, perhaps the most significant

Beatle song yet, the yogin tells what he sees. Take
it for granted that the yogin is the Beatles: "I am
he/as you are he/as you are me/and we are all
together. See how they run/like pigs from a gun/see
how they fly./I'm crying." The song mixes surrealistic
imagery (the first time the Beatles have used
surrealism extensively) with a line calling up the "we
are all together'' thought : "I am the eggman, they
are the eggmen, I am the walrus." For those with
decent stereo equipment and a quick ear, the song
ends with a reading from Act IV, Scene 6 of PKing
Lear.

It is no surprise, though, that the Beatles should be

the ones to cause its appearance. They have done
so in Magical Mystery Tour, their latest and easily
their best album, released early in December by
Capitol Records (ST/T2835). Magical Mystery Tour
consists of the music and lyrics to the Beatles'
extravagant home movie of the same name, to be
shown on NBC-TV in March.
The movie is basically a one-hour description of the
adventures of travellers, on an imaginary tour bus,
which is taken over and put through a weird series
of events by the sorcery of five musicians -- the
Beatles plus their talented producer, George Martin.
Side 1 of the album is the music which
accompanies the tour. Side 2 is a collection of their
recent singles: Hello Goodbye, Strawberry Fields,
Penny Lane, Baby You're a Rich Man, and All
You Need Is Love.

Magical Mystery Tour may not be the best piece of

musical composition to emerge in the twentieth
century. Sgt. Pepper's certainly wasn't. But it is a
marvelous step in a very personal direction for the
Beatles -- one that they communicate well -- and
that is enough.
Mike Jahn, 1967

The Beatles:
[The White Album]

There are a number of innovations. Magical

Mystery Tour contains Flying, the first Beatle
instrumental and the first cut written by all four
Beatles. There is also a twenty four-page picture
and comic-strip scenario of the film, to pacify those
teen-aged fans put off by the fact that the words
"love" and "baby" do not appear once in the songs
from the film.

Mike Jahn, New York Times, 21 November 1968

TOMORROW THE BEATLES will release their first

album in a year, titled simply The Beatles.

But the real innovation of this album lies in its

description of the Beatles' personal involvement
with Hinduism. In all their previous work, Beatle
writers John Lennon and Paul McCartney stuck to
descriptions of contemporary society as they saw it.

Copies of the album, one of their most unusual

although not one of their best, will be delivered to

136

most New York City record stores tomorrow

according to Capitol Records, the distributor.

The Beatles, though they might not have intended

it, have in essence produced hip Muzak, a
soundtrack for head shops, parties and
discotheques.

The album, on the Apple label, has received heavy

play on several local FM stations for the last week.
It consists of 30 songs on two records, including
one long electronic-and-taped-noise composition.

The Beatles is a continuation of the Beatles

mystique, or maybe an attempt to ride on its
coattails. The Beatles mystique was bolstered in
mid-1967 when Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band was released and hailed by the underground
and music press as the rock album of the decade.

In it the Beatles sample from most every phase

popular music has gone through in the last 40
years, and imitate many of its heroes.

It has been a year and a half since that album was

released. And one wonders how much the praise
heaped upon Sgt. Pepper's was deserved.

There is Chuck Berry and Bing Crosby, Elvis

Presley and Robert Goulet, Bill Haley and
Mantovani. Everywhere there are traces of the
Beach Boys, but mostly there lingers the Beatles of
1965.

Once they were crowned as geniuses, there

developed the self-fulfilling expectation of genius
that the Beatles now enjoy, a factor that probably
will help make this new album a million seller.

The album has nothing new and very little that is

even recent. The main sound is pre-Rubber Soul. In
the year before their Rubber Soul album was
released in 1965, there was little but the Chuck
Berry era, that long stretch where almost everything
done by the Beatles seemed liked bleached
Memphis. (Mr. Berry is a black singer and guitarist,
who set the style for much rock music in the late
1950's.)

Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band was good,

and maybe it was the best rock album of the
decade. But it wasn't as good as its press. The new
album is not nearly as good as Sgt. Pepper's.
The new album has no 'A Day in the Life'.
Considering non-Sgt. Pepper's material, the new
album has nothing to compare with 'Strawberry
Fields' and not even a passable 'Penny Lane'.

In The Beatles the group takes this old, basic rock

sound and sees how many different superstructures
are compatible. There are blues, country, easy
listening, folk and 1955-to-1962 rock. There are a
number of electronic distortions, and there are
many put-ons.

It is hard and exciting in parts ('Back in the

U.S.S.R.') and funny in others ('Why Don't We Do It
in the Road?') but only in parts.

Many songs are either so corny or sung in such a

way that it is hard to tell whether they are being
serious. In most cases, they seem not to be. In an
act of lyrical overstatement, they sing "Have You
Seen the Bigger Piggies in Their Starched White
Shirts?" And it doesn't matter if the words "Now
it's time to say 'good night, good night, sleep tight'
are sung as a put-on, they still are painful to hear.

It lacks the originality of Music From Big Pink, by

the Band, and the all-over excitement of Cheap
Thrills, by Big Brother and the Holding Company. It
doesn't have the emotion of the Doors or the
musical expertise of Al Kooper and Mike Bloomfield.
And by many measure of pure rock power, Blood,
Sweat and Tears is far better.
Mike Jahn, 1968

It is a light record. The music is light, clean and

crisp. The lyrics are light. Usually they are happy
but often they are lacking in substance, rather like
potato chips.

John Lennon: Ringo's Right We Can't Tour

Again

This new album sounds spectacular at first, but the

fascination quickly fades. Where the best American
groups Jefferson Airplane and Blood, Sweat and
Tears are two of them produce substantial music
that can be lived with, the Beatles tend to produce
spectacular but thin music that is best saved for
special occasions.

Ritchie Yorke, NME, 7 June 1969

JOHN LENNON, over here in Canada with his wife
Yoko, revealed for the first time that there had been
considerable disagreement between him and Paul
McCartney over the couple's nude Two Virgins
album cover and that up until recently John had

137

wanted to do concert tours again but had failed to

talk round the other Beatles.

"Paul gave me long lectures about it, and said

'Is there really any need for this? ' It took me
five months to persuade them.

These disclosures were made to me when I went

with John and Yoko from their Toronto hotel to the
airport where they were to fly to Montreal for a
seven day bed-in.

"It was a natural turn of events that I got in the

picture too. When we got the pictures back, I admit I
was a bit shocked. I thought Hello we're on. I
figured that if I was mildly shocked, what would
others think?

Beatlemania is still just as big here and on more

than one occasion we'd been engulfed by swarms
of half crazy teenagers who descended on John like
starving Asians at a Rome banquet.

"But it was worth it for the howl that went up. It

really blew their minds. It cleared the air a bit.
People always try to kill anything that's honest. The
album wasn't ugly, it was just a point of view."

Sitting in the back of the taxi John looked tired.

Yoko was nonchalant.

The Two Virgins cover, despite police confiscations

here, did not create as big a stir as Jim Morrison (of
the Doors) with his alleged indecent exposure in
Florida. Lennon wasn't particularly impressed by
what happened.

Don't agree
Lennon, all in white, sighed again and said: "I think
Ringo was right about not touring." And later..."The
Beatles are just a democratic group of middle-aged
teenagers. We just don't happen to agree on doing
concert tours. I've wanted to do some for a while,
but I'm not sure anymore."

"I suppose the show wasn't going too well, so Jim

decided to liven things up a bit. If he likes doing that
sort of thing that's OK. If he did do it, I would have
liked to see him do it properly and have intercourse
on stage."

It was an uneventful trip to the airport, a welcome

respite front the maddening crowds that had
beseiged the hotel earlier.

Lennon still thinks that the Beatles have more

influence on young people than Jesus Christ, an
opinion which brought a heavy load of wrath upon
him when first mentioned it two years ago.

We had arrived un-announced but in less than 60

seconds, a crowd had gathered, and we were
rushed into a small, vacant room.

"Some ministers even stood up in their

churches and agreed with it then," said Lennon.
"Kids are still more influenced by us than by
Jesus Christ. As it happens, I'm very big on
Jesus Christ.

We sat there for over an hour; John, Yoko, daughter

Kyoko, who's five, a Beatles' cameraman and
myself.
Controversy

"I've always fancied him because he was honest.

He said in his book that anyone who followed his
ways would be knocked. He was so right about
that."

The Lennons are now accustomed to the fanatical

behaviour of teenagers, but John wasn't quite
prepared for the storm of controversy over the
recent Two Virgins album, which had John and
Yoko pictured naked on the front cover.

Lennon said that he liked Jesus Christ "I'm always

saying his name and talking about him " (the word
Christ is featured several times in the Beatles latest
hit, 'Ballad of John and Yoko'. which shoots in the
Top Ten this week).

"I expected some noise about it," John said,"but not

as much as we got. I'd planned to produce an
album with Yoko before we became lovers. Paul
had had Mary Hopkin. George had Jackie Lomax,
so I wanted to do something with Yoko.

Lennon is an anti-nationalist, which is not surprising

when one considers his peace efforts. "Yes, I don't
like borders. But I do fancy myself as a bit of an
Irishman, and I'm always telling Yoko about battles
that Britain won. Anti-nationalism will have to come
through if we want peace."

"I was in India meditating about the album, when it

suddenly hit me. I wrote Yoko telling her that I
planned to have her in the nude on the cover. She
was quite surprised, but nowhere near as much as
George and Paul.

138

The Beatles have now finished their next album,

which Lennon says will surprise many people. "It
was all done like a rehearsal. Only one track almost
got finished and that was 'Get Back'. The others are
in various stages of completion. One day we just
decided to stop right away, or we'd be doing
another of those four-month numbers.

GIVEN a typewriter and the subject of "The

Beatles" is rather like being asked to give a brief
summary of life or to reconstruct a kaleidoscopic
pattern after a moment's glance. I'm sure that very
informative articles could be (and probably have
been) written on such subjects as "The Beatles And
Their Influence On The Male Hairstyle Of The
'Sixties", "John Lennon As The Saviour Of The
Steel-Rimmed Spectacle Industry" or "My Friend
George" by one of Maharishi's chauffeurs.

Wedding album
It would seem that Beatles fans are going to have
dig deep into their pockets in the near future to
keep up their disc collections. John and Yoko have
another album on the way "a wedding album"
which, John says, has some heavy stuff, "half beats
recorded with terrific machinery." There will also be
excerpts from the couple's bed-in in Amsterdam.

There are so many aspects to these four men

whose influence has spread from the music world
outwards through dress, religion, morals
(immorals?) and general lifestyle that it is an
impossible task to give an all-round picture of the
Beatles in one article or even one series of articles.
HUMOROUS

Most of the time as we were talking, a cameraman

was filming our conversation and John's reactions.
"We're making seven films," said John. "We've also
got two books finished that will be coming out soon;
one was done by me, and the other with Yoko and
myself."

Now it would be almost humorous to call them

"show-biz personalities" although this was the world
which gave birth to them as a unit at the beginning
of the 'sixties. Their main commodity for sale being
"beat" music with such inspiring titles as 'Love Me
Do'/ 'She Loves You' or the rather more
promiscuous 'I Want To Hold Your Hand'. Nobody
laughed though, you didn't listen to the words
you just shook or twisted.

Far too hot

The Lennons arrived in Toronto after a short stay in
the Bahamas. "It was too hot down there, too far
from the U.S., and the hotels were terrible," said
publicist Derek Taylor, who travelled with them.

BIG BEAT
I mean this was the big beat, so for goodness
sake just do the shake. With smiles as innocent as
their lyrics the four mop-tops showed us that they
were human. They made us laugh with their downto-earth, working class, honest and unrehearsed
answers to the standard questions. They weren't
told to say that they didn't touch women or
cigarettes and only drank milk. Real human pop
stars! Soon their clothes and hairstyles were being
copied by teenagers all over the world (like me),
and as they've changed and grown up so the fans
who first combed their little bit of hair forward in
imitation have grown up and changed too.

After a day's stay in Toronto, and receiving

permission from the Department of Immigration to
stay in Canada for 10 days, the Lennon entourage
flew to Montreal for their bed-in to promote peace.
"Really, there's no difference between what
we're doing now and what we've always done.
The idea of peace has always been with us. You
could smell it in the early Beatle songs."
And what did John regard as the most satisfying
thing that has happened to him since the Beatles
were formed. "Meeting Yoko," he grinned, putting
his arm around her diminutive shoulders. Yoko
smiled sweetly.

70,000 JOHNS
That's why when you walk through any university
town today, you come home thinking that you've
just passed John Lennon 70,000 times in the street.
The hair's still there but it's longer. The parents who
said "Ooh, you'll grow out of it", in 1963 are
wondering about growing into it themselves in 1969,
I mean dad's never had his hair so long (you can
see it sometimes) and he's wearing those gussetside suede shoes that he swore he'd never be seen
dead in! The hairstyles sported by the four in 1963

Ritchie Yorke, 1969

One Pair Of Eyes
Steve Turner, Beatles Monthly, October 1969
The Parents who said "Ooh, you'll grow out of
it" in 1963 are wondering about growing into it
themselves in 1969.

139

are the sort that respectable people wear now. I

dread to think what respectable people in 1975 will
look like. Disgusting!

Steven Rosen, Los Angeles Free Press, March

1973
HURRICANE SMITH is not your ordinary pop star.
At 49, he hardly exudes the virility and youthfulness
of a Rod Stewart. His music is neither loud nor
visual and would probably have found sanctuary on
grannys Victrola 30 years ago. Yet the North
Englishman is experiencing current public and
critical acclaim over his megaphone-drone voice
and jazz-cum-honky-tonk music.

MASTERPIECES
Lyrics have, of course, progressed and have been
hailed as everything from ?%!* to masterpieces.
When everyone else said that they were ?%!* they
said that they were masterpieces and when
everyone said they were masterpieces they
revealed that they were in fact ?%!*, but they
thought that everyone would think that they were
masterpieces, so there! (?%!* t' the lot o' yer.) The
accompanying music has also progressed into
string bands, elastic bands and plastic ono bands,
etc. when this is edited, speeded up, reversed and
played through a distorted echo chamber it makes
you wonder whether Schubert was any good at it
anyway.

By no means a newcomer, Hurricane has been

involved with music for over three decades,
originally as a budding jazz musician and later as
an engineer and producer. And while his success
may have arrived "a little later than he expected,"
there can be no question about the import his music
is having.
A prime example of how the unintentional can run
wild, Hurricanes big break in the business came
when he landed a job at EMI as a recording
assistant. For a period of three months he was no
more than a "tea boy." running errands and fetching
cigarettes for the sound engineers. Perhaps it was
because of his obvious maturity (he was then over
30) that allowed Hurricane to strike up strong
associations with several of the staff producers at
EMI. After his breaking-in period he was elevated to
the role of "artist test level," a position whereby he
ran artists (be they some established performer or
completely virgin to the recording business) through
a series of tests simply to determine what kind of
sound they produced via a microphone. It was
during this period that the "four lads from Liverpool"
arrived and needless to say, Hurricane received his
fair share of kudos from the association with the
Beatles.

OWN FIELD
Today, each Beatle is experimenting in his own field
(don't forget to close the gate) and at the same time
gaining experience from it which will go into the joint
ventures of the Beatles. Ringo is acting in films,
Paul producing Mary Hopkin, George making
electronic hari krishnas and John compaigning for
world peace in bed. There are rumours that they will
make a film together, the current favourite being
Tolkien's The Lord Of The Rings, but as usual there
have been no confirmations. Another startling
headline which crops up about five times in every
musical year is "Beatles For Live Show?"
QUESTION MARK
The question mark is essential because there is
never any tryth behind it it's just a straightforward
question to fill up a front page. "Beatles For Free
Concert? Buy Your Tickets Here" it's all a big
con really. They're all booked up for a hotel in Las
Vegas in about 10 years time when people will give
samples of Mars rock to get in and everyone will be
saying how they're still the kings and that the old
excitement is still there.

Engineering their albums through Rubber Soul

Hurricanes association with the Beatles and
George Martin ("He was the fifth Beatle, but I
wouldnt mind if they called me the sixth") coupled
with the strong relationships he had built up with the
staff producers secured for the wide-eyed Smith the
position of an EMI producer.
Now a full-fledged producer, he developed a keen
interest in the technical qualities of sound and sort
of naturally drifted into the "underground scene." "I
think because of my sound engineering era, I had
developed an ear for this and a very great interest
in sounds that could be developed in the control
room. And it was kind of a natural transition, a
natural drift into the underground world and the
heavy scene. Well, as it turned out, Pink Floyd, The
Pretty Things, and Barclay James Harvest. It was a
natural transition because I really did have an

I wrote this article because I felt that there is not

enough serious journalism written on the subject of
the Beatles and their influence on contemporary
culture. Roll over John Lennon and tell McCartney
the news.
Steve Turner, 1969
Hurricane Smith: The Sixth Beatle

140

interest in that kind of thing; but it still didnt really

satisfy me as a jazz musician. And the only way I
could get that would be to relax between sessions
by sitting at a piano and knocking out one of the old
jazz chord sequences. And thats how my first hit
was born, a thing called 'Dont Let It Die' (off his
current album). I was really talked into releasing it
eventually by myself!"

"Thankful" for the chance hes been given,

Hurricane is carefully and creatively nurturing his
newfound career. His next single release will be
another track from the album; a Gilbert OSullivan
composition entitled 'Who Was It?"'Travelling down
the same road as OSullivan, Hurricane cites
performers like the Beatles, Elton John, and Ray
Charles as being true artists, musicians who take
part in every phase of recording: writing, arranging,
producing and engineering. But realizing the
importance of originally penned pieces (as his first
two releases were) Hurricanes plans to put out a
single, called 'Beautiful Day, Beautiful Night', more
of what he calls "nostalgic Hurricane."

And this is where the Hurricane snowball

accidentally tumbles down the mountain and ends
up a precipitous monster. Long after he had any
hopes of becoming a recording artist ("All the
production and engineering work was. I hoped,
merely a means to an end"), Hurricane Smith has
now realized his original ambition. Taking his name
from a Class-B John Ireland movie, Smith first
hatched the idea of putting out his own album about
two years ago. With some pushing and prodding
from friends, he finally released 'Dont Let It Die' in
England, which was an instant success. For some
reason, though, the public (and the critics) tried to
write him off as some sort of one-hit fluke. "Maybe
they thought I wasnt sincere." But with the release
of his second record, 'Oh, Babe, What Would You
Say?' both sides of the ocean realized that he was
an artist to be reckoned with.

"In my view thats whats missing in music today.

That something a little bit special: something a little
bit magic which I suppose we sum up by the one
word nostalgia."
That magic must be working because Hurricane
has just recently finished a successful club tour of
England and Ireland. His wizardry has turned
hardheaded rock fans into followers, something he
never really counted on. "If the young people like it,
God bless them, but its really the over-30 people I
was after." Accompanied by an 11-piece band and
four dancing girls (choreographed by his daughter),
the multi-talented Smith has confessed that there
are plans underway to bring the entire troupe to the
States.

Perhaps it was his acceptance thats caused such a

stir around Hurricane. In his writing, he feels that
sincerity is the most important ele-ment an artist
can bring into his music, and maybe it was because
of this honesty in his work thats lent him the
credibility so many performers lack. "I look back on
my own life for what its worth; I think any writer
does this anyway. You can only do what you feel
interested in, in terms of your own past life or in
terms of your own observations. This is what writing
is all about. It certainly isnt gimmickry; it certainly
isnt saying Im gonna bake a cake, and its gonna
be two or three ounces of this and that and mix well
and we have a commercial hit. Any writer has got to
believe and write for himself. If he believes it
doesnt matter what bag hes in. Thats music; thats
sincere."

However, Hurricanes fingers havent plunged solely

into the musical pie. He has expressed a deep
interest in acting and would "dearly love to play a
meanie," by which he meant a pseudo-Paul
Newman heavy. Keep an eye on the tube; we may
soon see Hurricane Smith Revisited." He is also in
the midst of producing Frankie Hardcastles album
(his music arranger and conductor) and is just
waiting for an appropriate time to release it.
But for Hurricane Smith there is no other love than
his music. The time-traveled traditionalist has
successfully remained afloat after being so
suddenly thrust into the pop quagmire. Years of
training and ex-perience, producing and
engineering are all contributing factors for his
current acclaim.

Hurricanes main fascination lies in his nostalgiainjected music, a combination of his earlier jazz
roots era and his later involvement and experiences with the birth of rock n roll and the
Beatles. "I certainly proved that you dont have to
have a voice to sing!" His voice sounding like its
originating from the inside of a megaphone.
Hurricane has rejuvenated the crooning sounds of
the big band era. And because Hurricane has lived
through and been a part of the jazz era, the rock n
roll era, and the Beatles era, he is certainly able to
claim the roots that so many artists profess to have.

Ray Bradbury once wrote a short story called 'The

Time Machine', a piece about a very old man who
related tales about life 100 years earlier. Not quite
so old, Hurricane has taken the role of a living
musical time machine, rejuvenating the magic of the
1920s and 30s. His songs sing of yesteryear and
of first love, a music captivating in its simplicity and
warmth. "The only thing to do is to do my best to

141

entertain. Thats all I dearly want to do now is to

entertain. To become as known as an international
entertainer. Id like to do that."

On 29 August 1966, the Beatles played their final

concert, at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. The
show marked the end of their fourth American tour,
and the end of the Beatles as a live performance
group. By concentrating on playing the largest
venues available, mainly sports arenas, the Beatles
had been able to recoup the highest possible gate
money while playing the smallest number of dates.
Thus their final American tour was at once their
shortest and their most profitable. This strategy
enabled the Beatles to maximise their earnings, but
it also maximised the Beatlemania associated with
the concerts. Constantly playing to screaming
crowds of 30,000 and over, the fans couldn't hear
the music, and the Beatles couldn't hear
themselves. Whatever potential concerts might
have possessed as an opportunity for
experimentation, or to develop a rapport with the
audience, was lost in the hugeness of their
popularity and the strategy developed to exploit it.

Steven Rosen, 1973

The Act You've Known For All These Years: The
Beatles and Sgt. Pepper
Mick Gold, unpublished, 1974
ALL ENTERTAINMENT HAS AN EXISTENTIAL
dimension: all successful performances imply a lifestyle and a sense of values, a sub-structure of
assumptions upon which the performer plays his
part. The Beatles' first film, A Hard Day's Night,
successfully crystallised the personalities that had
made them the biggest successes in the history of
show business: their surreal sense of humour, their
sophisticated navet, and their four way plug-in
personality clever John, cuddly man in the street
Ringo, sardonic George, and precocious cherubic
Paul.

"It was wrecking our playing. The noise of the

people just drowned anything... On stage we used
to play things faster than on record, mainly because
we couldn't hear what we were doing. I used to
come in at the wrong time sometimes because I'd
no idea where we were at. We just used to mime
half the tine to the songs, especially if your throat
was feeling rough." Ringo

The Beatles' personalities worked well in the movie

since their rather repressed alienation from the
feverish glamour of the TV studio complemented
the deliberately small scale of the film's view of the
world. The clean old man, the harassed manager,
the affected director could almost have been
characters from one of McCartney's social pastiche
songs, such as 'Eleanor Rigby' or 'Penny Lane'.

It was not only the end of the road for the Beatles
as a live group. Their career as darlings of the
Western showbiz world was crumbling. For the first
time a Beatles single, 'Paperback Writer', released
in July 1966, failed to reach number one in the first
week. It was the first sign of ebb in the fanaticism of
their mass audience, consisting mainly of girls
between nine and nineteen. More important, the
personalities of the Beatles, particularly John
Lennon's, were showing signs of friction with their
Beatlemania personae: lovable mop-tops, lively but
harmless.

Their second film, Help!, failed to consolidate the

spirit of A Hard Day's Night or to offer the Beatles a
viable way of expanding their image. Instead the
film aspired to a glossiness and professionalism
that took its norms from the clichs of show-biz
conventions. It was supposed to be a vehicle for the
Beatles' talent but it was going in the wrong
direction. The plot was a frenzied dash around
familiar points on the entertainment compass: jokey
Indians, movie parodies, and travelogue locations in
full colour. The film was neither realistic nor
fantastic. It was primarily artificial. The leavening
touches of surrealism seemed uncertain in the
context.

In June 1966 the Beatles released an LP in the

United States, entitled Yesterday and Today, with a
cover photo of the Beatles dressed in bloody
butchers' aprons holding up chunks of meat and
segments of dolls' bodies. There was a violent
public reaction against the cover and it was
immediately withdrawn by Capitol with a mumbled
apology that the photo was a misguided attempt at
"pop art satire". When questioned about the
incident by the Melody Maker, John Lennon
quipped: "Anyway, it's as valid as Vietnam." At this
remark the other three Beatles "fell about".

"Signs of strain in new Beatles' film". The Times

In their musical and private lives the Beatles were
nearing the end of the tether of tours, one-night
stands and hysterical adulation. The high-powered
artificiality of the TV studio, which they escaped
from in A Hard Day's Night in one symbolic dash
through an unguarded exit, seemed to offer them
no way out in reality.

Earlier in 1966, John Lennon had told Maureen

Cleave of the Evening Standard that the Beatles
were "more popular than Jesus now". The remark

142

lay fallow for three months until the eve of their final
tour, when a radio station in Alabama resurrected
the comment and invited other radio stations to join
with them in a total ban on Beatles records, and to
organise forthcoming Beatles record burning
sessions. Brian Epstein immediately announced
that any promoter who wished to could cancel the
show he had contracted for, without forfeiting a
cent. He also issued a rewording of Lennon's
remark, explaining that what he had really been
trying to express was his "astonishment at the fact
that in the last fifty years, the Church of England
had declined so much."

filming. He developed a fascination with the sound

of the instrument, and used it to play the lead guitar
line in 'Norwegian Wood' on the Rubber Soul LP.
His interest developed as he looked into the
background of the instrument's haunting sound and
strange system of tuning.
At the time at which the Beatles quit touring,
Harrison's personality had been the least clearly
defined of the four in the public consciousness. To
many girls he was the best-looking of the Beatles,
but he had none of Lennon's crazy vitality or
McCartney's flair for playing roles. His commonest
expressions seemed to be puzzlement or sardonic
detachment, and the few songs of his that appeared
on LPs frequently expressed a sense of aloofness
and withdrawal:

"It gets bad when people won't allow you to do what

you wanna do. We're creating an image for them to
either buy or not buy. Like a loaf of bread; you like
this bread, or you don't like it." Ringo

Do what you want to do

And go where you're going to
Think for yourself
Cos I won't be there with you
('Think For Yourself', 1965)

*
ALL ENTERTAINMENT IS A COMMODITY: a
packaged vision that succeeds or fails within the
terms of the market to which it is offered. After the
American tour of August 1966, the Beatles decided
to opt out of the market place for a while. They felt
exhausted with the necessity to fit recording
sessions in between tours, and they felt dissatisfied
with the commodity they were marketing. They
decided to concentrate on their own interests, and
to forget any idea of an obligation to perform
publicly in front of hysterical crowds all over the
world. The four Beatles separated to give
themselves some idea of what they wanted to do
after abandoning touring. Their separate activities
ultimately formed the basis of their most integrated
LP: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the
only record in which they deliberately used their
public image of four differentiated but
complementary personalities as a framework for
their music.

In September 1966, at the first opportunity after the

end of touring, Harrison flew to India to study the
sitar with Ravi Shankar.
In classical Indian culture there is no such thing as
secular music. All artistic activity has religious
connotations, and in particular the music aspires to
integrate the transient, subjective dimension of
improvisation with a mastery of classical form. In
addition to studying with Ravi Shankar, Harrison
met Shankar's guru, Tat Baba, and learned the
basic Hindu and Buddhist doctrines of cycles of
existence: the idea of striving through successive
incarnations to liberate oneself from the bonds of
mortality; the concept of maya, by which one views
one's identity in society as primarily the product of
social conventions, useful insofar as they formalise
social interaction, but illusory and misleading as a
guide to one's spiritua1 identity; and the doctrine of
karma: the concept of all thought and action
producing consequences and reactions which will
hamper the individual's search for enlightenment
until all negative thoughts and actions have been
atoned for.

"Everything we've done up to now has been crap."

George Harrison, December 1966.
During the years of touring, Harrison had been the
Beatle most concerned with the standard of their
live performances. He often stood aside from
Lennon and McCartney's extrovert antics at the
front of the stage, and concentrated on recreating
their recorded sound as exactly as possible. He had
also become the most contemptuous of their
Beatlemania identity and music, and was the first of
the four to make a strong stand against touring.

As the Beatle who had been most contemptuous of

their Beatlemania roles as propagated by the press
and commercial pressures, who had tried the
hardest to make their concerts musical events
rather than social phenomena, and as the only
Beatle to take musicianship seriously enough to
practice in between tours and recordings, Harrison
had been intuitively working towards many of these
values. Finding a complex and coherent system
which minimised the validity of social conventions,

During the making of Help!, one of the props used

by the jokey Indians had been a sitar, and Harrison
picked it up and doodled with it during the lulls in

143

and placed its stress on the individual's attempt to

transcend his social context, was the catalyst that
enabled Harrison to establish himself as an artist
with his own outlook and technique.

sided single, released in February 1967, suggested

an intended opposition. The Beatles were
increasing the range of their material, and also
using juxtaposition to increase the material's
impact, a technique that they exploited most
thoroughly in Sgt. Pepper.

Not surprisingly, in the first flush of discovery,

Harrison immersed himself so totally in Indian forms
and concepts that he lost most of his identity as an
artist and as a member of a rock group: 'Within You,
Without You'.

I'm going to Kansas City

Gonna get my baby one time
('Kansas City', by Leiber and Stoller)

While Harrison was in India, John Lennon accepted

the role of Private Gripweed in Dick Lester's film
How I Won The War, but found little satisfaction in
acting or in the company of actors.

Let me take you down

Cos I'm going to Strawberry Fields
('Strawberry Fields Forever', by Lennon and
McCartney)

Paul McCartney chose to write a film score for The

Family Way, Bill Norton's comedy about sexual
conventions in a Northern working class family. Like
Lennon, he found little sense of fulfilment and went
for a long holiday in Africa afterwards. However, the
experience of working with George Martin on a
complete score possibly started him thinking about
the unity of the Beatles' music. And the strong
Northern background of the film probably served to
trigger memories of his own childhood. 'Penny
Lane', with its controlled nostalgia and echoes of
street bands, is likely to be related to The Family
Way period.

Much of American blues, country and western, and

rock and roll, music which was the major part of the
Beatles' earliest musical resources, offers the idea
of the journey or trip, whether brief or lasting a
lifetime, as the most direct means of escape from
the troubles of the world.

The second half of 1966 was also a period of heavy

involvement in acid-taking for the Beatles. The
increasingly exotic textures of their music, and their
changes in appearance, can be attributed to the
separate activities they had undertaken, a sense of
release from the constrictions of their Beatlemania
roles, and to their drug experiences.

This element held a strong appeal to white youth

who came to identify with the music, and used it to
express their own alienation.

When a woman gets dissatisfied

She hangs her head and cries,
When a man gets dissatisfied
He flags a train and rides
('Dissatisfied Blues', by Brownie McGhee)

Much of Bob Dylan's first LP is haunted by the

mystique of hard travelling: the idea of new
experiences and a new life lying further down the
highway or the railroad track. Another facet of the
lure of the road was the mesmeric attraction of the
big city to those who felt bored and isolated by life
in the small towns of the United States. The image
of the city as a goal containing women, excitement
and fulfilment, underlies many songs, including
'Kansas City', which the Beatles recorded.

Of the first songs that they recorded after

reassembling in November, Lennon's 'Strawberry
Fields Forever' and McCartney's 'Penny Lane', both
sprang from their Liverpool backgrounds and their
memories of childhood. Penny Lane is a
thoroughfare in Liverpool containing a bus terminal.
Strawberry Fields is a Salvation Army children's
home. Every year there was a summer fte which
John's Aunt Mimi would take him to: "As soon as we
could hear the Salvation Army band starting, John
would jump up and down shouting, 'Mimi, come on,
we're going to be late.'"

The concept and imagery of the trip recurred with

new connotations in the Beatles' songs that
expressed the burgeoning vogue for alternative
realities to Western materialism: drugs and Eastern
religious concepts. The chief difference was that the
new direction was internal rather than external.
Whereas the traditional romance of travel had
revolved around the artist as an idealistic wanderer,
discovering the world and himself in his travels, the
new internal transport network promised to take the
traveler inside himself, to a deeper understanding of
his own identity. This change in direction was
pinpointed by the two final songs on Revolver. In

However, the violent contrast between what they

remembered, and the way in which they dramatised
their recollections in the recording studio,
crystallised the differences between Lennon and
McCartney's personalities and outlooks more
clearly than anything they had previously produced.
And the coupling of the two songs as a double-A

144

'Got To Get You Into My Life' McCartney sings an

account of a journey that fuses internal and external
points of reference:

John Lennon's first major experiment in psychic

geography was his story of nowhere man in
nowhere land, in the song 'Nowhere Man' on the
Rubber Soul LP. Later he was to reveal the song
was primarily about himself, but at the time it
seemed to have the same one-sided quality that
characterised most protest songs.

I was alone, I took a ride

I didn't know what I would find there
Another road where maybe I
Could see another kind of mind there.

He's a real nowhere man

Sitting in his nowhere land
Making all his nowhere plans for nobody...
Nowhere man, please listen
Understand what you're missing

However the journey resolves itself by finding the

most traditional object of longing, another woman:
Then suddenly I see you,
Did I tell you I need you
Every single day of my life?

In spite of the redeeming catch phrase ("Isn't he a

bit like you and me?") the song's aggressiveness
suggested that the problem primarily afflicted
others.

At the beginning of the next song, 'Tomorrow Never

Knows', Lennon announced unequivocally the
departure of the psychedelic bandwagon for new
points inside the traveler:

On 'Rain', released six months later, things had

improved slightly. The one-sidedness was still there,
but the music had begun to do some of the talking:
a shuddering, hypnotic downpour of sound that
engulfed the listener in the same way as the
subjects of the song were paralysed by their own
outlook:

Turn off your mind

Relax and float downstream
It is not dying
Lay down all thought
Surrender to the Void
It is shining

When the rain comes

They run and hide their heads
They might as well be dead
When the rain comes

The Void replaced Kansas City as the idealised

goal offering fulfilment to all those bored with life in
the psychic provinces. The imperatives in the
succeeding verses hammer the point home:

While working on this song, Lennon took home the

tapes from one evening's session to listen to. Being
stoned, he laced them up the wrong way round on
the tape recorder and listened to the song
backwards. He decided it sounded better that way
and for the first time the Beatles included backward
running tapes on the record. Their resources were
expanding.

But listen to the colour of your dreams

It is not living
Or play the game existence to the end
Of the beginning
On the same album the Beatles created their most
memorable metaphor of "the game existence":
Eleanor Rigby, the definitive synthesis of Lennon's
tendency towards cynicism and McCartney's
tendency towards sentimentality. The interaction of
these same two qualities underlies the outlook of
Sgt. Pepper, an album that extends and diversifies
the vision suggested in 'Eleanor Rigby' of human
society as a huge lonely hearts club. It was this
vision that was to provide the static element of the
Beatles' art, and the dynamic of the trip in all
dimensions: psychedelic, spiritual, temporal and
spatial, that was to provide the kinetic element. It
was this dynamic that was developed in 'Penny
Lane'/'Strawberry Fields Forever'. Both songs
described places and the trip there and back, but
places that existed primarily as metaphors for
states of mind, places that existed inside the
Beatles.

*
IN FEBRUARY 1967, I TURNED ON the radio and
was told I was going to hear the new Beatles single.
I was curious. The Beatles had been silent for six
months, except for sarcastic put-downs of their
earlier work. Newspapers kept asking whether they
were splitting, and failing to give an answer. Their
mop-top appearance, which had stayed fairly
constant for three years in the public spotlight, had
given way to moustaches and short hair, and their
mod clothes, collarless jackets and sharp suits had
been replaced by a mongrelised Edwardian
appearance, with Afghan jackets and long scarves.

145

Until Rubber Soul I hadn't been very struck by their

music. They were clever, tuneful and lively, but I
associated their music with parties rather than
listening. Compared to groups who based
themselves on the blues, such as the Stones and
Animals, the Beatles seemed flashy and glib.
Compared to Bob Dylan's aural landscapes,
coherently random imagery and constant pushing
past clichs, the Beatles seemed uninventive,
limited in form and vision. Their development of a
tighter sound, more insidious melodies and more
open-ended lyrics on Rubber Soul had been
impressive. And their ability to package each song
on Revolver in a distinctive musical box had been
breathtaking; but for me there still remained a
certain glibness, a resolute tin pan alley positivism
in the face of the new doors they were opening.

The final verse, with its non-sequiturs and

grammatical incoherence, uses the most extreme
technique available to the songwriter to convey the
inadequacy of language, and a sense of a
disintegrating personality.
In the context of the successively more confused
verses, the recurrent chorus becomes more sinister,
like some litany of chaos repeated to shut out the
engulfing confusion:
Let me take you down
Cos I'm going to Strawberry Fields
Nothing is real
And nothing to get hung about
Strawberry Fields forever
Remote, electronic trumpets underline each
statement like an ironic fanfare, and sombre cello
figures round off each mumbled verse, as though
finishing the speaker's lines for him. The sound
solidifies and flows on, sweeping the singer away
with it. After the final chorus there is a fractional lull,
and then the band chugs off out of earshot, like a
full orchestra tumbling down a hill. There is a
second's silence and then a more liquid sound
reappears, perhaps representing the singer in bliss
in the lotus lands of his dreams, until a repeated,
clanging guitar note briefly erupts and then
vanishes; the gurgling orchestra fades away again;
a few words are mumbled; the rest is silence.

The Beatles' new single was called 'Strawberry

Fields Forever'. A series of pastoral, descending
chords conjured up the expected image of
strawberry fields. But the one-sidedness of 'Rain'
and 'Nowhere Man' had been replaced by a
disturbing duality: instead of standing outside the
problem and looking in, the song is sung in the first
person and the singer is trying to take the audience
with him:
Let me take you down
Cos I'm going to
On the word 'to' the airwaves seemed to bend, and
the band launched into a sickening, seductive
downhill momentum, as the pastoral pipes were
subsumed into a solid torrent of sound that seemed
to sweep the singer out of the ambiguous clarity of
the first verse. Anger at other people's limitations
has been muffled and ultimately negated by a dropout sense of resignation:

George Martin's account of how the backing of

'Strawberry Fields Forever' was created conveys an
idea of the Beatles' technical complexity at the time.
Lennon was dissatisfied with the first backing track
they had recorded:
"He'd wanted it as a gentle dreaming song, but he
said it had come out too raucous. He said could I do
him a new line up with the strings. So I wrote a new
score and we recorded that. But he didn't like it. It
still wasn't right. What he would now like was the
first half of the early recording, plus the second half
of the new recording. Would I put them together for
him? I said it was impossible. They were in different
keys and different tempos."

Living is easy with eyes closed

Misunderstanding all you see
It's getting hard to be someone but it all works out
It doesn't matter much to me
The singer's voice becomes more distorted and
disembodied in each successive verse, the rhythm
becomes more pronounced, and the drumming
more violent, conveying a helpless thrashing
around in a morass of sound. One is actively
involved in the anomie described because the
singer is talking to us, rather than at us, and falling
apart as he talks:

Eventually Martin speeded up the slower recording

by five per cent, and this brought it to the same
tempo and key as the faster recording. He was then
able to mix the two tracks together.
The mumbled words at the end of the song became
the centre of much Beatle theorising. What Lennon
actually says is "I'm very bored". Several critics
looking for proof that this was a drug song
interpreted the words as "I'm very stoned". By the

Always no sometimes think it's me

But you know I know when it's a dream
I think I know I mean, er, yes but it's all wrong
That is, I think I disagree

146

time of the 'McCartney-is-dead' rumour in the

United States, American radio stations were hearing
the words as "I buried Paul".

is so simple as to be breathtaking, and smooth

without being facile.
'Penny Lane' is a similar success: a dream of a
suburban childhood summer, with a cast of
unfrighteningly eccentric characters whose quirks
are reinforced by numerous musical details: flutes
that "stop and say hello", a slightly frenzied trumpet
fanfare for the banker, triumphant bells to signal the
fireman's "clean machine", as the song moves from
introspection to retrospection via the realistic detail
that is one of McCartney's descriptive strengths.
There is a time-warp at work too: it is pouring with
rain in Penny Lane, yet the rain never impinges on
the blue skies of the narrator's memory, or on the
summer air of the baroque brass band backing.

Rolling Stone: "When did people first come up to

you with this thing about John Lennon as God?"
Lennon: "About what to do and all of that? Like 'You
tell us, Guru'? Probably after acid... I write
messages, you know. See, when you start putting
out messages, people start asking you, 'What's the
Message?'"
John Lennon's strongest songs have all been
written in the first person, and usually describe
some form of pain. Paul McCartney's songs display
more formal variety and less intensity. He enjoys
constructing complete scenarios with characters,
settings, plots and denouements, often introducing
them like an omniscient narrator who winds up the
clockwork and watches his characters perform. The
most obvious pitfall of this technique is the danger
of lapsing into a rather mechanistic sterility, as
though the simple setting of events in motion was a
statement in itself. In 'Another Day' we view a girl's
routine at work, in her flat, in a city. The narrative
piles up realistic detail without any real insight:

The song seems genuinely magical, rather than

simply sentimental. Part of the reason for this is that
though the scenario sets the characters in motion,
they retain their autonomy, opting in and out of the
aural theatre in which they perform:
Behind the shelter in the middle of the roundabout
The pretty nurse is selling poppies from a tray
And though she feels as if she's in a play
She is anyway.

Slipping into stockings

Stepping into shoes
It's just another day
like some warped paean to life's monotony.

The characters' actions repeatedly surprise the

narrator:
In Penny Lane the barber shaves another customer
We see the banker sitting waiting for a trim
And then the fireman rushes in
From the pouring rain Very strange!

However, when such a story is integrated into a

clear concept, the cameos take on lives of their
own, like miniature theatres. 'Eleanor Rigby' is an
outstanding example, with its transition from the
opening chorus, surrounded by eighteenth century
string cascades:

But the strangeness is the strangeness of unsullied

innocence. The barber, the banker, the fireman, the
pretty nurse are characters from a toytown
childhood, untouched by squalor or fear. Even a
colloquial piece of Liverpool smut: "four of fish and
finger pie" (finger pie is Liverpool slang for sticking
one's fingers into a girl's vagina) seems drained of
its meaning by its context.

Ah, look at all the lonely people

to the two vignettes of isolation, whose anguish is
conveyed by more staccato cross-rhythms, and
whose condition is signalled by a wealth of detail; 'a
face that she keeps in a jar by the door', 'the words
of a sermon that no-one will hear'. The movement
from the general to the particular, and the final
fusion of the two figures in the last verse without
disturbing the separateness that is the song's
theme:

The songs seemed more powerful than anything I

had previously heard by the Beatles, particularly
'Strawberry Fields Forever'. It seemed to have a life
of its own, to grow organically and move at its own
pace and in its own direction. The words and music
deliberately open up the confusion of the situation,
rather than rush towards a resolution in the manner
of 'Nowhere Man'. Those who find "living is easy
with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see"
could equally well be the wretchedly "normal" crowd
from 'Rain', still sheltering from changes in the
psychic weather, or those who criticise them: the
hippies squatting on their alchemical perches ("No-

Eleanor Rigby died in the church and was buried

along with her name,
Nobody came.
Father Mackenzie, wiping the dirt from his hands as
he walks from the grave,
No one was saved.

147

one I think is in my tree") looking down in scorn on

straight society. The external reality is unreal, or at
best, relative:

track which gives the album its rather nebulous

unity, was recorded on 29 March, at the end of the
sessions.

Can you hear me that when it rains and shines

It's just a state of mind
and so is the drug-induced process of escape:
I mean it must be high or low
That is you can't you know tune in

"You know, Pepper became a unit only when we

put it together. It wasn't designed that way. It wasn't
until I started piecing it together and cutting in
sound effects that it really became a whole."
George Martin

All that can be stated with confidence is the dark

pun, "Nothing is real" (either 'There is no thing that
is real' or 'The quality of nothing is a real thing'.).

But the concept of Sgt. Pepper was the product of

more than skilful splicing and mixing of tapes. Partly
it was the final nail in the coffin of their Beatlemania
personas The cover suggested as much: the
Beatles dressed in Ruritanian costumes, physically
endistanced from their mop-top former selves
represented by models from Madame Tussaud's,
gazing across their name spelt out in flowers,
suggested a formal burial of the Beatles' myth.

There is certainly a connection between the

ambiguity of drug experiences (which may be
viewed as either a positive enlargement of one's
vision, or as a self-destructive form of escapism)
and the ambiguity of the trip to Strawberry Fields:
one is not sure if the singer is going of his own
volition, or whether the stay there will be temporary
or permanent. What the words and music do
establish is the potency of the momentum to opt
out.

That they successfully achieved the separation,

reincarnating "the act you've known for all these
years" as 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band'
may be attributed partly to more ambitious and
sophisticated recording techniques, which enabled
them to carry off the effect with appropriate
theatrical panache, and partly to the alternative
realities they had discovered through drugs and
religion, alternatives which they deliberately
contrasted with the norms of everyday life. But the
album's unique quality lies in its use of a
theatrical/magical framework to enclose songs
displaying special sensitivity to the tension between
individual and social values, a tension implicit in the
Lonely Hearts Club who assemble the show.

*
AFTER REASSEMBLING IN NOVEMBER 1966,
the Beatles recorded 'Strawberry Fields Forever',
'When I'm Sixty-Four' and 'Penny Lane'. After
releasing 'Strawberry Fields'/'Penny Lane' as a
single, they continued working on their next LP in
January 1967. Their decision to limit their activities
to the recording studio was partly a product of
increasing confidence in their own recording skills,
and resulted in greater significance being attached
to their forthcoming album.

In the opening track the Band make their

thunderous entry as the incarnation of music as a
unifying force. In McCartney's description, "They're
a bit of a brass band in a way, but also a rock band
because they've got the San Francisco thing."

"We realised for the first time that some day,

someone would eventually be holding a thing that
they'd call 'The Beatles' new LP', and that normally
it would just be a collection of songs or a nice
picture on the cover, nothing more. So the idea was
to do a complete thing that could make what you
liked of, just a little magic presentation. We were
going to have a little magic envelope in the centre
with the nutty things you can buy at Woolworth's: a
surprise package." - Paul McCartney

We're Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

We hope you will enjoy the show
We're Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
Sit back and let the evening go
The audience responds with laughter and applause,
but the remote, metallic quality of the crowd
sounds, (like canned laughter on a TV show),
simultaneously suggests the remoteness of such
showbiz routines from any real contact with its
audience, and the remoteness of the new studio
based Beatles from their Beatlemania audience.
Lennon and Harrison sing in snide harmony:

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band was

recorded between January and April 1967,
occupying about 700 hours of studio recording time.
The concept of making the record a self- contained
show was arrived at towards the end of the
recording sessions. The reprise of the 'Sgt. Pepper'
track in which the band sing their farewells, the

148

It's wonderful to be here,

It's certainly a thrill.
You're such a lovely audience,
We'd like to take you home with us,
We'd love to take you home.

and the craziness induced by institutional

repression:
I used to get mad at my school,
Teachers who taught me weren't cool,
You're holding me down, turning me round,
Filling me up with your rules.

The Beatles on tour had said as much to their

audiences every night, and they had been lying
practically every time. McCartney, bellowing at his
loudest as Master of Ceremonies, interrupts with an
announcement of "the one and only Billy Shears",
and a grandiose fanfare effect, accompanied by
Beatlemania style screams, leads straight to
Ringo's anti-climactic appeal for support:

All four Beatles were judged to be varying degrees

of failure at school but no real personal rage enters
the song. The only ambiguity lies in the falsetto
howls of 'can't get no worse' underneath the
confidently assertive chorus of
I've got to admit it's getting better
It's getting better all the time

What would you think if I sang out of tune?

Would you stand up and walk out on me?

'Fixing A Hole' has a similar theme of coming to

terms with frustrations, but the harpsichord in the
backing, and the more sophisticated imagery which
uses the room as a metaphor for a state of mind,
indicate a more self-controlled, more middle class
version of the problem. The singer has a stronger
grasp on his own life, and the reference to:

There could be no better expression of the gulf

between the showbiz clichs of togetherness with
one's audience, and the reality of an uncertain, daily
search for security and warmth. Led on by Lennon
and McCartney in a condescending question and
answer sequence, Ringo expresses a tottering faith
in the value of friends, opting for a social identity
because he cannot conceive of himself without
friends, rather than because he can pinpoint their
positive value. And the tune's good too.

Silly people run around, they bother me

And never ask me why they don't get past my door
contains one of the few autobiographical moments
of the record.

Do you need anybody?

I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.

"Sometimes I invite fans in, but it starts to be not

really the point in a way, because I invited one in,
and the next day she was in the Daily Mirror with
her mother saying we were going to get married.
So we tell the fans, 'Forget it'." Paul McCartney

The earthbound rock and roll backing, and

uncertain friendships of Billy Shears are replaced
by the fantasy friend of Lucy in the sky,
characterised by a backing dominated by a celestelike organ figure. The song serves to open up a
world of fantastic imagery and preternaturally bright
colours to complement the world of Billy Shears
groping in the dark for what he can't see but knows
is his. Musically, the two worlds are linked by some
of McCartney's most haunting bass patterns.

'She's Leaving Home' returns the LP to more

formal, social framework. A typical story of a girl
leaving home, and the non-communicating dialogue
that underlies the situation, is treated like a miniopera which simultaneously formalises the incident,
and makes the characters more sympathetic
through the slight absurdity of their musical setting.
Again the contrast between the isolated individual
and the social unit is concentrated in to such lines
as:

'Getting Better' brings the waltz-time phasing effects

of 'Lucy' violently down to earth. This is the most
primitive song on the record, musically and socially.
With its exaggerated beat and harsh guitar chords it
describes the clash between individual and social
values at its rawest: in the mellowing of adolescent
revolt into a passive settling down. The mixed
qualities of teenage frustration are exampled by
private violence:

She's leaving home

After living alone for so many years
And again the problem is replaced by another
fantasy landscape, 'Being For The Benefit Of Mr.
Kite!', evoking a somewhat ethereal carnival
atmosphere. Virtually all the words and phrases in
the song were lifted by Lennon from an actual 19thCentury circus poster he possessed, which creates

I used to be cruel to my woman,

I beat her and kept her apart from the things that
she loved.

149

a striking contrast in the tone of the lyrics with the

suburban world of the previous song. And the
placing of the track at the end of side one, halfway
through the album, re-introduces the theatrical
framework.

In retrospect the song's chief significance lies in its

being the beginning of Harrison's spiritual
songwriting. After a period of writing songs in an
Indian style, Harrison began refracting the Indian
religious vision through Western musical forms, a
way of working that was to produce more powerful
and more integrated forms of expression than
'Within You, Without You'. 'While My Guitar Gently
Weeps', perhaps the most brilliant, through
successive glimpses of a floor that needs sweeping,
a world that is turning, and a love that is sleeping,
fuses a sense of the everyday with a vision of the
world as a cycle of suffering. Underscored by the
eloquence of Eric Clapton's blues-based guitar
playing, the result is a song which transcends
cultural compartments and does justice to its title:
compassionate rock music.

*
THE BEGINNING OF SIDE TWO restates the
theme of unity and isolation within the terms of
Harrison's new Eastern context:
those who live on the surface of reality are doomed
to ignorance; only by going beyond maya, the
surface reality of facts, events and categories,
which are the basis of the mainstream of secular
Western conceptual techniques, can one find
harmony. A harmony which does not neatly
integrate the individual into his social context, but
which reveals the illusory nature of an absolute
distinction between the individual and his
surroundings, a distinction which underlies most
forms of alienation:

As the last notes of the one totally self-committed

song on the LP die away, a leering outburst of
laughter erupts. Harrison explained:
"It's a release after five minutes of sad music. You
haven't got to take it all that seriously, you know.
You were supposed to hear the audience as they
listen to Sgt. Pepper's show. That was the style of
the album."

When you've seen beyond yourself

Then you may find peace of mind is waiting there
And the time will come when you see we're all one
And life flows on within you and without you

However, this is the only moment when the

audience actually conflicts with the mood of the
performance. It seems a sinister, rather than a
liberating one.

For me, the song fails to work in spite of its many

attractive elements. The opening line has the
elemental simplicity that characterises Harrison's
best religious songs:

The most exotic song on the album is followed by

the corniest. Harrison's Eastern vision is followed
the first of McCartney's period piece ballads, 'When
I'm Sixty-Four'. In later examples, such as 'Honey
Pie', the whimsiness inherent in such a technique
became cloying, and tended to smother the
attractiveness of the melodies. In 'When I'm SixtyFour' the problem doesn't arise because the
cheerful corniness of the music complements the
question asked by the song: Do feelings date as
rapidly as music? Marriage is society's chief cure
for isolation, but how permanent an answer is it?
The song is sung by a young man to his girl, but the
style and backing of the song are a pastiche of
nineteen-twenties pop. As in 'She's Leaving Home',
musical incongruity is used to humanise the
situation: the young man singing an old-fashioned
song inverts the problem of old people trying to
preserve the feelings of youth. The concept of
marriage as a convention to embalm and preserve
emotions is related to the stiltedness of feelings on
a postcard, and the impossibility of turning love into
an official formula or form:

We were talking about the space between us all

The irregular time signature, constantly shifting
between 5/4 and 4/4, gives the song a fluid metrical
quality appropriate to the message, a quality also
present in the sequence in which the solo sitar and
violin section exchange and elaborate upon each
others' themes, conveying a sense of and
spontaneity. But ultimately, the whole song fails to
flow together. The element of preaching is too
dogmatic and aggressive to do justice to the
themes of fluidity and natural harmony that underlie
the song's outlook. The stiffness of the language
effectively separates the song's vision from the
minutiae of everyday life:
We were talking - about the love that's gone so cold
And the people who gain the world and lose their
soul
linking it to memories of Sunday School, rather than
to a powerful moment of enlightenment.

Send me a postcard, drop me a line

Stating point of view

150

Indicate precisely what you mean to say

Yours sincerely, wasting away
Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore

The unity implied by enclosing the album within an

introduction and a finale is slightly specious. This is
a drawback only if one is looking for a closely
structured work, with all themes carefully
dovetailed. Such a work would be a lot less varied
and vital than Sgt. Pepper as it exists. The fact that
no strenuous attempt is made to justify the inclusion
of as foreign in form and content as 'Within You,
Without You' in the show is one of the album's
strengths, a sign of the same autonomy and openended quality that prevents 'Penny Lane' from
ticking over like a clockwork toy.

The suggested range of activities together are the

most clichd imaginable knitting a sweater,
digging the garden. But the irrepressibly cheerful
backing, long clarinet lines, sighing choruses and
bells, make this the most optimistic song on the
record. If the friendships of Billy Shears are
uncertain, and the vision of 'Within You, Without
You' seems too remote, contentment with
domesticity is the best we can hope for. A trite
enough solution. But part of the technique of Sgt.
Pepper lies in the way it keeps close to the brightly
lit mainstream of common experience, never
looking far outside, until the end.

*
IF EVALUATED SIMPLY AS A collection of songs,
the album is not as strong as Revolver or the
double white album. But, like the Beatles
themselves, Sgt. Pepper is much more than the
sum of its parts. And also the songs fulfil a different
function within the album. Revolver literally doubled
the range of rock music at one stroke: each song
encompassed a different musical form and range of
lyrical possibilities. The love songs ran from the
freewheeling Eastern eroticism of Harrison's 'Love
You To', through the love-is-magic tradition of
McCartney's 'Here, There And, Everywhere', to the
hallucinatory inventiveness of Lennon's 'And Your
Bird Can Sing'.

'Lovely Rita' is simply a joke, musically and lyrically,

in which a strangely unbalanced band, the drummer
is too loud and the pianist appears to be in the next
room, try to sing a ballad of love at first sight with a
traffic warden giving out parking tickets, with added
comb and paper whooping noises for dramatic
effects. The song ends with an appropriately bizarre
musical/sexual climax in which the pianist attempts
to take a solo, accompanied by loud orgasmic
grunts and gasps, and cries from the rest of the
band of "Up!" After painfully working his way up the
keyboard, the desperate climax is abandoned with
a shout of "Leave it".

The only love songs within the Sgt. Pepper theatre

are the jokey, unconsummated 'Lovely Rita' and
Julian Lennon's fantasy girlfriend 'Lucy In The Sky
With Diamonds'. Three songs outline the
theatrical/magical framework: the two 'Sgt. Pepper'
tracks, and 'Mr. Kite'. The remaining seven songs
are principally concerned with different levels of
social existence: the deadpan loneliness of 'With A
Little Help From My Friends', the naively adaptive
'Getting Better', the carefully modulated self-control
of 'Fixing A Hole', the mock-classical suburban
isolation of 'She's Leaving Home', the mystical
alternative 'Within You, Without You', the optimistic
apprehension of 'When I'm Sixty-Four', and the
resignation to sterility of 'Good Morning Good
Morning'.

Lennon makes a revisit to a modified nowhere land

in 'Good Morning, Good Morning'. Musically
embodied in a brass section played by the group
Sounds Incorporated he cruises around town
attempting to pick up some momentum.
Everybody knows there' s nothing doing
Everything is closed it's like a ruin
Everyone you see is half asleep
And so on, until watching the girl gives the narrator
a slight rise, and the song closes with the prospect
of some action, and an ambiguous tolerance of the
situation:

And within these seven songs, Sgt. Pepper

gestures towards, and defines, several points of a
world view that is more comprehensive than any
other single work in rock. 'She's Leaving Home'
recorded the puzzled parent's point of view, as well
as the alienated girl's. 'When I'm Sixty-Four' was the
first time pop stars had thought aloud about losing
their hair, and the deliberately corny backing
suggested the fate that would befall all popular
music, no matter how sensational in its time.

Go to a show, you hope she goes

I've got nothing to say but it's OK
Good morning, good morning, good morning
A stereo menagerie flits from speaker to speaker, a
chicken clucks, there is a thunderous drum break,
and the Lonely Hearts Club Band reappears amidst
more laughter and applause, signalling the return of
humanity to the rather sterile landscape of the
previous song, and the end of Sgt. Pepper's show.

151

If there is a weakness in the Sgt. Pepper' cycle, it is

that the songs are too dominated by the norms of
social life and popular song. There is a degree of
isolation in 'With A Little Help From My Friends', of
revolt in 'Getting Better', some awareness of
claustrophobia and sterility in 'Good Morning, Good
Morning', but nothing that seriously threatens to
strain the good humour of the Lonely Hearts Club
Band. There seems to be no account taken of
boredom or terror or despair. Until we come to the
one glimpse we are given of life after the show is
over, outside the Lonely Hearts Club.

consummate the record's final vision and dying

wish:

As the cheers and blues shouting voices die away,

a wisp of a guitar tune emerges to accompany a
high-pitched, quavering voice picking up an empty,
wistfully alienated outlook from the rag-bag of the
media: "I read the news...I saw a film..." 'A Day In
The Life', the most powerful song on the LP, and the
only one to exist outside Sgt. Pepper's show,
crystallised around three verses by Lennon, each
one loosely inspired by an actual event.

The ambiguity of the trip to Strawberry Fields is

present in a far more potent form as the gently
inviting "I'd love to turn you on" leads straight into
the orchestral crescendos that seem to promise
total self-delivery or total self-destruction. The noise
can seem oppressive or liberating, ecstatic or
intimidating. The only impossible response is
indifference.

Now they know how many holes it takes to fill the

Albert Hall.
I'd love to turn you on
the utter impenetrability of the avalanche of sound,
created by every instrument in a 41-piece orchestra
moving from its lowest possible to its highest
possible note, and the resolution of the whole
collage in an endless chord.

The song remains unique in the Beatles' work. It

does not tend towards the internal landscape of
'Strawberry Fields Forever' or the free association
of 'I Am The Walrus'. In the synthesis between the
wistfulness of the words and the self-confidence of
the music that propels them along, they achieved
their most powerful metaphor for a world of tension
and illusion. Easy explanations like "youthful
alienation" and "a modern Waste Land" have been
offered, but the song remains subtler than such
formulae suggest, because no clear moral or
aesthetic critique of modern life is being made.
Instead the song's meaning arises out of the
emptiness of the words and the way in which the
fragmented urban vignettes are manipulated by
changes in rhythm, vocal timbre and
instrumentation to stretch out the vague, innocuous
kernel of the song, like a musical rack, into an
unspecified source of grandeur and terror.

The 'lucky man' was Tara Browne, a rich

acquaintance of the Beatles, who had died in a car
crash. The film was Dick Lester's How I Won The
War, featuring Lennon as Private Gripeweed. And
the 4000 holes came from a paragraph in the Daily
Mail. During the recording sessions McCartney
added a fragment of his own which he had been
thinking of expanding:
"Woke up, fell out of bed..." to fill the gap between
the second and third verse. The string transition and
orchestral climaxes were arrived at after discussion
between Lennon, McCartney and George Martin.
Martin's remark that although Pepper was not a
carefully preconceived entity, he could feel it take
on a life of its own during recording sessions, is
particularly relevant to this song.
The unique power that the song possesses is
principally generated by the tension between the
empty, alienated navet of the words:

And though the news was rather sad

Well, I just had to laugh

THE RECORD REEKED OF 700 HOURS of

recording time and the infinite care lavished on
production details. The Beatles couldn't leave it
alone. The inner paper sleeve was covered with a
shimmering red design by Simon and Marijke, the
designers whom the Beatles set up as dressmakers
for the Apple Boutique. The lead-out groove from
the end of the final chord of 'A Day In The Life'
contained an 18 kilocycle note that was intended to
be a friendly greeting to dog listeners. The inner
groove itself contained a jumble of noise and words
that brought hours of pleasure to banana smoking
Beatle fans everywhere. Roughly speaking, played
forwards the words seemed to say "Never could

and the precisely judged effects of the music: the

wavering, uncertain piano and guitar opening
theme, the sudden thudding drum entry after "blew
his mind out in a car", the intensification of the
rhythm as one is jolted into another day:
"Woke up, fell out of bed", the unexplained
alternation of singers, the unexpectedly sensual
orchestral transition after "Somebody spoke and I
went into a dream", the celestial piano chords to

152

see any other way", played backwards the words

seemed to say "I'll fuck you like a superman". The
Beatles of course denied that either meaning was
intended.

But the positive achievements were more striking.

In place of the vagaries of teenage love, the album
concentrated on themes of isolation and
togetherness; in place of pop's gleefully barbaric,
uneducated persona, the album wrapped itself in a
cover loaded with esoterica and intellectual
references; in place of pop's background in black
blues and white country music raw music that
spoke of lust and deprivation Sgt. Pepper
flavoured itself with nostalgia, mysticism, drugs and
humour; in place of the arrogance and selfsufficiency of youth, the album took circus stars,
traffic wardens, visionaries and old age pensioners
as its characters.

In retrospect, Sgt. Pepper came to be seen as the

fountainhead of "progressive rock music", a style
that was characterised musically by the dilution of
the tight forms of blues, country music and
traditional ballads with extended improvisations,
and avant-garde and ethnic influences; and lyrically
by a preoccupation with "youth culture" themes:
dope, social dissent and personal alienation were
firm favourites.

But out of it all, by virtue of the Beatles' talent

talent that had been transformed by their creative
search for a new persona, by George Martin's
brilliant production, by the insane self-confidence
they had acquired after four years on top of the
world they created a complex and infinitely varied
concept: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band.
They worked it through in great detail, and finally
they exploded it with a cosmic kick in the teeth at
the end. It remains the most impressive creation of
pop music in the '60s, and one of the most beautiful
things ever created.

Sgt. Pepper displays none of these trends. Instead

the musical influences are rooted mainly in
nostalgia: the stone-age guitar work of 'Getting
Better', the musical hall elements of 'Lovely Rita'
and 'When I'm Sixty-Four', the fairground memories
of 'Mr. Kite', the formal sentimentality of 'She's
Leaving Home'. And the lyrics came closer to
capturing the lives and language of a whole society
than any other rock music has done.
The drug influence was there, but usually between
the lines, suggested more by the opulence of the
music, and only coming into the open for 'A Day In
The Life' which rises to the occasion by expressing
both the beauty and the barrenness of a drugsupported existence. The press debated what sort
of weeds were being dug in 'When I'm Sixty-Four',
and whether 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds' was
really Lysergic Acid Diethylamide. It was an idiotic
debate. Most of the interest in and relevance of
psychedelic experiences lay in the way in which
they interpenetrated more "normal" states of mind.
The seductive lotus lands of Strawberry Fields
become a swamp of stoned confusion. The didactic
"I'd love to turn you on" leads straight to a musical
maelstrom that lifts one out of the tangled rhythms
of a daily routine. To treat psychedelia and drug
experiences as an exclusive and self-sufficient
world soon lead to artistic sterility, as the Beatles
discovered.

*
THE PARADOX WAS THAT THE VERY thing that
gave Sgt. Pepper its greatness opposition of
personalities, the search for new horizons, musical
experiments ultimately destroyed the Beatles.
More than any other single force, the cultural
collage on the cover, the musical eclecticism, drug
dreams, Eastern visions and yearning for love and
harmony embodied in Sgt. Pepper brought the
hippie movement to England. To consummate the
process, the Beatles wrote and recorded, with a
little help from Donovan, Mick Jagger and other
floral friends, an anthem for the movement, 'All You
Need Is Love', for a TV show entitled Our World,
which was broadcast by satellite to an estimated
world audience of 150 million people. The song was
then issued as a single with 'Baby, You're A Rich
Man' on the flip side, which revolved around the
question, "How does it feel to be one of the
beautiful people?"

Time magazine confidently reported marijuana

plants growing on the cover of Sgt. Pepper There
aren't any. And the Buckingham Palace gardener
who actually arranged the flowers was not amused
by this imaginative piece of journalism.

'All You Need Is Love' was not quite as stupid as it

sounded. It featured Lennon's deadpan style of
acid-Zen positivism:

Rather than giving birth to a new sub-species of

pop, Sgt. Pepper was a unique achievement that
changed the character of pop forever. Undeniably,
something was lost. Sgt. Pepper was theatre to be
appreciated rather than music to interact with. You
couldn't dance to it and all the words were printed
on the back to make certain you really understood.

There's nothing you can make that can't be made

No-one you can save that can't be saved

153

Nothing you can do but you can learn how to be

you in time

Sgt.Pepper was a theatre that enabled the Beatles

to go further into the norms and contradictions of
everyday life than any of their music, before or
since. By contrast, Magical Mystery Tour took one
to a peculiarly, hermetic, self-enclosed world.

over a bubbling background of the 'Marseillaise', 'In

The Mood', 'Greensleeves', and cod echoes of 'She
Loves You' and 'Yesterday'. The song was the
natural fusion of the Beatles' taste for instant
solutions with England's Indian summer of 1967:
"Legalise Pot" petitions in The Times, Parliamentary
debates on "the Love generation", kaftans, joss
sticks and court reports of "a strong, sweet smell".
The main trouble with 'All You Need Is Love' was
that it wasn't true. But that was not completely the
Beatles' fault. 'Baby, You're A Rich Man' actually
tried to ask the beautiful people what they were
doing apart from being beautiful:

McCartney's 'The Fool On The Hill' contained

something of the bittersweet quality of psychedelic
enlightenment, or of any state of knowledge that
separates one forever from the social mainstream:
Day after day, alone on a hill, the man with the
foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him, they can see that
he's just a fool and he never gives an answer
But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head see the world spinning
round.

Now that you've found another key

What are you going to play?
Some events of that summer suggested problems
that would not be solved by love alone: the BBC
labelled 'A Day In The Life' a drug song and refused
to play it; the pirate radio stations were forcibly
closed down by the Maritime Offences Act; Mick
Jagger was sentenced to three months'
imprisonment for possession of four benzedrine
tablets (the sentence was quashed on appeal); and
Brian Epstein died a sleeping pill-induced death on
the borderline between accident and depression on
August Bank Holiday.

But this insight never found its way into the film as a
whole. The psychedelia of Sgt. Pepper emanated
out of, and fed back into the world of Billy Shears,
Lovely Rita and Daily Mirror stories of
misunderstood children. The psychedelia of
Magical Mystery Tour operated outside any social
context; no real link was made with the mystery
coach trips that haunt English holiday towns.
Instead one watched a busload of rich hippies
recording their own whims in a private fantasy that
went nowhere. The one moment when the film
seemed to work centered around one of the lesser
songs in the collection: the Beatles in white
tuxedoes doing a sloppy precision dance routine to
'Your Mother Should Know', as a stream of dancers
in evening dress flowed down a staircase, like a
Hollywood dream. The moment was firmly rooted in
a mid 20th century myth. This sequence apart, the
only myth being utilised was that of the Beatles
themselves, and inevitably the film seemed
narcissistic.

The manner of his death, immediately after making

a number of pro-pot and pro-LSD statements,
crystallised the ambiguities in the movement's
chemical enthusiasm, and foreshadowed a casual
talent for self-destruction: Jimi Hendrix, Brian
Jones, Janis Joplin.
The death of Brian Epstein was the beginning of the
Beatles' disintegration. Without any outside
guidance they began to make their own film for TV
consumption during Christmas 1967. And they
began the setting up of Apple, a typical Beatles'
concept, a conglomerate company to encourage
young artists and promote new ideas: hippie
capitalism, money-making philanthropy.

The Beatles had deliberately chosen to produce

their own idea, without a father figure such as
George Martin or Brian Epstein to guide them, and
they were puzzled and hurt by their first failure. The
lack of an outside adviser led to their personal
differences being exacerbated. Paul McCartney had
been the prime mover behind Magical Mystery Tour
and did most of the setting up of Let It Be, their final
film, by which time they were having their personal
arguments in front of the camera.

The screening of the TV film Magical Mystery Tour

on 26 December 1967 produced public
bewilderment and hysterical anti-Beatle press
reviews. Their anarchic and self-indulgent cinematic
ideas were wildly at odds with the conventional
expectations aroused by a Christmas TV
spectacular. The irony that underlay the production
of Sgt. Pepper the Beatles' withdrawing from
public life in order to produce a simulated, live show
was beginning to have negative results.

Apple led to confusion and financial chaos. Lennon

brought in Allen Klein to sort out the mess. Harrison
and Ringo accepted him, McCartney didn't and
launched a High Court action to have the Beatles'
partnership dissolved. All their personal problems

154

and differences of opinion over the past three years

were written down and read out as affidavits and
written evidence in Court No. 16 of the High Courts
in February 1971. It would be hard to imagine a
more miserable ending. The Beatles of course had
seen it all, long ago:

familiar things like Blackbird, Yesterday and I've

Just Seen A Face, accompanying himself on
acoustic guitar. The word is that even more
nominal, Lennon-McCartney material has been
added to the extended repetoire for the Americas.
The one small crimp in this whole picture is the
album that was released to coincide with the Tour.
Probably the best, and safest, thing to do would
have been to put out a package of heretofore
uncollated singles and B-sides, ranging from
Another Day through such rockers as Hi Hi Hi and
Junior's Farm: one thing Wings doesn't need is
bad reviews beating them to their SRO cities, and
that type of LP is virtually immune to criticism.
Besides, those are the songs that the crowds will be
hearing. Instead, At the Speed of Sound is a risky
attempt to establish Wings as a more democratic
unit (it's not even "Paul McCartney and Wings"
anymore). McCartney only sings lead on six of the
album's eleven songs, the smallest ratio since he
struck out on his own. In theory it's a good idea to
have his voice alternating with others it always
worked in the old days but Linda, McCulloch,
Denny Laine and Joe English are not the distinctive
vocalists his old mates are.

I read the news today, oh boy

About a lucky man who made the grade
And though the news was rather sad...
Mick Gold, 1974
Wings: The Band On The Road
Mitchell Cohen, Phonograph Record, May 1976
THE WINGS LIVE show has been evolving over the
past three years, and McCartney deliberately kept a
low profile during its earliest stages, a university
tour of England. On a syndicated radio show, Rock
Around the World, McCartney recalled the joys of
starting from scratch, away from the skeptical eyes
of the press and the complex economic
manueverings of a full-scale superstar traveling
band.

Like Paul's fictional grandfather, the album is very

clean, and one can see how it will fit into the live
format. It prominently features the four man horn
section that will join Wings on stage, particularly
effective on Let 'Em In; gives Laine a couple of
songs to replace Paul Simon's Richard Cory,
which he performed on the early legs of the tour;
and adds at least one McCartney vocal raver,
Beware My Love, which is probably splendid live.
Silly Love Songs, already a big hit single, is light
and infectious, and has simple harmonies for Linda.
All in all, At the Speed of Sound's best tracks, along
with those from Venus and Mars and Band On the
Run, will be the foundation for the two-hours-plus,
no opening act, no intermission Wings show.

"We went to the University tour and we charged 50p

(about $1 American) at the door. And it was the first
time for years I'd seen real money. We'd give the
students' union their cut...and we'd divide up the
rest in the van afterwards. Great feeling, you know.
'50p for you, 50p...,' it was like robbers or
something...That kind of thrill was exactly like the
Cavern when you got paid in the door money...
"Second time around wasn't exactly the same, but
there were many instances very reminiscent of
Hamburg and stuff. Funny hotels and late night
things, and the owner trying to chuck us out
because he thought we were going to be yobs.
There was a lot of that. Because we didn't do it on a
big star level. We very much exposed ourselves by
going back to the grass roots. I'm very glad we did it
now. The success that we're having now is like a
kind of worthy success. It's not as if we just left right
from the Beatles right into a kind of big show. I like
the feeling of a build-up because then you feel like
you've got something under your belt."

Maybe the most curious sidelight to Wings' U S

debut is the shadow that's being cast by the
Beatles, with two words being thrown about with
considerable weight behind them: reunion and
revival. The first is merely more speculation on a
topic that's always been on hand to a greater or
lesser extent, but the second has some real basis in
numbers. Anyone who's been keeping an eye on
the younger segment of the pop audience could see
the Beatle fever rising, as young teenagers
toddlers and pre-schoolers back when the Fab Four
touched down at Kennedy Airport have taken a
near fanatical interest in all prior and present
manifestations of the quartet. Fanzines,
conventions, film festivals are proliferating.

From all reports, Wings now does a fast-paced,

exciting set, kicking off predictably enough with
Rock Show, concluding with Band On the Run,
and mixing in a collection of the group's hits, Paul
and Linda album tracks and a rather more liberal
sprinkling of Beatle songs than Harrison offered in
his revue. In Europe, the most well-received portion
of the show has been McCartney's solo spot doing

155

In England, developments are even more dramatic.

EMI has instigated a concentrated reissue program,
spearheaded by Yesterday, never before available
as a single in Britain (like Imagine, a recent top 10
U.K. hit), and including every other Beatle 45. As of
a couple of weeks ago, the British top 50 looked
something like this: Yesterday (8), Hey Jude (18),
Paperback Writer (23), Get Back (30), Strawberry
Fields Forever (32), Help (50), with such songs as
Love Me Do, I Want to Hold Your Hand, Yellow
Submarine and Lady Madonna bubbling under.
Nearly 1/4 of the top 100 (23 discs) are Beatle
records. Many, of course, are McCartneyassociated songs, leading to speculation that last
year's Wings tour helped to rekindle interest, and
England is normally receptive to oldies, but this
spurt is causing a tremendous amount of industry
controversy. Some of EMI's competitors like Pye,
CBS and Phonogram are accusing EMI of glutting
the market and making it tougher to break new acts,
but Decca, seeing a good thing, is bringing out old
Stones records.

idea of it getting back together for money. If it ever

was to get back together in any form, which is
always possible I'd never rule it out; I don't think
the other three rule it out I personally would like it
to get together for real reasons. Now I know a lot of
people would say money is a real reason, but for
me, as far as music is concerned, money isn't a
good incentive, really, to go and do it. I would like to
think we'd only go and do it if we really wanted to
say something musically and really favored playing
with each other again."
Even if it isn't out of the question, there are four
very tender egos to deal with; none of them wants
to seem desperate, or mercenary, or to be
perceived as the spoiler. Meanwhile, as Paul
McCartney's second band is storming the States, a
former Apple promo man, according to Billboard,
has been seen wearing a t-shirt inscribed "Beatles
Revival Tour 1976, Road Crew." Some people will
never give up hope.
Mitchell Cohen, 1976

With all this U.K. chart action, and McCartney in the

public eye, all that was needed was for one
enterprising entrepreneur to fuel the fire, and Bill
Sargent fits the bill. As everybody knows by now,
Sargent offered the four Beatles some exhorbitant
guarantee (he keeps upping the pot; at last bid the
number of millions was up to fifty) to get together for
one live, closed-circuit T.V. appearance. Despite his
super-confidence (he even said he'd buy out the
Wings tour), there's no real chance the Beatles'll
bite, but that hasn't kept the media from playing it
up. People put them on the cover, Variety relayed
rumors of a Lennon, Harrison, Starr, Nilsson and
Voorman summer tour, and the Beatles were
making the usual denials. McCartney, in the Rock
Around the World interview, went into some detail
as to his views on an impending Beatle reunion.

Recreating The Beatles: Mistakes And All

John Mendelssohn, Los Angeles Times, 9 April
1978
IF THE FOUR young musicians who portray the
Beatles in Beatlemania deliver anything less than
the "incredible simulation" a sign in the Schubert
Theater ticket window promises, it most assuredly
isn't because they haven't taken extraordinary
pains. In the cogent phrase of Jack Carone, who
trained their local understudies. "They had to work
much harder to redo than the Beatles had to work
to do."
For nine months before their first performance
almost a year ago in Boston, the original Broadway
cast, under the direction of Sandy Yaguda, a onetime member of Jay & the Americans, studied the
recordings they were to try to duplicate live as
intently as Talmudic scholars. Their objective: the
exact reproduction of every most evanescent
nuance.

"My comment is that I don't think it's likely myself. I

never really have since the group split up. There's
always the possibility of it happening again, but I've
never really felt it was a likely thing. I was just telling
someone before, I spoke to John the other night on
the phone; I just happened to ring him up for
something, and we were just chatting. And we
spoke for about an hour and a half...and I realized
after I got off the phone, neither of us had talked at
all about this 35 million deal. He never said to me,
'What do you think about it?'

If John Lennon had voiced a guitar chord in a

peculiar way in 1964, Joe Pecornio was to voice it
in just the same peculiar way in 1977. If Paul
McCartney had mumbled something during the
fadeout of a song recorded during the Summer of
Love, Mitch Weissman was to mumble it again
every night in the same spot a decade and more
later. And if George Harrison had played a ragged
guitar solo back in the days when four-track
recording was the industry standard, Leslie Fradkin

"And so that really proves where it's at, in a way:

Both got off the phone and probably both thought.
'Oh. He didn't say anything about it.' Which to most
people, 'Didn't say anything about a 25 million dollar
deal? They gotta be crazy!' But it's just the way it is,
you know. For me, the whole thing is I don't like the

156

would play a solo that was ragged in precisely the

same way every night at Broadway's Winter Garden
Theater (and subsequently at the Schubert in
Century City) a young teen-ager's lifetime later.

authentic, they want to feel as much like the Beatles

as they can, and playing exactly the same
instruments helps."
Beatlemania is ever in the market for authentic
equipment because more must be acquired each
time a new understudy quartet is assembled. (Thus
far there are seven of them, the newest being in
Chicago, where the show will move from Los
Angeles.) "We must have the largest collection of
Epiphone guitars in the country by now, just to give
you some idea," Carone marvels. One, a rare 17fret model, was tracked down just so that Pecornino
could play the little leads at the end of 'Come
Together' in precisely the same fretboard position
that John Lennon had played them. Where
authentic instruments have been unfindable, nearly
exact replicas have been bought and refinished at
considerable expense, their hardware (tuning pegs,
volume knobs, and so on) replaced at further
expense to duplicate the Beatles' instruments.

They listened so long and so relentlessly that the

portion of the Beatles' repertoire that Beatlemania
represents became oppressive. "Whenever one of
those songs comes on the radio," Pecorino says, "I
either immediately punch another button or else, if
I'm up to it, listen real hard to see if there might be
some little thing we've somehow missed before. But
it isn't possible for me to relax when any of those
songs is on.
"You reach the point where you can hardly bear to
hear some things any more. You used to read that
the Beatles never listened to their own albums once
they were completed, that they'd throw them on
maybe a year later and cringe with embarrassment.
It's just like that for us with our cast album."

To help the cast figure out how John, Paul, and

George produced certain vocal sound, Beatlemania
hired a top vocal coach, one who has worked with
many of Motown's bigger names. But the
Beatlemaniactors learned to simulate the voices
largely on their own, and, at least in one case, in a
very interesting way. "In the beginning I had a lot of
trouble trying to get an edge like Lennon's on my
voice without running it in the process," Pecorino
confides. "I'd tried things like smoking a whole
bunch of cigarettes, but that affected me in a lot of
adverse ways.

Weissman sighs. "When you tear performances

apart like we did with the Beatles' you realize that,
however much in awe of them you may have been
before, they're human too. If McCartney were to go
back and listen to his old records as carefully as we
did he'd probably wince like crazy. He hits some
real duds in 'Can't Buy Me Love,' for instance, and
in 'Eleanor Rigby' he's flat as hell - and he won a
vocalist-of-the-year award for that record!"
Indeed, the Beatlemaniactors have discovered
small blunders throughout the Beatles' catalogue,
from 'I Want to Hold Your Hand', in which, perhaps
because of inexact tape editing, the vocals enter
out of time, to 'Let It Be', in which Paul plays a very
brief but very bad piano chord. The group
reproduces all of them faithfully, for a variety of
reasons. "We originally said the hell with it,
"Pecornino says of the out-of-time vocal entrance in
'Hold Your Hand', "but recently we finally sat down
and learned to time it funny like on the record just to
keep that particular tune alive for us."

"Then, while we were watching films of the Beatles

on stage, it occurred to me that the way John stood
might have had something to do with the way his
voice sounded. He hated to wear his glasses in the
early days, and used to have to squint, so he'd sing
with his head tilted way back. When I tried that I
found that it tightened my throat, which helped
produce the edge I'd been trying for."
"Later on, of course, our singing teacher told me
that singing with your throat tightened up like that is
really bad for you."

On the other hand, George's solo in 'All You Need

Is Love', which sputters and then collapses entirely
half-way through, must be played exactly as it was
on the Beatles' single because, in Carone's words,
"the only way to improve it would be to sit down and
compose a second half for it."

Because, in Pecorino's words, "in the beginning

they were pretty terrible instrumentally, at least by
today's standards," convincingly simulating the
Beatles' performances often required that the cast
keep their own "chops" under wraps. "The hardest
thing for me in the beginning was controlling my
urge to try to improve on what George had played,"
Fradkin, a busy sessions player before joining the
cast, affirms. "He wasn't at all flashy or fast, and his
concept of guitar tonality was very different from the
modern player's, so it was a little bit of a struggle for

Much effort has been expended to provide the

group with instruments exactly like those the
Beatles played. "Coming out on stage and asking
the audience to believe you're a Beatle is really a
heavy-duty statement," Carone observes. "So even
though they could get away with being a lot less

157

me to keep from displaying my own ability." He

found helpful the realization that "the Beatles are a
frame of reference of excellence for people. If they
hear you doing something like the Beatles did it,
they assume that you're good.

"It all gets on everybody's nerves from time to time,

but as I said, a young musician could hardly try to
fill a taller order than saying to an audience,
'Believe that I'm a Beatle.'"
John Mendelssohn, 1978

"And I've come to realize also that he was a much

better player than some of the licks of his that I
have to play would suggest. I respect the way he
dealt with the responsibility of coming up with
something distinctive for every tune, in much the
same way that John and Paul had to come up with
the tunes in the first place."

Mistakes And All: Recreating The Fab Four in

Beatlemania
John Mendelssohn, Los Angeles Times, 9 April
1978
IF THE FOUR young musicians who portray the
Beatles in Beatlemania deliver anything less than
the "incredible simulation" a sign in the Shubert
Theater ticket window promises, it most assuredly
isnt because they havent taken extraordinary
pains. In the cogent phrase of Jack Carone, who
trained their local understudies. "They had to work
much harder to redo than the Beatles had to work
to do."

Drummer Justin McNeill, too, was required to play a

lot less than he had in his brother's Billy Cobhaminspired Long Island jazz-rock group. "The hardest
thing for me" he confides "was learning to move like
Ringo. I'd always played very intently and
technically, but as Ringo I have to appear happy-golucky."
Weissman's, then, was clearly the most difficult job.
Indeed he had never played bass before being
asked to portray Paul. "Singing and playing bass at
the same time just seemed too amazing to me - the
fact of his being a bass player is what scared me
from identifying with McCartney in the past.

For nine months before their first performance

almost a year ago in Boston, the original Broadway
cast, under the direction of Sandy Yaguda, a onetime member of Jay & the Americans, studied the
recordings they were to try to duplicate live as
intently as Talmudic scholars. Their objective: the
exact reproduction of every most evanescent
nuance.

"At first I hardly ever took my eyes off the fretboard.

For the later material, when the bass parts became
really intricate, I had an excuse all ready - that since
they'd been recorded after the Beatles stopped
touring, Paul had never had to play them and sing
at the same time himself. But then it occurred to me
that things like 'Silly Love Songs', which I saw him
do live with Wings, are as difficult as far as the bass
is concerned as any Beatles tune, so there went my
excuse!"

If John Lennon had voiced a guitar chord in a

peculiar way in 1964, Joe Pecornio was to voice it
in just the same peculiar way in 1977. If Paul
McCartney had mumbled something during the
fadeout of a song recorded during the Summer of
Love, Mitch Weissman was to mumble it again
every night in the same spot a decade and more
later. And if George Harrison had played a ragged
guitar solo back in the days when four-track
recording was the industry standard, Leslie Fradkin
would play a solo that was ragged in precisely the
same way every night at Broadways Winter Garden
Theater (and subsequently at the Shubert in
Century City) a young teen-agers lifetime later.

Weissman taught himself to play left-handed, as

McCartney does. He played right-handed in some
of the show's Boston performances, and says that
since no one seemed to notice, he has continued to
do so ever since.
Even today, after rehearsing for nine months and
performing for another nine, Percorino, Weissman,
Fradkin, and McNeil constantly strive to discover
ways of reproducing the sounds of the Beatles'
records more faithfully still. "You can get so used to
hearing something played a certain way that you
imagine that's how it was on the record," Carone
explains, "so we constantly review what we're
doing. Everyone tries to act as everyone else's
ears, and everyone constantly criticizes one
another.

They listened so long and so relentlessly that the

portion of the Beatles repertoire that Beatlemania
represents became oppressive. "Whenever one of
those songs comes on the radio," Pecorino says, "I
either immediately punch another button or else, if
Im up to it, listen real hard to see if there might be
some little thing weve somehow missed before. But
it isnt possible for me to relax when any of those
songs is on.

158

"You reach the point where you can hardly bear to

hear some things any more. You used to read that
the Beatles never listened to their own albums once
they were completed, that theyd throw them on
maybe a year later and cringe with embarrassment.
Its just like that for us with our cast album."

authentic instruments have been unfindable, nearly

exact replicas have been bought and refinished at
considerable expense, their hardware (tuning pegs,
volume knobs, and so on) replaced at further
expense to duplicate the Beatles instruments.
To help the cast figure out how John, Paul, and
George produced certain vocal sound, Beatlemania
hired a top vocal coach, one who has worked with
many of Motowns bigger names. But the
Beatlemaniactors learned to simulate the voices
largely on their own, and, at least in one case, in a
very interesting way. "In the beginning I had a lot of
trouble trying to get an edge like Lennons on my
voice without running it in the process," Pecorino
confides. "Id tried things like smoking a whole
bunch of cigarettes, but that affected me in a lot of
adverse ways.

Weissman sighs. "When you tear performances

apart like we did with the Beatles you realize that,
however much in awe of them you may have been
before, theyre human too. If McCartney were to go
back and listen to his old records as carefully as we
did hed probably wince like crazy. He hits some
real duds in Cant Buy Me Love, for instance, and
in Eleanor Rigby hes flat as hell and he won a
vocalist-of-the-year award for that record!"
Indeed, the Beatlemaniactors have discovered
small blunders throughout the Beatles catalogue,
from I Want to Hold Your Hand, in which, perhaps
because of inexact tape editing, the vocals enter
out of time, to Let It Be, in which Paul plays a very
brief but very bad piano chord. The group
reproduces all of them faithfully, for a variety of
reasons. "We originally said the hell with it.
"Pecornino says of the out-of-time vocal entrance in
Hold Your Hand, "but recently we finally sat down
and learned to time it funny like on the record just to
keep that particular tune alive for us."

"Then, while we were watching films of the Beatles

on stage, it occurred to me that the way John stood
might have had something to do with the way his
voice sounded. He hated to wear his glasses in the
early days, and used to have to squint, so hed sing
with his head tilted way back. When I tried that I
found that it tightened my throat, which helped
produce the edge Id been trying for."
"Later on, of course, our singing teacher told me
that singing with your throat tightened up like that is
really bad for you."

On the other hand, Georges solo in All You Need

Is Love, which sputters and then collapses entirely
half-way through, must be played exactly as it was
on the Beatles single because, in Carones words,
"the only way to improve it would be to sit down and
compose a second half for it."

Because, in Pecorinos words, "in the beginning

they were pretty terrible instrumentally, at least by
todays standards," convincingly simulating the
Beatles performances often required that the cast
keep their own "chops" under wraps. "The hardest
thing for me in the beginning was controlling my
urge to try to improve on what George had played,"
Fradkin, a busy sessions player before joining the
cast, affirms. "He wasnt at all flashy or fast, and his
concept of guitar tonality was very different from the
modern players, so it was a little bit of a struggle for
me to keep from displaying my own ability." He
found helpful the realization that "the Beatles are a
frame of reference of excellence for people. If they
hear you doing something like the Beatles did it,
they assume that youre good.

Much effort has been expended to provide the

group with instruments exactly like those the
Beatles played. "Coming out on stage and asking
the audience to believe youre a Beatle is really a
heavy-duty statement," Carone observes. "So even
though they could get away with being a lot less
authentic, they want to feel as much like the Beatles
as they can, and playing exactly the same
instruments helps."
Beatlemania is ever in the market for authentic
equipment because more must be acquired each
time a new understudy quartet is assembled. (Thus
far there are seven of them, the newest being in
Chicago, where the show will move from Los
Angeles.) "We must have the largest collection of
Epiphone guitars in the country by now, just to give
you some idea," Carone marvels. One, a rare 17fret model, was tracked down just so that Pecornino
could play the little leads at the end of Come
Together in precisely the same fretboard position
that John Lennon had played them. Where

"And Ive come to realize also that he was a much

better player than some of the licks of his that I
have to play would suggest. I respect the way he
dealt with the responsibility of coming up with
something distinctive for every tune, in much the
same way that John and Paul had to come up with
the tunes in the first place."

159

Drummer Justin McNeill, too, was required to play a

lot less than he had in his brothers Billy Cobhaminspired Long Island jazz-rock group. "The hardest
thing for me" he confides "was learning to move like
Ringo. Id always played very intently and
technically, but as Ringo I have to appear happy-golucky."

denies that he is fed up with being applauded for

pretending to be John Lennon rather than for being
himself. Pecorino is sitting in a Chinese restaurant
with the other three members of Beatlemanias
original cast, who brought their Beatle imitations to
Los Angeles Shubert Theater seven months after
they opened the show on Broadway.

Weissmans, then, was clearly the most difficult job.

Indeed he had never played bass before being
asked to portray Paul. "Singing and playing bass at
the same time just seemed too amazing to me the
fact of his being a bass player is what scared me
from identifying with McCartney in the past.

"Its a pretty big honor being able to help people

relive something so phenomenal," Pecorino says.
"When I was kicking around in bar bands I was
playing other peoples songs just like on their
records anyway. Of course, you always have the
hope that it wont be forever, but Im a lot less
worried than if I had the face."

"At first I hardly ever took my eyes off the fretboard.

For the later material, when the bass parts became
really intricate, I had an excuse all ready that
since theyd been recorded after the Beatles
stopped touring, Paul had never had to play them
and sing at the same time himself. But then it
occurred to me that things like Silly Love Songs,
which I saw him do live with Wings, are as difficult
as far as the bass is concerned as any Beatles
tune, so there went my excuse!"

Mitch Weissman has the face which is to say he

looks a lot like Paul McCartney and admits,
"Yeah, Im constantly being asked if Im afraid of
being typecast. I say, I came with this face, and
there isnt anything I can do to change it, and even
if I could, why should I when this is my face? My
friends have seen me be a lot of people other than
McCartney. In school I was always in demand by
bands because I was a very good imitator of
Robert Plant, for instance, and a lot of other people
besides McCartney."

Weissman taught himself to play left-handed, as

McCartney does. He played right-handed in some
of the shows Boston performances, and says that
since no one seemed to notice, he has continued to
do so ever since.

Indeed, the four Beatlemania actors have a wild

range of tastes, influences and backgrounds
between them. Drummer Justin McNeill, who got a
college degree in history and called himself Joel
Nunez before winning the Ringo role, had emulated
Billy Cobham in his brothers Long Island fusion
group. Pecorino, whod sold jeans and played in
lounge groups while hustling tapes of his own stuff,
may have been vastly fond of Paul McCartney, but
no more so than he was of, say Elvis. And
Weissman, whod been doing freelance graphic
design and conspiring to record master-quality
demos that would get him signed as a songwriter or
guitarist/singer, had enjoyed some celebrity while
attending Carnegie-Mellon University for being
more heavily into the likes of Led Zeppelin, Free,
Joe Walsh and dare it be said? Grand Funk
than anyone in the vicinity.

Even today, after rehearsing for nine months and

performing for another nine, Percorino, Weissman,
Fradkin, and McNeil constantly strive to discover
ways of reproducing the sounds of the Beatles
records more faithfully still. "You can get so used to
hearing something played a certain way that you
imagine thats how it was on the record," Carone
explains, "so we constantly review what were
doing. Everyone tries to act as everyone elses
ears, and everyone constantly criticizes one
another.
"It all gets on everybodys nerves from time to time,
but as I said, a young musician could hardly try to
fill a taller order than saying to an audience,
Believe that Im a Beatle."

At their daily sound checks, consequently, they are

as likely to play a Zeppelin, Jeff Beck, Aerosmith or
Elvis number as one of the more than 200 Beatles
tunes they learned before the shows repertoire was
trimmed to it current twenty-nine. Which isnt to say
theyre above sneaking in an occasional Rutles
favorite, too.

John Mendelssohn, 1978

Beatlemanias Boys in the Band
John Mendelssohn, Rolling Stone, 18 May 1978

Playing George has made lead guitarist Leslie

Fradkin a humbler, more adaptable musician, by his
own reckoning. "I consider myself qualified to be the
leader of a group, but George... well, I dont mean

JOE PECORINO, A small, affable young man who

earns his living by pretending to be John Lennon in
the successful stage production, Beatlemania,

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to downgrade him, but hes just not a flamboyant

person. So I had to learn to work within the
restrictions of my role as the quiet, unassuming one
who just plays guitar and sings a bit. It was tough at
the beginning, but I think its done me a lot of good."

highly talented musicians, and we get along very,

very well. As much as I might want a solo career, Id
just as soon stay with these people, because Im
comfortable playing with them.
"The biggest problem I foresee," he continues," is
figuring out which style to concentrate on. For
myself, one week I want to do a Wingsish thing, a
semi-Beatles-oriented, melodic thing, but then the
next week I wish to God I could play like Jimmy
Page and hammer out all sorts of heavy metal." The
prospect of which isnt likely to send Pecorino, who
describes his own stuff as "melodic and leaning
toward MOR," into paroxysms of delight. But for
now they concur that the subject is nothing to get
hung up about, "We havent made a serious
inventory of what we have to this point," Fradkin
explains, "but it does seem pretty sure that well be
pop-oriented and commercial, Badfingerish
probably."

And Pecorino, who is his pageboy hairdo reminds

some a lot more of Monkee Peter Tork than of
Lennon in the first portion of Beatlemania, has
found being in the show a liberating experiences in
at least one way. "I auditioned to be McCartney," he
says, "because he was the one whose music
people often compared my own music to. When
they cast me as Lennon, I was able to exorcise
McCartney, not in the Linda Blair sense, but in the
sense of getting his influence out of my system. I
dont listen to his stuff very much at all anymore, or,
for that matter, to Lennons."
Learning to re-create the Beatles records live,
though, required that the Beatlemaniactors listen to
those records as repeatedly and as intently,
probably, as any records have ever been listened
to. During the nine months that the cast rehearsed
before the show opened, Fradkins admiration for
Harrison, for instance, greatly increased. "Even if he
didnt do a lot of things as well as other players, he
was the first to do a lot. He introduced the electric
twelve-string, was the first to use fuzz, and his solo
on Good Morning, Good Morning is well beyond
anything that anyone, except for maybe Beck, was
doing at the time."

Getting back to the question of whether theyll be

able to transcend their roles in Beatlemania,
Weissman asserts: "The voice you hear me using
the show now is a lot more mine than it was in New
York. I used to do a more vocal imitation, whereas
now Im doing more accent imitations, singing in my
own voice but adding little edges to it that make the
audience think its McCartneys."
Fradkin gets right in the spirit of things. "A lot of
what I do as George is just what Id do anyway
like the way I stand onstage, with my left leg bent
and my right leg straight, is the way Ive always
stood onstage. Im into lots of other ideas besides
Beatles music. If people want to think that Im
George, thats their problem.

The four also found themselves developing an

unusual sympathy for the Beatles. "I often think that
our feelings about certain things must parallel
feeling they had," Pecorino says. "For instance,
well do shows where a lot of girls will scream, and
even though Im sure its nothing compared to what
they went through, I can still understand how they
must have thought, God, why bother playing if no
bodys listening?

"Its really just a play, after all, and Im just

portraying somebody. Its really no different than if I
were playing Hamlet."
John Mendelssohn, 1978

"And I also understand what George meant when

he said they really died as musicians after they left
Hamburg because they kept playing the same few
songs all the time. Quite frankly, I worry about the
same thing happening to me, what with having to
play the same songs six nights a week for so long."

George Martin: From Comedy Records To Rock

Classics
John Tobler, The History of Rock, 1982
While the man himself might deny it with typical
modesty, there's little doubt that George Martin is
one of the most celebrated record producers of all
time. His fame derives, of course, from his
association with the Beatles, with whom he was to
work from 1962 onwards. Martin had already
produced a Number 1 hit for the Temperance Seven
in the previous year, but his achievements with the
Beatles broke new ground, both for him and rock as

With new productions of Beatlemania being readied

from Chicago to Tokyo, Pecorino, Weissman,
Fradkin and McNeill can scarcely venture a guess
as to when theyll be free to stalk their own muses,
but they do know that they want to stalk them as a
foursome. As Weissman, whos already signed with
Leber and Krebs, Beatlemanias producers and
Aerosmiths managers, explains: "I feel that Ive
finally found a band. I consider them very, very

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a whole: his arranging, routining and organizational

abilities facilitated the translation of Lennon and
McCartney's ideas to million-selling vinyl and
enabled them to progress to milestone of Sgt
Pepper and beyond.

allow Martin to make a 10-inch album. With typical

wit, Martin responded by giving the LP its
presumptuous title, and was vindicated when sales
swiftly prompted a 12-inch pressing.
Martin produced other comedy success with singles
like 'Hole In The Ground' and 'Right Said Fred' for
Bernard Cribbins, while 'You're Driving Me Carzy'
was a 1961 chart-topper for the nine-piece
Temperance Seven. In addition there was
successful work with Rolf Harris, Peter Sellers and
Sophia Loren's 'Goodness Gracious Me', and a
series of celebrated Original Cast albums headed
by That Was The Week That Was (which launched
David Frost), Beyond The Fringe which featured
Peter Cook, Dudley Moore, Jonathan Miller and
Alan Bennett) and At The Drop Of A Hat, which
introduced Michael Flanders and Donald Swann.
Also on Parlophone's artist roster were Jimmy
Shand, a Scottish dance band leader, modern
jazzman Johnny Dankworth and the more
traditional Humphrey Lyttelton, all of whom
experienced chart success under Martin's guidance.

Born in London on 3 January 1926, Martin had no

musical family background but he soon showed
ability on the piano, which was to stand him in good
stead; it helped him make pocket-money leading a
dance quintet in his teens. George Martin enlisted
in the Fleet Air Arm at the age of 17 and, after
demobilization, was encouraged to enter the
Guildhall School of Music. Three years of study left
no more obvious career than a menial job at the
BBC Music Library until he was approached by
Oscar Preuss, head of EMI's Parlophone label, and
taken on as his assistance.
Parlophone at the time was a minor label with a
classical background within the giant EMI monolith,
and unlike its sister labels HMV and Columbia had
no licensing arrangements with American
companies. Parlophone's output included Scottish
country dance music, light orchestral records, jazz
and classical music none of which were likely to
result in hit records. After understudying Preuss for
five years and gaining valuable experience in the
studio, Martin took over on his superior's retirement
and initially proceeded in the Preuss manner,
discovering and recording available British talent
and occasionally helping to make a record which
might sell 3,000 copies, a figure regarded as a
major success at the time.

The producer's experiences with pre-Beatles

popular music had, however, been mixed: on a visit
to the 2 Is coffee bar in Soho he was impressed
enough to sign the Vipers skiffle group for whom he
produced two 1957 hits, but turned down the far
more successful Tommy Steele. Despite any blind
spots in terms of spotting youthful talent, it was
undoubtedly the experience of working with a wide
range of diverse personalities and musical style that
enabled him to strike up an immediate rapport with
the brash young Liver-pudlians who walked though
his door in spring of 1962.

Martin's breakthrough came as a result of his

frustration at being unable to emulate the success
of his sister labels with their American input, which
not only provided hits recorded in the US, but on
occasion brought to light songs which could be
successfully 'covered' by British acts. Typically,
Martin found an answer: "I envied the other labels
their advantage, but as I couldn't compete with
them on their own level, I had to find something
between the cracks, something which other people
weren't doing, and that turned out to comedy, which
most people thought wouldn't sell."

When he became aware of the Liverpool quartet,

the Beatles had been turned down by several major
labels including HMV and Columbia. History shows
that Martin could see something which his peers
had failed to perceive in the band. He was also
swiftly exposed to the Beatles' unique brand of
humour. On asking then group to point out anything
they didn't like in a studio playback, George
solemnly replied "Well, for a start, I don't like your
tie".

Martin's first notable comedy record was Peter

Ustinov's 'Mock Mozart'/ 'Phoney Folk Lore', on
which Ustinov was overdubbed four times
performing different parts. Due to the era's primitive
recording techniques multi-track recording was
some years away a major concern was the
deterioration in sound quality produced by each
overdub, but the record became successful. An
even bigger success was the first LP by Peter
Sellers, The Best Of Sellers, about which his
superiors were so skeptical that they would only

The producer was sympathetic enough to allow the

group to record two of their own compositions for
their disc debut at this point Martin admitted that
he was "quite certain their songwriting ability had no
saleable future" but was not satisfied with the
playing of original drummer Pete Best. Best's
replacement, Ringo Starr, was not allowed to play
on every recorded version of the first Beatles' hit,
'Love Me Do', his place for some takes being given,
at Martin's insistence, to Andy White, a session
drummer.

162

'Love Me Do' made the Top Twenty, and its follow

up, 'Please Please Me', reached Number 2, at
which point Martin had to produce an album for the
group, to be titled after their big hit. The Please
Please Me LP was completed in 13 hours and
consisted of the Beatles' stage repertoire of the time
performed in a pseudo-live manner in the studio
and recorded in two-track mono, with voices on one
track and music on the other. While this seemed to
Martin a good idea, it later rebounded on him when
the LP was reissued as stereo, which it patently
wasn't.

The Beatles and George Martin were a perfect

partnership. John and Paul used the classicaltrained Martin as a sounding-board for their ideas;
he was prepared to meet them half-way, even trying
to learn the guitar to enlarge their common ground
but the songwriters picked up the piano even more
quickly and this idea was discarded. Both producer
and artists had an equal regard for each other's
abilities, but their working relationship was
inevitably to change as the Beatles began to dictate
recording schedules and called the tune to a
greater extent.

Martin's early work with the Beatles saw him

participating in more than the role of producer, often
playing keyboards, suggesting introductions and
placing solos, but one major concern for him in his
role of record company chief was the group's initial
lack of success in American at a time when they
were carrying all before them in Britain. Their
eventual breakthrough with 'I Want To Hold Your
Hand' in 1964 coincided with several earlier Beatle
singles, which Martin had licensed to small labels,
picking up renewed sales and providing the group
with the most impressive chart domination yet.

Strings and surrealism

Martin's knowledge of the orchestra was to become
an increasingly important asset for the partnership.
One of the earliest departures from whatever there
was in the way of a formula came with the addition
of a classical string quartet on 'Yesterday', the string
score being written by Martin with Paul McCartney.
A few months later, a similar treatment was
accorded 'Eleanor Rigby', although perhaps more
significant was another perhaps more significant
was another track from the Revolver LP, 'Tomorrow
Never Knows', which Martin described as "a
surrealistic look at building up sound pictures,
harking back to the Peter Sellers records."

While the Beatles were obviously George's most

notable act, he was initially even more successful
with another act managed by Brian Epstein; this
was Gerry and Pacemakers, whose first three
singles all topped the British chart. Epstein also
provided Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas and then
Cilla Black, with the result that between April 1963
and April 1964, his productions topped the UK
singles chart for 39 weeks out of 52 a total which
might have been higher had there been enough
hours in the day for Martin to produce the
Searchers, another Liverpool group with which he
was invited to work.

This track was apparently the start of a progression

which led through 'Strawberry Fields Forever' and
'Penny Lane' to the entire Sgt Pepper LP, generally
regarded as the peak of the Beatles' creativity, in
which Martin played a major part. The final released
version of 'Strawberry Fields', for instance, was
actually produced by splicing together two entirely
separate recordings of the song that had been
performed in different keys and at different speeds
John Lennon simply left the job to his producer,
confident that it would be done correctly. Martin's
ingenuity also came into play during Sgt Pepper,
when he decided that the only suitable sound effect
for one track, 'Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite',
was that of a steam organ or calliope. As it would
have been impossible to produce the mechanism
which allow the instrument to play the required
tune, Martin cut up tapes of the few existing
recordings of calliopes and by judiciously inverting
them and sticking them back together at random,
achieved the effect which sounds so appropriate on
the track. Despite its huge impact on recording
technique, the album was completely produced on
three rather primitive four-track recorders.

Brian Epstein was busily expanding his NEMS

stable of artists and would bright them to Martin
assuming he would record them. In Kramer's case
Martin had many reservations and he was obliged
to use such studio trickery as doubled-tracking to
cover the singer's inadequacies, even bringing the
(self-played) piano up in the mix to disguise
infelicitous pitching. Martin's personal friendship
with Epstein made it even more difficult to turn
down the production of his artists particularly
when the results were initially so successful but
the continuing rise of the Beatles and the inevitable
decline of the other Liverpool acts in chart terms
was to remove this headache. Martin remained
loyal to Cilla Black, however, even losing Shirley
Bassey when an important Cilla concert clashed
with a proposed Bassey recording session.

The final chapters of the Beatles' career as a group

are sadly well-known, and Martin was as displeased
as the majority of the rest of the world with the
eventual released version of the Let It Be album,
conceived by Phil Spector but reportedly a far cry

163

from the original recordings supervised jointly by

Martin and Glyn Johns. He was, however, able to
preside over Abbey Road, the last album to be
recorded and actually issued before Let It Be.

some success today. Although at the time of writing,

a forthcoming Paul McCartney LP (after Tug of War)
is not even completed, let alone titled, it will bear
George Martin's name as producer when it is
released in late 1982.

Fresh Air
Martin was born on 3 January 1926, in London, and
became interested in the piano at an early age.
Having served his country in the Royal Air Force at
the end of the Second World War, he studied for
three years at the Guildhall School of Music, before
working for a short time as a freelance oboe player,
which was followed by a brief spell at the BBC in a
clerical post, albeit one which demanded some
musical expertise. Then came the invitation which
certainly changed George Martin's life, although
perhaps it would be overstating the case to suggest
that it profoundly influenced the course of popular
music one of the professors at the Guildhall had
suggested to the head of the Parlophone record
label (one of the smaller labels within the giant EMI
organisation), that he should employ Martin as his
assistant, and the latter gratefully accepted the
position when it was offered to him.

During the Beatles period, Martin broke new ground

when he set up the AIR (Associated Independent
Recording) organization in 1965. His former
employers, EMI Records, had failed to allow him
sleeve credits, but more importantly, had paid him
somewhat less than he felt he deserved as the man
responsible for the sale of many millions of records.
Martin risked losing the Beatles by this move, but
felt it essential to make a clean break from the
bureaucracy he had fought for so long. Ironically, of
course, he had to negotiate with his former
employers when it was decided that the relationship
between artists and producers should continue: he
had to settle for a mere 1 per cent wholesale royalty
for UK sales.
Although both Mickie Most and Andrew Oldham had
been independent producers prior to the formation
of AIR, Martin was the first record company staff
producer to leave the fold. He took into partnership
Ron Richards, John Burgess and Peter Sullivan,
three of the hottest young British producers from
EMI and Decca, and pioneered the concept of the
independent production company in UK music.
Martin's belief that producers should gain their just
rewards for their efforts stemmed from the ups and
down in his relationship with EMI. He had been
extremely nave in his first years with the company,
but his subsequent experiences gave birth to what
he described as "bitterness, anger and resentment".

'I joined EMI as assistant to Oscar Preuss, head of

Parlophone Records, in November 1950.
Parlophone was a very small label, very much
junior to the big brothers, HMV and Columbia, and
unlike them, had no American input. So Oscar did
virtually everything himself, from light orchestral
music through to Scottish country dance and the
pop music of the day to Victor Silvester and people
like that, and I came along to help him. He also
used to do classical music, and as I was classically
trained, I was given the job of producing classical
music for the label, although the word "producer"
was never used at that time, basically because it
was a bit like a factory business anyway the guy
who did the record production was an overseer who
used to take charge of the sessions and organise
them in the first place. His title was A & R manager,
which didn't stand for "Artistes & Repertoire" in
1950, it stood for "Artistes & Recording". He was
the guy who actually signed the artists, so he had to
know something about contracts, had to authorise
payment to musicians and book them, book the
studios, and go along to make sure that everything
was all right. Inevitably, because someone had to
exert some critical assessment of the whole thing,
he was the guy who said, "Well, I think we should
take the tempo a bit faster, chaps", and that kind of
thing, and gradually, his influence became a bit
more marked, to the point where he was taking a
very creative part in the building of the music, by
which time he had become known as a record
producer. I kind of evolved along with that process,
as the years passed, but before that, Oscar Preuss
had taught me everything he knew, and I gradually

George Martin
Stuart Grundy,John Tobler, The Record
Producers (BBC Books), 1982
IN MUCH THE same way as Jerry Leiber and Mike
Stoller were the first American record producers,
that accolade in Britain belongs to the man whose
name was arguably the first to be widely accepted
as such, George Martin.
Almost everyone with any kind of interest in popular
music knows that Martin produced the vast majority
of records made by the Beatles, and was the man
responsible for first presenting that unstoppable
phenomenon to the world, but it's often forgotten
that he had produced a wide variety of successful
records prior to his involvement with the Beatles
and many of their friends and contemporaries from
Liverpool, and continues to produce other acts with

164

took over his job, so that by the time he retired in

1955, I was to all intents and purposes running the
label, and was given the job of Head of
Parlophone.'

out of America some of it was very exciting, but I

don't like pigeonholing things. I don't like calling
myself a rock'n'roll producer or a classical producer,
because I've produced all sorts of records and
enjoyed them all. I like being versatile and hate just
doing one thing, because I think it wrong to be
confined in that way.

To elaborate a little on one of the items mentioned

by George, the question of 'American input' was
fairly crucial in the first half of the 1950s for the
early part of that period, American CBS records
were released in Britain on the Columbia label
owned by EMI, which brought artists like Guy
Mitchell, Frankie Lane, Doris Day and Johnnie Ray
to the label, while HMV were fortunate enough to be
able to release Elvis Presley's first dozen hits in
Britain, these examples merely being the cream on
the cake. Parlophone had no such licensing
agreements, so that all its output was the result of
Preuss, and later Martin, discovering and recording
the talent which was available in Great Britain. This
inevitably meant that a great deal of time was spent
in the recording studio. 'Yes, on an average day
about fifty per cent of my time was studio work, but
it was a very much more leisurely process than it is
now. For a start, the Parlophone office was actually
in the same building as Abbey Road Studios, so I
just had to walk down the corridor to be in the
studio. And of course, there weren't the pressures
of modern-day recording things were much
cheaper, and it was all very friendly. You didn't sell
many records either if you sold fifteen hundred,
that was about the break-even figure, and if you
sold three thousand, you were on to a big seller.

An excellent illustration of what Martin means by

versatility can be discerned from the curious fact
that his first significant fame arguably came as a
result of his production of comedy records during
the 1950s and early 1960s. 'That was kind of an act
of desperation really, because when Oscar retired in
1955, and I took over Parlophone, I was left with
this tiny label which didn't mean much, and because
HMV and Columbia had the benefit of all these
strong American catalogues, their producers
actually heard a lot of the new American material
before anyone else, and could play it to their artists.
I envied this advantage, although I couldn't compete
with them on their own level, so I had to find
something between the cracks, something which
other people weren't doing. One of the things they
weren't doing was comedy records, and that was
because most people thought they wouldn't sell. But
I think my producing career really started with those
comedy records, because I was getting very
involved on the floor instead of just being in the
control room saying, "Yes, that's nice" or, "You're
singing a bit flat". It became a matter of going
through material and saying, "Let's not do this. If we
put a bit of music behind this, or have the sound of
a band saw coming in from the left, it'll make it
much better". It was creating before we got into the
studio at that stage, and really that's what a
producer is up to he's sort of masterminding the
concept of what it's going to sound like before it
actually happens, and the comedy records were
tremendous training for me in that.'

'The EMI Studios were also not particularly wellequipped technically, and things were pretty
primitive, although that's not to say that good
records weren't made there, because they certainly
were. The sound we got out of Number One Studio
at Abbey Road was beautiful I remember some of
the early records I made with the London Baroque
Ensemble, which were obviously mono in those
days, where we used a very small number of
microphones, maybe even a single Altec for a
woodwind group, but the ambience of the studio
was so good that we got beautiful sounds which still
hold up and are heard today. Gimmickry was
another matter, of course, and we found that
American recording techniques were very much in
advance of ours by the time 1955 came along,
which was the beginning of the rock'n'roll period.
We listened to sounds coming out of America which
would horrify most English people because they
were so blatant and coarse, and things were being
done to records technically which caused many a
raised eyebrow among the legitimate engineers at
Abbey Road, but the only way to fight them was to
join them, so we started breeding a new kind of
engineer and chucked away all the old conventions.
Not that I necessarily liked all of the music coming

Probably the first notable comedy record made by

Martin featured Peter Ustinov. 'I'd met him through
the London Baroque Ensemble, because he was
very keen on classical music, and the original
record we did, Phoney Folk Lore and Mock
Mozart, was a multi-track job where he sang four
different times over all the different things. We didn't
have multi-track machines in those days, so it had
to be sound on sound, and of course everybody
knows that when you put sound on sound you get
horrendous quality after about three times, so we
had to be awfully careful with our signal to noise
ratios and things. In those days, it was considered
to be not only adventurous but downright stupid to
go to that extreme merely to get one person singing
with himself, but it worked, and that record turned
out to be a success, luckily for me. So I got the
reputation for being an oddball, and I was quite

165

friendly with Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers this

was in the early Goon days, before Peter became
an international star and when I made the first
Peter Sellers album, my bosses had so little faith in
it that they said I couldn't make a twelve-inch
album, because it wouldn't sell at that price, and I
was only allowed to make a ten-inch LP. So I
arrogantly called it The Best of Sellers, and
fortunately for me, it turned out to be that, so I was
able to go on and do more things.'

our editing, because sometimes Jonathan Miller

would be jumping forty feet in the space of half a
second.'
Comedy was only one facet of the Parlophone
success story under George Martin. One of the acts
on the label which George produced was Jimmy
Shand, who would apparently record one year's
worth of Scottish country dance music in one
lengthy session, this amounting to as many as
eighty-four different tracks during one week which
would be issued during the following year.
Somewhat more acceptable to a less ethnic
audience was the label's jazz output, which
included work by such notable names as Johnny
Dankworth (whose wife, Cleo Lame, George
produced later in his career), and Humphrey
Lyttleton, whose hit single, 'Bad Penny Blues', was
later quoted as being partially inspirational to 'Lady
Madonna' by the Beatles.

'Other things' included more work with the Goons,

and in particular Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan
(Harry Secombe, who was also a conventional
singer, signed to another record label, seems not to
have taken part too often), for albums like Songs
For Swinging Sellers and Bridge Over The River
Wye, respectively, An Evening Of British Rubbish, a
highly bizarre live recording of a West End show
which must have been completely meaningless to
those unversed in certain peculiar aspects of British
humour, a pair of hit singles in 'Right Said Fred' and
'Hole In The Ground' performed by Bernard
Cribbins, four hit singles with the Temperance
Seven, a nine-piece (of course) band who played
pre-war styled music, and who topped the British
charts with 'You're Driving Me Crazy' in 1961, work
with Rolf Harris, and another hit with 'Goodness,
Gracious Me', performed by Peter Sellers and
Sophia Loren. Added to that, during the same early
1960s period, were live albums of That Was The
Week That Was, the television programme fronted
by David Frost and also starring many of the
leading University comedians, Beyond The Fringe,
which launched Peter Cook and Dudley Moore to
fame, and At The Drop Of A Hat, a famous
entertainment of its time, performed by Michael
Flanders and Donald Swann.

'John Dankworth actually hadn't had any big hits,

although he'd had a lot of good selling records
Parlophone had always been pretty strong on jazz
with Jack Parnell and His Band, Joe Daniels and
His Hotshots and Johnny Dankworth and His
Seven, and they were all fairly consistent sellers.
Then John had this idea for a little nursery tale
using the idea of big bands illustrating how they
would play Three Blind Mice. It was a kind of
musical cartoon really, which he called Experiments
With Mice, and when he played it to me, I thought it
was very good, so we made a record of it and it
sold, but I can't really take much credit for that
except that we issued the record. As for Bad Penny
Blues and Lady Madonna, there's no connection
at all, except that the piano sounds similar. That
kind of piano work is pretty commonplace among
your genuine rhythm and blues players, and I think
Johnny Parker, the pianist with Humph's band at
that time, had the idea of a sort of mixture of beats,
a slow beat and the rolling barrel piano.'

'They were such charming people, and that was just

a question of my going along to hear them at a little
place in Notting Hill Gate, loving what I heard, and
suggesting that we made it into an album. They
were delighted and came into London, it was a big
success and all was well, but it was good
experience too. I recorded five different shows and
edited it down to one it's really the kind of thing
people do on radio all the time now. You can't have
any control over what people are doing, you just
have to make the best of what's there, and it's good
useful experience, knowing about acoustics and
editing facilities. Beyond The Fringe was even more
difficult in a way they were up at Cambridge when
we first got to them, and they were a success at the
Edinburgh Festival before they came to London. Of
course, their humour was very zany, and they never
did the same thing twice in the same direction. By
this time we were recording stereo, and with a live
stereo recording, we had to be awfully careful with

Such a wide variety of work was later to become a

great advantage to Martin when it came to his more
celebrated productions during the sixties and
beyond, as he himself confirms. 'It was all a good
training ground for what happened later, and I was
able to experiment at playing with tapes and making
"Musique concrete" noises and so on I've said it
before, but I don't think I would have done what I
did on Sergeant Pepper unless I'd done the Peter
Sellers albums in the first place. Another thing was
that I wanted to have better technical facilities to
enable me to do things like that Peter Ustinov
record without having all the awful disadvantages
it wasn't until multi-tracking came along that we
were able to enjoy that.'

166

In 1962, George Martin met and was impressed by

the Beatles, a quartet from Liverpool who had
already been turned down by several record
companies, including the other two EMI labels,
HMV and Columbia. Martin had made an impact on
the history of the Beatles almost from the first day,
when he decided that the group's drummer of the
time, Pete Best, was not satisfactory. 'I decided not
to use Pete Best. When I first heard the Beatles in
the studio, number three studio at Abbey Road, in
June 1962, I think it was, I liked them very much,
but I did think their drummer was weak, and
afterwards when I signed them to a contract, I told
Brian (Epstein) that I obviously didn't really want to
change the group or get in anyone's hair, but I didn't
want to use the drummer, and I would use a
session drummer instead, and the world wouldn't
know the difference. The guitar players and singers
were OK, but the drummer, in my estimation, didn't
have the beat and the drive and the regularity and
the pace that I needed to get an exciting record
he was jolly good-looking, and he didn't say much,
but that was it. I didn't know until afterwards that
they'd made up their own minds anyway to give him
the boot, so it was a kind of joint decision, but taken
without any collusion, and so when the session
came along, Pete wasn't there. I had a session
drummer named Andy White ready, and they
brought along this fellow called Ringo Starr, who I
treated with a great deal of suspicion, because I
didn't know what he was like either, so I kept him at
arm's length for a while. He's never forgiven me for
it.'

existing repertoire. I'd been to The Cavern, and I

knew what they did, so I said, "Look, just come into
the studio and let's just go through the best songs in
your act, and well just put them down, like a live
performance, and take a little bit of trouble over it".
So they came into the studio one morning, and we
worked right through until ten or eleven at night,
and recorded ten tracks, and we put both the
singles on as well. It was just like recording a live
album in a way, because it was all done straight on
to two-track we didn't have four-track then but it
was done as two-track, not as stereo, because I
kept the rhythm separated from the voices so that I
was able to compress the two together and make a
harder sound.
'That boomeranged on me later, because after I had
left EMI, that record was issued as stereo. I was
appalled! How they could get out these original
tapes with all the rock'n'roll backing on one side,
and all the voices on the other, and when the voices
stopped singing, you had all the terrible background
pickup from the studio still vacant on that track it
was just horrendous, and they were actually putting
them out like that. When I found out about it, I
raised the roof, and they said, "We're not allowed to
touch those records, because the Beatles said they
must go out as they originally were" I said, "They're
not as they originally were you're making a terrible
mistake" but there you are...I did the remix in Los
Angeles for the American version of the record, but
I didn't know what had happened to the English
issue, and I actually got a letter from a guy in
Poland who had listened to a Beatles record, and
wrote "Well, its a very good record, but where are
the voices? He'd got a pressing where there was
nothing at all on one side the first instrumental
Beatles!'

Following a top twenty entry with their first single,

'Love Me Do', and a top three hit with the follow-up
'Please Please Me', George Martin found himself in
the position of having to make an album with the
Beatles which would bear the same title as the
second hit, and would cater for the demand created
by 'Please Please Me'. The fact that the album was
completely recorded and mixed in thirteen hours
says much for the directness and unsophistication
of the early sixties 'Well, there was a reason for
that. I was very excited about the boys and I
thought we had a big group on our hands, and the
first record didn't do all that well, getting to number
seventeen. I was convinced that if I had the right
song, I would have a real hit with them, and we got
it with Please Please Me, which I knew was a
number one when we made it, and it certainly
turned out that way '(Note: This was true of some
charts, although not of others. In the Record
Retailer chart, which is generally regarded as the
Bible in chart terms, 'Please Please Me' peaked at
number two). 'So obviously, in order to consolidate
their success, I had to have an album out on the
market very quickly, and the thing to do was to
record as many numbers as I could from their

Many of the early recordings by the Beatles were

accomplished fairly quickly, something which
seemed to indicate that Martin, as producer, was
concentrating more on capturing a performance
than the niceties of an arrangement. 'That's not
really true, because the way it went was that I
would always listen to the song first of all, invariably
performed by its basic writer, John or Paul,
strumming away on acoustic guitar. Then we'd
consider what we were going to do with it, although
the permutations weren't very difficult you had two
guitars, bass guitar and drums, and if anyone
played keyboards, it was generally me, which
meant there was very little to arrange, as we didn't
have a symphony orchestra or anything like that. So
my main role there was picking out introductions,
choosing a place for the solo, and its length and its
ending; because the rest of the song was already
there. So I'd say, "OK chaps, this is what we do for
an opening, and this is where George does

167

something on his guitar, and don't make it longer

than two minutes forty-five seconds because we
won't get it on the air". It was as simple as that, and
that's how it worked out.

Having established themselves as a potent musical

force, the Beatles, unlike many of their
contemporaries, were unwilling to retread an
already proven format, something which Martin was
at pains to avoid. 'That was something I'd always
said from the word "Go", that we shouldn't just
make formula things, we should try to be different
as much as possible, and we tried very hard to do
that. Sometimes I thought we'd been too risky and
gone too far, but it paid off Brian Epstein and I had
this plan, that we would issue a single every three
months and an album twice a year. That was the
kind of general idea, the broad basis of what we
worked out, although we didn't stick to it religiously.
I wanted every album that came out to be different
from the one before, and as soon as the Beatles
realised their creative abilities in the studio, they got
hooked into this thing of really building something
new each time. They were more adventurous than I
was, and they were coming to me asking what new
sounds they could use, and what instruments I
knew about that they didn't.

The Beatles became enormously famous in Britain

in a remarkably short time, and by the end of 1963
had amassed three straight number one singles on
top of their comparatively modest beginnings with
'Love Me Do' and 'Please Please Me', yet in
America, their records were almost totally ignored
until the start of 1964, something which must have
been of great concern to their producer and the
head of their record label. 'It was because their
early records weren't issued by the right people in
the United States. After our first success with
Please Please Me, sent the tapes to Capitol
Records, which was one of our subsidiaries. Sir Joe
Lockwood had bought Capitol Records some time
before, and it was our own label, so I thought it
would be a good idea for us to issue our success in
America. So I was rather disappointed when the
reply came back "It may be all right for Britain, but
'Please Please Me' is not the kind of record that will
sell in our country. Thank you very much.
Goodbye". And I shrugged my shoulders and said
that they ought to know their business, because it
was their market. And when From Me To You came
along, we did the same thing "Look, this group is
building, and it's very big in this country, and you
really ought to take a listen", and nothing happened
again. So, very frustrated, we got on to a guy who
worked for us in New York, Roland Rennie, I think it
was, and told him that we'd been turned down by
Capitol, and asking if he could get the records out
on any other label. So the early Beatle records were
sold for no money at all to very small labels like
Tollie, Swan and VeeJay, who were each given a
title to work on. And then the third record came out,
which was She Loves You, and again Capitol
turned it down it was like St Peter and the cock
crowing three times. And when the fourth record, I
Want To Hold Your Hand, came out, the thing had
grown so much in England by that time that it was
beginning to have repercussions in the States, and
the records that had already been put out by the
small labels were beginning to make a little bit of a
dent. Capitol realised that they had to do something
about it, which coincided with the Beatles going
over there, and that time, the dam eventually broke,
and Capitol agreed on I Want To Hold Your Hand.
Their story was that at long last they'd found the
song that could really break them in the States.
Rubbish! So they issued I Want To Hold Your
Hand, and it coincided with the build-up, and as the
little labels had the earlier ones on the market as
well, the airwaves were being swamped with the
Beatle sound, which in effect made the impact that
much greater.'

'Yesterday was the first time we used any other

musicians than the Beatles or myself on a record,
apart from the original session drummer, of course.
It came about purely and simply because Paul had
had this lovely song for a while actually, our
memories differ on this, because we were talking
about it the other day and Paul said he didn't have it
all that long, it wasn't "scrambled eggs" for ever,
and that he had the tune, which he called
"scrambled eggs", for about a month before he
came up with the lyric. I thought it was longer than
that so I said when recording this, that the best
thing for him to do was just to sing it and play guitar,
and we'd decide what to
AIR established a major London studio which was
soon in great demand, while Martin himself built a
further complex on the Caribbean island of
Montserrat, where most of his latterday work has
been undertaken. During the early Seventies,
however, he was still active in London, working with
such acts as the acoustic duo/trio America, Jeff
Beck whose first Martin-produced LP, Blow By
Blow, was acclaimed in America as 'Jazz LP of the
Year' in 1975 and singer-songwriter Jimmy
Webb. His subsequent clients have included heavy
metal band UFO, American New Wavers Cheap
Trick, jazz/rock guitarist John McLaughlin and the
more sedate talents of Ella Fitzgerald and Neil
Sedaka.
As the elder statesman of British record producers
George Martin is in the enviable position of being
able to choose the artists with whom he works from
a continual series of offers. Inevitably, it is his work
with the Beatles which attracts most potential

168

clients, but in a career spanning more than three

decades, Martin has contributed far more
innovation than that for which he is given credit, and
there can be no doubt that today's rock music would
sound very different had it not been for his
pioneering studio creations.

unlike them, had no American input. So Oscar did

virtually everything himself, from light orchestral
music through to Scottish country dance and the
pop music of the day to Victor Silvester and people
like that, and I came along to help him. He also
used to do classical music, and as I was classically
trained, I was given the job of producing classical
music for the label, although the word "producer"
was never used at that time, basically because it
was a bit like a factory business anyway the guy
who did the record production was an overseer who
used to take charge of the sessions and organise
them in the first place. His title was A & R manager,
which didn't stand for "Artistes & Repertoire" in
1950, it stood for "Artistes & Recording". He was
the guy who actually signed the artists, so he had to
know something about contracts, had to authorise
payment to musicians and book them, book the
studios, and go along to make sure that everything
was all right. Inevitably, because someone had to
exert some critical assessment of the whole thing,
he was the guy who said, "Well, I think we should
take the tempo a bit faster, chaps", and that kind of
thing, and gradually, his influence became a bit
more marked, to the point where he was taking a
very creative part in the building of the music, by
which time he had become known as a record
producer. I kind of evolved along with that process,
as the years passed, but before that, Oscar Preuss
had taught me everything he knew, and I gradually
took over his job, so that by the time he retired in
1955, I was to all intents and purposes running the
label, and was given the job of Head of
Parlophone.'

John Tobler, 1982

George Martin
Stuart Grundy,John Tobler, The Record
Producers (BBC Books), 1982
IN MUCH THE same way as Jerry Leiber and Mike
Stoller were the first American record producers,
that accolade in Britain belongs to the man whose
name was arguably the first to be widely accepted
as such, George Martin.
Almost everyone with any kind of interest in popular
music knows that Martin produced the vast majority
of records made by the Beatles, and was the man
responsible for first presenting that unstoppable
phenomenon to the world, but it's often forgotten
that he had produced a wide variety of successful
records prior to his involvement with the Beatles
and many of their friends and contemporaries from
Liverpool, and continues to produce other acts with
some success today. Although at the time of writing,
a forthcoming Paul McCartney LP (after Tug of War)
is not even completed, let alone titled, it will bear
George Martin's name as producer when it is
released in late 1982.

To elaborate a little on one of the items mentioned

by George, the question of 'American input' was
fairly crucial in the first half of the 1950s for the
early part of that period, American CBS records
were released in Britain on the Columbia label
owned by EMI, which brought artists like Guy
Mitchell, Frankie Lane, Doris Day and Johnnie Ray
to the label, while HMV were fortunate enough to be
able to release Elvis Presley's first dozen hits in
Britain, these examples merely being the cream on
the cake. Parlophone had no such licensing
agreements, so that all its output was the result of
Preuss, and later Martin, discovering and recording
the talent which was available in Great Britain. This
inevitably meant that a great deal of time was spent
in the recording studio. 'Yes, on an average day
about fifty per cent of my time was studio work, but
it was a very much more leisurely process than it is
now. For a start, the Parlophone office was actually
in the same building as Abbey Road Studios, so I
just had to walk down the corridor to be in the
studio. And of course, there weren't the pressures
of modern-day recording things were much
cheaper, and it was all very friendly. You didn't sell

Martin was born on 3 January 1926, in London, and

became interested in the piano at an early age.
Having served his country in the Royal Air Force at
the end of the Second World War, he studied for
three years at the Guildhall School of Music, before
working for a short time as a freelance oboe player,
which was followed by a brief spell at the BBC in a
clerical post, albeit one which demanded some
musical expertise. Then came the invitation which
certainly changed George Martin's life, although
perhaps it would be overstating the case to suggest
that it profoundly influenced the course of popular
music one of the professors at the Guildhall had
suggested to the head of the Parlophone record
label (one of the smaller labels within the giant EMI
organisation), that he should employ Martin as his
assistant, and the latter gratefully accepted the
position when it was offered to him.
'I joined EMI as assistant to Oscar Preuss, head of
Parlophone Records, in November 1950.
Parlophone was a very small label, very much
junior to the big brothers, HMV and Columbia, and

169

many records either if you sold fifteen hundred,

that was about the break-even figure, and if you
sold three thousand, you were on to a big seller.

control room saying, "Yes, that's nice" or, "You're

singing a bit flat". It became a matter of going
through material and saying, "Let's not do this. If we
put a bit of music behind this, or have the sound of
a band saw coming in from the left, it'll make it
much better". It was creating before we got into the
studio at that stage, and really that's what a
producer is up to he's sort of masterminding the
concept of what it's going to sound like before it
actually happens, and the comedy records were
tremendous training for me in that.'

'The EMI Studios were also not particularly wellequipped technically, and things were pretty
primitive, although that's not to say that good
records weren't made there, because they certainly
were. The sound we got out of Number One Studio
at Abbey Road was beautiful I remember some of
the early records I made with the London Baroque
Ensemble, which were obviously mono in those
days, where we used a very small number of
microphones, maybe even a single Altec for a
woodwind group, but the ambience of the studio
was so good that we got beautiful sounds which still
hold up and are heard today. Gimmickry was
another matter, of course, and we found that
American recording techniques were very much in
advance of ours by the time 1955 came along,
which was the beginning of the rock'n'roll period.
We listened to sounds coming out of America which
would horrify most English people because they
were so blatant and coarse, and things were being
done to records technically which caused many a
raised eyebrow among the legitimate engineers at
Abbey Road, but the only way to fight them was to
join them, so we started breeding a new kind of
engineer and chucked away all the old conventions.
Not that I necessarily liked all of the music coming
out of America some of it was very exciting, but I
don't like pigeonholing things. I don't like calling
myself a rock'n'roll producer or a classical producer,
because I've produced all sorts of records and
enjoyed them all. I like being versatile and hate just
doing one thing, because I think it wrong to be
confined in that way.

Probably the first notable comedy record made by

Martin featured Peter Ustinov. 'I'd met him through
the London Baroque Ensemble, because he was
very keen on classical music, and the original
record we did, Phoney Folk Lore and Mock
Mozart, was a multi-track job where he sang four
different times over all the different things. We didn't
have multi-track machines in those days, so it had
to be sound on sound, and of course everybody
knows that when you put sound on sound you get
horrendous quality after about three times, so we
had to be awfully careful with our signal to noise
ratios and things. In those days, it was considered
to be not only adventurous but downright stupid to
go to that extreme merely to get one person singing
with himself, but it worked, and that record turned
out to be a success, luckily for me. So I got the
reputation for being an oddball, and I was quite
friendly with Spike Milligan and Peter Sellers this
was in the early Goon days, before Peter became
an international star and when I made the first
Peter Sellers album, my bosses had so little faith in
it that they said I couldn't make a twelve-inch
album, because it wouldn't sell at that price, and I
was only allowed to make a ten-inch LP. So I
arrogantly called it The Best of Sellers, and
fortunately for me, it turned out to be that, so I was
able to go on and do more things.'

An excellent illustration of what Martin means by

versatility can be discerned from the curious fact
that his first significant fame arguably came as a
result of his production of comedy records during
the 1950s and early 1960s. 'That was kind of an act
of desperation really, because when Oscar retired in
1955, and I took over Parlophone, I was left with
this tiny label which didn't mean much, and because
HMV and Columbia had the benefit of all these
strong American catalogues, their producers
actually heard a lot of the new American material
before anyone else, and could play it to their artists.
I envied this advantage, although I couldn't compete
with them on their own level, so I had to find
something between the cracks, something which
other people weren't doing. One of the things they
weren't doing was comedy records, and that was
because most people thought they wouldn't sell. But
I think my producing career really started with those
comedy records, because I was getting very
involved on the floor instead of just being in the

'Other things' included more work with the Goons,

and in particular Peter Sellers and Spike Milligan
(Harry Secombe, who was also a conventional
singer, signed to another record label, seems not to
have taken part too often), for albums like Songs
For Swinging Sellers and Bridge Over The River
Wye, respectively, An Evening Of British Rubbish, a
highly bizarre live recording of a West End show
which must have been completely meaningless to
those unversed in certain peculiar aspects of British
humour, a pair of hit singles in 'Right Said Fred' and
'Hole In The Ground' performed by Bernard
Cribbins, four hit singles with the Temperance
Seven, a nine-piece (of course) band who played
pre-war styled music, and who topped the British
charts with 'You're Driving Me Crazy' in 1961, work
with Rolf Harris, and another hit with 'Goodness,
Gracious Me', performed by Peter Sellers and

170

Sophia Loren. Added to that, during the same early

1960s period, were live albums of That Was The
Week That Was, the television programme fronted
by David Frost and also starring many of the
leading University comedians, Beyond The Fringe,
which launched Peter Cook and Dudley Moore to
fame, and At The Drop Of A Hat, a famous
entertainment of its time, performed by Michael
Flanders and Donald Swann.

would play Three Blind Mice. It was a kind of

musical cartoon really, which he called Experiments
With Mice, and when he played it to me, I thought it
was very good, so we made a record of it and it
sold, but I can't really take much credit for that
except that we issued the record. As for Bad Penny
Blues and Lady Madonna, there's no connection
at all, except that the piano sounds similar. That
kind of piano work is pretty commonplace among
your genuine rhythm and blues players, and I think
Johnny Parker, the pianist with Humph's band at
that time, had the idea of a sort of mixture of beats,
a slow beat and the rolling barrel piano.'

'They were such charming people, and that was just

a question of my going along to hear them at a little
place in Notting Hill Gate, loving what I heard, and
suggesting that we made it into an album. They
were delighted and came into London, it was a big
success and all was well, but it was good
experience too. I recorded five different shows and
edited it down to one it's really the kind of thing
people do on radio all the time now. You can't have
any control over what people are doing, you just
have to make the best of what's there, and it's good
useful experience, knowing about acoustics and
editing facilities. Beyond The Fringe was even more
difficult in a way they were up at Cambridge when
we first got to them, and they were a success at the
Edinburgh Festival before they came to London. Of
course, their humour was very zany, and they never
did the same thing twice in the same direction. By
this time we were recording stereo, and with a live
stereo recording, we had to be awfully careful with
our editing, because sometimes Jonathan Miller
would be jumping forty feet in the space of half a
second.'

Such a wide variety of work was later to become a

great advantage to Martin when it came to his more
celebrated productions during the sixties and
beyond, as he himself confirms. 'It was all a good
training ground for what happened later, and I was
able to experiment at playing with tapes and making
"Musique concrete" noises and so on I've said it
before, but I don't think I would have done what I
did on Sergeant Pepper unless I'd done the Peter
Sellers albums in the first place. Another thing was
that I wanted to have better technical facilities to
enable me to do things like that Peter Ustinov
record without having all the awful disadvantages
it wasn't until multi-tracking came along that we
were able to enjoy that.'
In 1962, George Martin met and was impressed by
the Beatles, a quartet from Liverpool who had
already been turned down by several record
companies, including the other two EMI labels,
HMV and Columbia. Martin had made an impact on
the history of the Beatles almost from the first day,
when he decided that the group's drummer of the
time, Pete Best, was not satisfactory. 'I decided not
to use Pete Best. When I first heard the Beatles in
the studio, number three studio at Abbey Road, in
June 1962, I think it was, I liked them very much,
but I did think their drummer was weak, and
afterwards when I signed them to a contract, I told
Brian (Epstein) that I obviously didn't really want to
change the group or get in anyone's hair, but I didn't
want to use the drummer, and I would use a
session drummer instead, and the world wouldn't
know the difference. The guitar players and singers
were OK, but the drummer, in my estimation, didn't
have the beat and the drive and the regularity and
the pace that I needed to get an exciting record
he was jolly good-looking, and he didn't say much,
but that was it. I didn't know until afterwards that
they'd made up their own minds anyway to give him
the boot, so it was a kind of joint decision, but taken
without any collusion, and so when the session
came along, Pete wasn't there. I had a session
drummer named Andy White ready, and they
brought along this fellow called Ringo Starr, who I

Comedy was only one facet of the Parlophone

success story under George Martin. One of the acts
on the label which George produced was Jimmy
Shand, who would apparently record one year's
worth of Scottish country dance music in one
lengthy session, this amounting to as many as
eighty-four different tracks during one week which
would be issued during the following year.
Somewhat more acceptable to a less ethnic
audience was the label's jazz output, which
included work by such notable names as Johnny
Dankworth (whose wife, Cleo Lame, George
produced later in his career), and Humphrey
Lyttleton, whose hit single, 'Bad Penny Blues', was
later quoted as being partially inspirational to 'Lady
Madonna' by the Beatles.
'John Dankworth actually hadn't had any big hits,
although he'd had a lot of good selling records
Parlophone had always been pretty strong on jazz
with Jack Parnell and His Band, Joe Daniels and
His Hotshots and Johnny Dankworth and His
Seven, and they were all fairly consistent sellers.
Then John had this idea for a little nursery tale
using the idea of big bands illustrating how they

171

treated with a great deal of suspicion, because I

didn't know what he was like either, so I kept him at
arm's length for a while. He's never forgiven me for
it.'

mistake" but there you are...I did the remix in Los

Angeles for the American version of the record, but
I didn't know what had happened to the English
issue, and I actually got a letter from a guy in
Poland who had listened to a Beatles record, and
wrote "Well, its a very good record, but where are
the voices? He'd got a pressing where there was
nothing at all on one side the first instrumental
Beatles!'

Following a top twenty entry with their first single,

'Love Me Do', and a top three hit with the follow-up
'Please Please Me', George Martin found himself in
the position of having to make an album with the
Beatles which would bear the same title as the
second hit, and would cater for the demand created
by 'Please Please Me'. The fact that the album was
completely recorded and mixed in thirteen hours
says much for the directness and unsophistication
of the early sixties 'Well, there was a reason for
that. I was very excited about the boys and I
thought we had a big group on our hands, and the
first record didn't do all that well, getting to number
seventeen. I was convinced that if I had the right
song, I would have a real hit with them, and we got
it with Please Please Me, which I knew was a
number one when we made it, and it certainly
turned out that way '(Note: This was true of some
charts, although not of others. In the Record
Retailer chart, which is generally regarded as the
Bible in chart terms, 'Please Please Me' peaked at
number two). 'So obviously, in order to consolidate
their success, I had to have an album out on the
market very quickly, and the thing to do was to
record as many numbers as I could from their
existing repertoire. I'd been to The Cavern, and I
knew what they did, so I said, "Look, just come into
the studio and let's just go through the best songs in
your act, and well just put them down, like a live
performance, and take a little bit of trouble over it".
So they came into the studio one morning, and we
worked right through until ten or eleven at night,
and recorded ten tracks, and we put both the
singles on as well. It was just like recording a live
album in a way, because it was all done straight on
to two-track we didn't have four-track then but it
was done as two-track, not as stereo, because I
kept the rhythm separated from the voices so that I
was able to compress the two together and make a
harder sound.

Many of the early recordings by the Beatles were

accomplished fairly quickly, something which
seemed to indicate that Martin, as producer, was
concentrating more on capturing a performance
than the niceties of an arrangement. 'That's not
really true, because the way it went was that I
would always listen to the song first of all, invariably
performed by its basic writer, John or Paul,
strumming away on acoustic guitar. Then we'd
consider what we were going to do with it, although
the permutations weren't very difficult you had two
guitars, bass guitar and drums, and if anyone
played keyboards, it was generally me, which
meant there was very little to arrange, as we didn't
have a symphony orchestra or anything like that. So
my main role there was picking out introductions,
choosing a place for the solo, and its length and its
ending; because the rest of the song was already
there. So I'd say, "OK chaps, this is what we do for
an opening, and this is where George does
something on his guitar, and don't make it longer
than two minutes forty-five seconds because we
won't get it on the air". It was as simple as that, and
that's how it worked out.
The Beatles became enormously famous in Britain
in a remarkably short time, and by the end of 1963
had amassed three straight number one singles on
top of their comparatively modest beginnings with
'Love Me Do' and 'Please Please Me', yet in
America, their records were almost totally ignored
until the start of 1964, something which must have
been of great concern to their producer and the
head of their record label. 'It was because their
early records weren't issued by the right people in
the United States. After our first success with
Please Please Me, sent the tapes to Capitol
Records, which was one of our subsidiaries. Sir Joe
Lockwood had bought Capitol Records some time
before, and it was our own label, so I thought it
would be a good idea for us to issue our success in
America. So I was rather disappointed when the
reply came back "It may be all right for Britain, but
'Please Please Me' is not the kind of record that will
sell in our country. Thank you very much.
Goodbye". And I shrugged my shoulders and said
that they ought to know their business, because it
was their market. And when From Me To You came
along, we did the same thing "Look, this group is

'That boomeranged on me later, because after I had

left EMI, that record was issued as stereo. I was
appalled! How they could get out these original
tapes with all the rock'n'roll backing on one side,
and all the voices on the other, and when the voices
stopped singing, you had all the terrible background
pickup from the studio still vacant on that track it
was just horrendous, and they were actually putting
them out like that. When I found out about it, I
raised the roof, and they said, "We're not allowed to
touch those records, because the Beatles said they
must go out as they originally were" I said, "They're
not as they originally were you're making a terrible

172

building, and it's very big in this country, and you

really ought to take a listen", and nothing happened
again. So, very frustrated, we got on to a guy who
worked for us in New York, Roland Rennie, I think it
was, and told him that we'd been turned down by
Capitol, and asking if he could get the records out
on any other label. So the early Beatle records were
sold for no money at all to very small labels like
Tollie, Swan and VeeJay, who were each given a
title to work on. And then the third record came out,
which was She Loves You, and again Capitol
turned it down it was like St Peter and the cock
crowing three times. And when the fourth record, I
Want To Hold Your Hand, came out, the thing had
grown so much in England by that time that it was
beginning to have repercussions in the States, and
the records that had already been put out by the
small labels were beginning to make a little bit of a
dent. Capitol realised that they had to do something
about it, which coincided with the Beatles going
over there, and that time, the dam eventually broke,
and Capitol agreed on I Want To Hold Your Hand.
Their story was that at long last they'd found the
song that could really break them in the States.
Rubbish! So they issued I Want To Hold Your
Hand, and it coincided with the build-up, and as the
little labels had the earlier ones on the market as
well, the airwaves were being swamped with the
Beatle sound, which in effect made the impact that
much greater.'

memories differ on this, because we were talking

about it the other day and Paul said he didn't have it
all that long, it wasn't "scrambled eggs" for ever,
and that he had the tune, which he called
"scrambled eggs", for about a month before he
came up with the lyric. I thought it was longer than
that so I said when recording this, that the best
thing for him to do was just to sing it and play guitar,
and we'd decide what to put on it afterwards. I didn't
think we could put Ringo on, because it would be
too heavy. So that's what we did, and I still felt that
drums wouldn't be appropriate, and told Paul that
the only thing I could honestly think of to add to it
would be strings, but Paul said, "Oh, I don't think I
want Mantovani and Norrie Paramor very much" I
think he'd probably heard what I'd done to Gerry
and the Pacemakers with You'll Never Walk Alone.
But that was one of Gerry's favourites, and it had
always been part of his act as a tear-jerking ballad
in the rock'n'roll style, and I thought it demanded a
bit of syrup, so I put some strings on it which I
thought would be fairly effective. That was all I
just thought it needed something a bit different from
what we'd done before, and I had the freedom to do
it, and it seemed to work out all right.
'So I told Paul that I didn't really mean strings like
there were on Gerry's record, and Paul confirmed
that he wanted something different. I suggested a
small amount of strings, perhaps a classical string
quartet, and he liked that idea, because he was
living with Jane Asher at the time, and hers was a
very classical family. So that's the way it happened,
and he worked with me on the score we actually
sat down at the piano and said "We'll put a cello on
this note"'.

Having established themselves as a potent musical

force, the Beatles, unlike many of their
contemporaries, were unwilling to retread an
already proven format, something which Martin was
at pains to avoid. 'That was something I'd always
said from the word "Go", that we shouldn't just
make formula things, we should try to be different
as much as possible, and we tried very hard to do
that. Sometimes I thought we'd been too risky and
gone too far, but it paid off Brian Epstein and I had
this plan, that we would issue a single every three
months and an album twice a year. That was the
kind of general idea, the broad basis of what we
worked out, although we didn't stick to it religiously.
I wanted every album that came out to be different
from the one before, and as soon as the Beatles
realised their creative abilities in the studio, they got
hooked into this thing of really building something
new each time. They were more adventurous than I
was, and they were coming to me asking what new
sounds they could use, and what instruments I
knew about that they didn't.

The 1966 Beatles LP, Revolver, is generally

considered to be the prologue to the groups
greatest work, the Sergeant Pepper album, and two
tracks on Revolver, 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Tomorrow
Never Knows', seemed to be particular signposts to
a future where the Beatles would be exploring
uncharted territory. 'They learned exceptionally
quickly in their different ways, although John was
inclined to leave things to us and do his rock'n'roll
bits, and his beautiful words, while the music side
was basically Paul, and George to a lesser extent.
Eleanor Rigby was just an extension of Yesterday
in a way in the use of strings I've always been
very keen on the scoring of people like Bernard
Herrmann, the old Bernard Herrmann who did all
Hitchcock's scores. Eleanor Rigby is very much
based on a score he did for a film called Fahrenheit
451, with all these spiky strings. Then Tomorrow
Never Knows was certainly the beginning of a new
era, and it was a kind of surrealistic look at building
up sound pictures, which I thought was great, and
was again harking back to the Peter Sellers stuff.

'Yesterday was the first time we used any other

musicians than the Beatles or myself on a record,
apart from the original session drummer, of course.
It came about purely and simply because Paul had
had this lovely song for a while actually, our

173

'Going into Sergeant Pepper, there was a kind of

development through Tomorrow Never Knows and
through Strawberry Fields Forever and Penny
Lane, which was a single that was the beginning of
the Pepper album, although it wasn't on the album
because we wanted a single out. You can see the
connections between Tomorrow Never Knows,
Strawberry Fields, right through to A Day In The
Life. It's all there, and that was the changing of
direction. Strawberry Fields is one of my
favourites, actually it started out with John, as
always, playing the song to me sitting on a stool in
front of me strumming an acoustic guitar, and it was
a very gentle song, a beautiful song full of this
wonderful word imagery, and I loved it. When we
came to do the actual track, there was Ringo
bashing away and John on his electric guitar, and it
became very much heavier than I'd thought, but that
was the way John wanted it and the way it evolved,
so we did the track that way and finished it. John
came back to me afterwards, a couple of days after
the session, and said, "Well, it wasn't really quite
what I had in mind when I wrote the song, so could
we do it again?" and this was the first time any of
the Beatles had ever asked me to recut a track. So I
said "OK, if you feel like it, but what do you want to
do with it this time?", and he said he wanted me to
do a score for it, and that he wanted to use some
cellos and horns, so we worked out a score and did
a completely new track, and that was fine too. But
again he came back to me, and this time said he
liked the new one, but he liked the first one again as
well, so I said he couldn't have them both. And he
said, "Why not? Lets take the beginning of one and
the end of the other one", so I told him that there
were two things wrong with that, the first being that
they were in completely different keys, and the
second that they were at completely different
tempos, and he said, "You can fix it. You know what
I like", left me to it. Fortunately, I was able to mix it
God was on my side, because the difference in
pitch, which was a semi-tone, was the right way, so
that by slowing one down and speeding up the
other, they would be brought more or less into line.
So the two did go together, and that was the way it
was issued see if you can spot the join!'

like a pianola, player piano, where you have to have

rolls printed and so on, so it would be too
cumbersome a process. In any case, I didn't really
want a tune, I wanted a kind of miasma of sound, a
background whirly-hurly-burly I always think of
things in visual terms, and this to me was the
background wash giving me the colour in the
background which set the scene and then the detail
came up in front. So I cut up some tapes, and made
a messy sound in the background which sounded
like a fairground, and the only tapes I could use
were those of existing recordings of steam organs
which were playing things like Stars And Stripes
Forever and that kind of thing, which I had to
disguise, because I couldn't have that going on in
the background. So, by cutting them up, chopping
them to pieces and turning them back to front, I got
the necessary noise. I tried lots of experiments like
that which didn't work out, but of course, I don't talk
about those!'
In retrospect, one of the most interesting aspects of
the recording of Sergeant Pepper relates to the fact
that it was recorded on a four-track machine. 'Well,
that was all we had. I would have recorded on more
tracks if I'd had the machines, but it's like anything
else if you're making a new sideboard and you've
only got a hammer and chisel, you work with that,
but if you've got a nice automated workshop, you'll
obviously use that.'
Things had obviously improved, at least technically,
by the time that the Beatles recorded their two final
group albums, Let It Be and Abbey Road, which,
curiously, were released in reverse order. 'Let It Be
was a very unhappy album, and when we were
recording that, I thought it was the end of
everything, because everybody was at each others
throats, the boys were all warring amongst each
other, nobody would make any decisions, and for
the first time, the engineer wasn't my engineer. Up
until the album before, we'd used Geoff Emerick,
who had worked on Sergeant Pepper, and there
had been a succession of engineers after that. For
Let It Be, they brought in Glyn Johns, who was kind
of a producer/engineer, and although we got on
fine, there was a certain conflict of interests there,
so that I don't think anyone was particularly happy
during those recordings.

On 1 June 1967, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts

Club Band was released in Britain, and immediately
set the world on its ear with its incredible selection
of songs and production techniques. There was a
great deal of experimentation, for example the
sound of the barrel organ on 'Being For The Benefit
Of Mr Kite'. 'I wanted to have the sound of a
calliope, a steam organ, that is very characteristic of
fairgrounds, and there wasn't a machine that could
play what we wanted, because it was a new tune,
and there was no way we could actually dictate the
tune, arrange it and put it on a steam organ it's

'It ended up being a very unsatisfactory record

because John Lennon, of all people, had said, "I
don't want this album to have any production
gimmicks on it at all, I want it to be an honest
album". I asked him what he meant, because I
thought our recordings had been honest, and he
said, "I won't want any overdubbing of voices, or
any editing. It's got to be like it is, man, a real
honest live recording, so let's do it that way". Now

174

the original idea for this was a good one, because

we were talking about making a live recording of a
new album, and the idea was that we would have a
lot of songs written by the boys and rehearsed ad
nauseam, and then they would have a marvellous
performance in front of a live audience, which would
be recorded like a live album, like Flanders and
Swann, if you like, which would be their new album.
Nobody would have heard the material before, and
it would have all the atmosphere and so on. But we
couldn't get a large enough audience the Beatles
by this time were too famous to go into the
Hammersmith Odeon, and we thought about going
to the Forum in Los Angeles, but that would have
cost too much because of the royalties in America.
And then we thought of taking it to Tunisia, but then
it would have been difficult to get the crowds there
it was in the middle of winter, by the way and we
couldn't do it in England in the open air, so we
finished up in Twickenham Film Studios, with no
audience, because it was the only place. Abbey
Road was booked, and the boys wanted to record
in their own studios at Apple, which had been illconceived by the chap they employed to work on
them, so that there was no equipment there, and to
use their studios, I had to import mobile equipment
from EMI before we started making tracks down
there. Then they decided to film it all, so we had
camera teams looking over our shoulders all the
time it was an awful mess. And so the only way I
could make the album in the end was to make it an
honest record and have all the burps and starts and
false takes and, "Can you 'ear me, muther?" in the
middle of it, almost like a documentary, and that
was the way I finished it up with Glyn. There were
some good songs on it, but I wasn't crazy about it,
although it was what John wanted, and I thought
that was the end of it.

didn't want the production things, which he'd never

liked, and the concept things bored him to tears
because he liked good old rock'n'roll, so we
compromised and had his rock'n'roll things on one
side, and our long-winded concept on the other,
which was the way it worked out. I knew it was the
end of the road, but it was a happy end, and I'm
glad it worked out like that. I was considerably
shaken when Let It Be was issued after that in the
format it was, with Phil Spector's work on it'.
To backtrack briefly on the Beatles' career, another
world-famous recording which George Martin
produced for the group was 'All You Need Is Love',
which was used as part of the first satellite
television broadcast in a programme called Our
World. 'The specification for that song was pretty
rigid. It had to be a new song, and it was going to
be the English contribution to this programme which
would be seen by two hundred million viewers
that was what they told us, and it was enough to
terrify the pants off anyone, and they wanted it to be
a live performance in the studio. But the boys never
thought twice about this awe-inspiring thing they
were faced with, and they just said they'd do it
anyway, so they came to me and asked me to do a
score for it and try to wrap it up for them. John
wrote the song, and I said, "Let's hedge our bets
and do a backing track first", so we went into the
studio and did a basic rhythm track on John's song,
and I wrote the introduction and the tag ending. And
we got a band in the studio, and the boys
performed it live, actually sung it in the studio live
with an audience there. Mike Vickers conducted the
band in the studio, and I was in the control room
with Geoff it was a ludicrous day, because we had
the television team there, who had their van in the
courtyard in front of Abbey Road studios, and of
course they couldn't see into the studio where it
was being televised and don't forget it was live
television, it wasn't taped, and we were standing by
during the countdown with someone saying, "You're
going to be on the air in front of two hundred million
people, thirty seconds to go". And at that point, the
producer said, "I've lost contact with the studio
George, you'll have to relay instructions to the floor
man there. Can you do that?" And there was a
camera looking at me and watching me on
television as well, and I just giggled. I thought it was
too ridiculous for words, the pressure of making a
record under those circumstances. But it worked
out all right, and when we'd finished the broadcast, I
said, "Well, we're obviously going to issue this
record, so let's work on it now". So the broadcast
went out as one thing, but then I overdubbed Johns
voice again, and double tracked it and put extra
voices on, and the record was issued in that form. It
wasn't quite what was on television, but most
people remember it that way.'

'A few months afterwards, Paul rang me up and

said, "Look, I'm a bit fed up with the way things
have been going. Will you come back and produce
an album like you used to?" I said, "Well, Paul, I
don't know whether it will work. I'd love to if I'm able
to, but in order for me to be able to do that, you've
got to agree to be produced, and you've got to do
what I say". And he said they'd do that, so I said I
wanted my own engineer, Geoff Emerick, back, who
had worked on Sergeant Pepper, and he agreed to
that, and I said I wanted to do it at Abbey Road,
which he also agreed to. So I said, "Well, I don't
believe it, but we'll do it", and it was a very happy
album. We tried to put aside all the differences, and
although it wasn't an integrated album, because
everybody was writing their own material, and
tended to be working mainly on their own songs, for
which the others would reluctantly come in, it was a
much happier album than I really expected. Paul
and I worked very solidly on the second side John

175

To have dealt so successfully with such a potentially

volatile group as the Beatles says much for George
Martin's ability in dealing with people. 'It's no good
bullying people, because they dig their heels in and
do the opposite you have to lead rather than drive
and in fact, tact is one of the absolute requirements
of a record producer. You've got to make the guy
think that he thought of whatever it was in the first
place, and you can't go around in a studio saying,
"What a clever chap I am for thinking of this",
because that immediately destroys the ego of the
person with whom you're working. I still say that the
artist is much more important than the producer,
and he's your spearhead, so you've got to build him
up, and thus, if you have a good idea, try to make
him think of it. I'd far rather do that and get a really
good record than end up with a rotten record for
which I can take the credit.'

we held the number one position for thirty-seven

weeks out of fifty two, and I really was working
every day of the week, including the weekend, and
every night, and not seeing anything except the
inside of a studio, and killing myself in the process.
People were asking me to record other acts, but I
just physically couldn't do it, it was just impossible. I
had an assistant, Ron Richards, who then started
looking for people himself, and he got the Hollies,
but some of the other groups, like the Searchers,
had to go somewhere else because there was no
more room in our stable.
Even with this galaxy of talent, there were still
failures, a notable example being the first Cilla
Black single, a song written by Lennon and
McCartney which should almost have been a
smash hit as a matter of course. 'I'd only heard her
with that hard ear-tearing kind of voice, I'd never
heard her ballad style, and that's the way she did
Love Of The Loved, which wasn't a big seller. She
didn't really make it until we got Anyone Who Had
A Heart, the Burt Bacharach song, which Brian
Epstein brought back from America. When he gave
it to me, I said, "Oh, thanks very much. That's
marvellous, and it'll be great for Shirley Bassey",
and he said, "That wasn't what I had in mind I
thought it would be good for Cilla," and I didn't really
think Cilla could do it. But he persuaded me that
she could, and she certainly did. I think hers is in
fact a better version than Dionne Warwick's, even
though Cilla's is a pinch from Dionne.'

It seems difficult to believe in retrospect, but George

Martin did not receive credit as producer on the
earliest Beatle records, including the Please Please
Me album. 'It was a tussle with EMI, because they
didn't like producers getting too important they
were a pretty straight-laced company, and they
didn't really think it would be a good idea for
producers to get too much credit, because they
might get too big for their boots, and being
considered rather suspect people anyway, it was
strongly resisted. It was only after a great deal of
pressure from me, mainly, that we actually got
credits on labels, so there are an awful lot of
records I've made which people would never
connect with me.'

George did however confirm that the Cilla Black

version of 'You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin' was not
as good as the original of the song by the
Righteous Brothers.

However, during the Merseybeat boom of the mid1960s, it was well known that Martin was involved
with nearly all the acts which composed Brian
Epstein's stable of stars, many of whom were
signed to Parlophone, including the Beatles, Billy J.
Kramer and the Dakotas, and Cilla Black, while
Gerry and the Pacemakers were on the by now
similarly sized Columbia label. It was as though
Brian Epstein was feeding George artists, and
expecting their records to boast a little added Martin
magic. 'Yes, he was always looking for magic, and
he got it to a certain extent, but at the end of that
year, 1963, I was so worn out that I wanted some
magic myself. I was in the studios right round the
clock, and Brian was supplying me with an
unending list of new artists, some of whom weren't
all that good. Gerry was great, and Cilla (Black) was
marvellous, and Billy (J. Kramer) was pretty good,
but they got progressively less interesting as time
went by. But in 1963, I was leapfrogging myself with
all the records I was making the Beatles, Gerry,
Billy J. Kramer and Cilla Black were actually having
records coming out in sequence passing the baton
of the number one spot from one to the other. I think

Another Liverpool group produced by Martin was

the Fourmost, while he also at one point recorded
an instrumental album of Beatle songs under his
own name. 'I was trying to cash in on the
bandwagon there. United Artists actually signed me
up as an artist I'd obviously got a certain amount
of publicity with the Beatles, and I'd been contracted
to do the first Beatle film, A Hard Day's Night, so it
was to cash in on that, because I had arranged
This Boy one of the Beatle tunes in the film, and it
was released as a single in the States under the
title of Ringo's Theme, and was quite a big hit. So
UA said "Right", let's have an album from you now
it was really a money-making exercise, at a time
when I was still on a fairly low salary at EMI.'
The fact that George was not receiving what he
considered to be due reward for making numerous
hit records for EMI eventually led to him leaving the
company, and setting up as an independent
producer. The date was 31 August 1965. 'I didn't

176

really want to leave EMI, but I couldn't see any

alternative, because I seemed to be losing out all
round. I'm jolly glad that I did make the break and
set up my own business, because obviously I've
had a very much happier life since, and been very
lucky really. The decision to leave didn't come
easily, because I'd worked for EMI for sixteen years,
and all my friends were at EMI Studios, and I
wondered if I was doing the right thing. But I was
still able to maintain the friendship, and there are a
Lot of people at EMI Studios who are very great
friends of mine. When we built Air Studios, we gave
them some competition to live up to were still
very friendly, but we're also quite competitive. I think
I felt it was significant, although I didn't see it as
epoch-making as far as the record business was
concerned, because I wasn't the first independent
producer we'd already had people like Andrew
Oldham with the Stones, and Mickie Most, of
course but I think I was the first rebel, the first
staff producer to go out into the world. I suppose the
only revolutionary thing from my point of view was
that I was a "mole" if you like, who had rebelled and
gone over to the other side.

something might come through. I got a bit frustrated

at that, and by having my own studio, I knew that if
anything was wrong with it, it was my fault, and not
the fault of some bureaucrat, and that's really why I
went into the studio business. That's been further
extended recently, because I've built a studio out in
the West Indies which is really my ultimate dream,
and in that studio, I've got literally everything I want
I couldn't wish for a better studio than that.'

'When I left EMI, I thought I'd like to take some of

the up and coming young people with me. I'm not a
loner, and I Like working with other people, and also
it meant that those people I took with me wouldn't
be a threat to me in the future, although I didn't
realise in fact that I was strong enough not to really
worry about that. So I took Ron Richards, who was
my assistant, and John Burgess, who was Norman
Newell's assistant at Columbia, and worked with
Manfred Mann, Peter and Gordon and Adam Faith,
and Peter Sullivan, who was Wally Ridley's
assistant at Decca, and was producing Engelbert
Humperdinck and Tom Jones it was as though I
was the youngest of the senior men, and I took the
best of the younger men with me. It didn't work out
to be too disastrous for EMI, because inevitably
after that, the senior men left too, and then
independent production became a major thing.

Briefly turning to another aspect of George Martins

talent, he was also responsible for writing the Radio
One theme tune, 'Theme One'. 'Goodness, that's
donkey's years ago! Robin Scott was the head of
Radio One when it started, and he wanted a brand
new thumping signature tune for his brand new
programme, and he approached Northern Songs,
which was run by Dick James, who, incidentally, I
had produced many years before when he was a
singer, for Paul McCartney to write this brand new
thumping tune. Dick James wisely said that there
was no way that Paul would touch the idea, but
suggested that I might be persuaded to do it,
because he said I was very good at that sort of
thing. It was obviously second best, but Robin Scott
said he'd see what I could come up with. The
specification was that it should be British, it should
be modern, it should have something to do with
rock'n'roll, but should also sound declamatory, and,
I guess, fairly regal. So I wrote the organ intro, and
did a kind of rock'n'roll Elgar, if you like, and in fact,
one of the BBC officials remarked that it sounded
like William Walton under the influence of drugs
(Laughs). But Theme One it was, and that's what
happened.'

Unlike many of his peers in this book, George

Martin was never trained as an engineer, and
therefore has generally used an engineer to work
with him, many of whom, including Geoff Emerick in
particular, have become producers in their own
right. 'I've never been an engineer, never been
trained as one, but I have worked desks myself,
although only because I've had a lot of experience. I
guess its just something you pick up as you go
along you may not know exactly why something
works, but you know what happens if you turn a
particular knob one way. I'm basically a musician,
but I've learned a little about engineering purely
from experience.'

'And it wasn't that easy to set up our own company

in fact, it was jolly difficult. When you've been
working for a large company where your salary
comes in at the end of each week, and that
suddenly changes to where you're having to pay
people every week, and wondering where the
money's coming from, it's quite different. We had
our struggles, not least of which was building Air
Studios, and the escalating costs of doing that. I lay
awake at night quite often worrying about the whole
thing, but it all worked out in the end. The idea
behind that was to build my ideal studio EMI had
always been my home, and whenever I wanted any
changes there, it was a bit like the Civil Service.
You had to fill in forms, and five years later,

Somewhat unpredictably, the act with whom Martin

has worked most, since the break-up of the Beatles,
has been the acoustic trio from the United States,
America, with whom he produced no less than
seven albums. 'Yes, it was a lot of albums, and I
only intended to make one with them. By that time,
having finished with the Beatles, I'd got to the stage
where I didn't want to have any enduring

177

relationships with anyone. I just wanted to do oneoffs, because I was seeking my freedom and
looking for versatility and so and I didn't want the
awful worry of having to ask myself whether the
next one would be a success or not. I wanted to flit
happily from bough to bough, but America proved to
be such nice people to work with. When I agreed to
make the first album, I didn't think it would be a hit, I
didn't think it would mean anything. They were at a
low ebb in their careers they'd had big success,
but they were sinking fast, and I gave them a very
hard time. They asked me to do it in a November,
but I said I couldn't touch it until the next April, and
they wanted to do it in Los Angeles, and I told them
I wouldn't do it unless they came to England and
used my studios here. They said they'd like to
spend two months on it, and I said if we didn't finish
in three weeks, they'd had it it was that kind of
thing, and I was very arrogant about it, and looking
back, I'm amazed that they put up with it. But they
came over, and were terribly nice, terribly charming
and we got on really well together, and instead of
questioning anything I might suggest, like putting in
a horn passage, or whatever it was, they'd say,
"Yeah, that's a great idea". Everything was
accepted, so that we finished the album in
seventeen days, including all the scoring I did, and I
was knocked out by it. It was so easy, it was like
falling off the proverbial log, and I said to them,
"This has been such a nice working relationship that
it can't possibly be successful, but it's been lovely
working with you". That album was called Holiday,
and it sold over a million copies, which shattered
me because I thought it was too nice an album to
sell, and when they asked me to do another one, I
naturally said I would. Of course, the group never
meant much in Britain after A Horse With No
Name, but they were actually in England when they
had their first success, which was very strange
they were American boys whose fathers were
American servicemen stationed over here, and their
music was a kind of soft rock that was very popular
in America, but has never been very popular in this
country. There's a kind of middle of the road thing in
America that doesn't exist here, and it was a bit too
soft, and eventually died because of its softness.
The Eagles took over from where America were,
and you get a harder kind of soft rock happening in
America now, but it's never been popular here. The
reason we finally stopped working together was that
after that many albums, there just isn't very much
new that you, as a producer, can find to do with
them. We're still very good friends, but we both
needed fresh blood, and I don't think it's good
nowadays to do too many things together, which
was one of the reasons for only doing two albums
with Jeff Beck. I don't like doing too many
consecutive albums with people.'

It will become obvious, if it hasn't already become

so, that to attempt to discuss all George Martins
work at any Length would be ultimately selfdefeating. Thus, we spent the remainder of our
somewhat brief time with him (George was on a
flying visit from Montserrat to work with Paul
McCartney) reminiscing about a few of the more
interesting records with which he has been involved
during the 1970s. One which immediately springs to
mind is All Shook Up ,an album which he produced
for the American New Wave styled group, Cheap
Trick, which seemed an unlikely enterprise for
George to involve himself in. 'They've asked me to
do another one, which I shall probably do later on
this year (1981). Harder rock than I've been doing,
almost American punk, if you like, and I don't like
punk rock, but they were charming people to work
with, great fun, and good musicians. My favourite
track off that album is one that I think sounds very
Lennon-ish, a track which Rick Neilsen sings called
You're The Worlds Greatest Lover.'
Equally, Jeff Beck seems a somewhat unpredictable
candidate for the Martin magic, yet George
produced two albums for him, as has already been
mentioned. 'The first album was much easier than
the second, because he didn't think the first album
would be successful, but he was willing to give
anything a go. He hadn't had any success with his
solo albums for a long time, and the idea of being
produced by me obviously raised an eyebrow with
him as much as it did with other people people
actually said to me, Do you really think you should
do this?", and I was advised by someone pretty
high in the record industry at that time, who said,
"Don't touch Jeff Beck, because he's a loser". I said,
"No, I think he's a great guitar player," and the
innuendo was of the "You're not really in that mould,
you're a bit middle of the road for him, aren't you?",
but I said, "Well, that's all right, because I'm going
to do it". We started out with Blow By Blow, and the
only further raised eyebrows I got from Jeff was
when I suggested putting strings on a couple of
tracks a bit like the Yesterday business again, I
guess. He was excellent in the studio, although he
did take a little time to get himself together on his
solos, but he's a gut player he doesn't come in
with any plan or preconceived notions, and hell sit
down with a battered guitar, and make the most
incredible sounds come out of it. Sometimes, he'd
be playing badly, and you knew nothing would
come, and he'd get very angry with himself, but
other times, he'd just pick the thing up and create
things which other people just couldn't do. And very
inventive stuff too. All I was able to do was work
around that, be the critic, take the best bits and then
sort of sew something round it, so that in the string
writing, for example, I was able to echo a lot of stuff
that he'd been doing, and provide a counterpoint for

178

it and not be obtrusive. A lot of the material on that

album was written by Jeff's keyboard player, Max
Middleton, who worked very closely with Jeff, and it
worked out to be a very happy album, and a very
successful one.

I loved it, and thought it was great, but it turned out

to be the biggest bomb I'd made for a long time.'
Two of the lesser-known albums produced by
Martin, those by Sea Train, an American rock band,
and by the Paul Winter Consort, a classical
assemblage, were in fact made during the same
brief period in a small town in Massachusetts called
Marblehead. 'Sea Train were on the Capitol label,
and when I was asked to produce them, they
wanted to record in America, but I said I didn't want
to leave my family, and couldn't they come to
England? They didn't want to, and they wanted me
to record in New York in July, but I told them there
was no way I was going to do that. Then their
manager said that the group came from this place
called Marblehead in Massachusetts, and
suggested that if we could find a way of recording
there, perhaps I could take my whole family over
and stay there for a while. As it was the summer
holidays we were talking about, I said I didn't mind
doing that, so I went on a reconnaissance trip to
Marblehead, which is a charming place, a kind of
yachting centre like Cowes, on the East Coast of
America. We found two houses, one house for my
family and I to live in, and another big house which
was completely empty which we could turn into a
studio. I got Ray Dolby to give me Dolby noisereduction units free, and hired a twenty-four track
machine from someone in Rhode Island, and took
over Bill Price, one of our engineers. We bought lots
of boarding in the local wood store, and converted
the studio ourselves we could only go to that by
my agreeing to take on two albums instead of one.

'When Wired came along, it was less so, because

Blow By Blow had been a huge success in the
States, and re-established Jeff as being a major
force in records. Wired was the sequel to that, and
had all the earmarks of being an even bigger
blockbuster, so Jeff was desperately worried about
this, and fretted about each solo and took longer to
do it. The atmosphere wasn't right, and he wanted
to work at home if I gave him the backing tracks,
and that sort of thing, so it was a much more
worrying album to finish, and it wasn't as
successful. I didn't make any more with him after
that, but he is a most marvellous player, and I liked
him immensely, and I think I wouldn't mind working
with him again on a small project, although I don't
think I want the responsibility of having to follow
what we did before. We had nothing to lose when
we made Blow By Blow, but now we would have.'
Martin has worked with some other unlikely bands,
such as the 'yokel rock of Stackridge', out-and-out
heavy metal with UFO, the frantic jazz guitar
playing of John McLaughlin, and the somewhat
more serene sounds of the likes of Ella Fitzgerald
and Neil Sedaka. Eclecticism personified yet does
he need to feel an empathy with each act he
produces?
'These days, when I get asked to make a record I
look at the act concerned and ask myself whether I
like their music and what they're doing, because if I
don't like it, there's no point in me working with
them. And by the way, I've finished making records
with unknowns, just in case anyone's thinking of
sending a tape in to me. I'm being very selfish in
that, but the fact of the matter is I do get asked by
an awful lot of people to do their records. Anyway,
having established from their previous records,
usually, that I do like what they're doing, I then ask
myself whether I can really be of use to them is
there anything lacking that I can contribute, or am I
just going along for the ride? Really, I want to be
helpful to them, so there's not much point in just
doing something if they can do the same old thing
over again. And lastly, I ask myself whether it will
sell, because if it doesn't sell, then I'd rather make a
record that does. Not that I regard myself as
someone who can pick out a hit I think anyone
who thinks they can do that is very arrogant, and
although I'm arrogant, I'm not that arrogant.
Obviously some people are luckier at that than
others, and although I've been pretty lucky, I'm not
infallible. Take the album I did with American Flyer

'So I stayed there for two months, and did the two
albums, Sea Train first of all, and then the Winter
Consort, and it was jolly nice, a super time,
because we worked afternoons and evenings,
rather like I do in Montserrat. I used to cycle round
from my house to the recording house, the kids
were able to spend time on the beach, and we went
up to New England at the weekend, which was
lovely. Sea Train were very easy to work with
anyway, and the Winter Consort were very unusual.
I didn't know what to expect I'd heard their
records, but I wasn't quite sure how they would
work, but they were a joy to work with because they
were a sort of semi-classical group. Paul Winter
played saxophone, but in the group there was a cor
anglais and oboe player, Paul McCandless, and
there was a classical guitar player who also
doubled on jazz piano, Ralph Towner, who's now
with a group called Oregon. There was a Fender
bass player, and a percussion player who played all
sorts of weird things from Brazilian urdos through to
amarindas, which is a kind of giant marimba played
by three people all sorts of weird things. And in
addition to that, a cello player, would you believe? It

179

sounded a very unlikely combination, but the music

they made was super, and there's one track from
that album which is still one of my favourites, and I
think the album's probably my all-time favourite. My
favourite track's called Icarus, but the first track on
the record is called To Go To The Moon, because
the cello player, David Darling, had a brother who
was a NASA scientist, and when we made the
album, he took a tape of it and left it on the moon
for us, just for kicks.'

'Then, apparently, it was submitted to Harry

Salzman, who had asked Paul for a signature tune
for his film, and when Harry heard the record, he
accepted it as a demo, and the next thing I heard
was that Ronnie Kass, who was Harry Salzman's
assistant, asked me if I would meet Cubby Broccoli,
the other producer of the film, which I did. I asked
him what it was all about, and he thanked me for
doing the score for the film, and then he asked if I'd
be prepared to fly out to Jamaica to talk to Harry
about it. It was an offer I could hardly refuse, so I
flew out to Jamaica, where Harry met me, and he
also complimented me on the score, for which I
thanked him. Then he said, "Now who shall we get
to sing it in the film?", and I said "I don't follow you
we've got Paul McCartney". He said, "Yeah, yeah,
but what do you think of Thelma Houston?", and I
said, "I think she's very good, but I really think Paul
does a good job on the song, don't you?" Then he
said, "How about Shirley Bassey?", and I was
completely nonplussed, and in my best tactful way I
had to suggest to him that if he didn't take the thing
more or less as it stood, I didn't think that Paul
would like him to have the song. And I had to be
very delicate about it, because I could see that egos
were getting in the way, but eventually, it did sink
through, and I got the job of doing the film score.
But it was a nasty moment.'

Another quite interesting one-off project was for the

El Mirage album performed by master songwriter,
Jimmy Webb. 'Jimmy had great ideas and lyrics, but
some of them were a bit far out unless you knew
the real story behind them. Like a track called P. F.
Sloan, which isn't my favourite track on the album,
but it's a very autobiographical song as far as
Jimmy's concerned, and there's a reference in it to
Roy Rogers' horse being stuffed and mounted on a
wall. Roy Rogers did have Trigger stuffed and
mounted, and I don't think many people in Britain
particularly know that. That was very much a Jimmy
Webb song, and although I don't think he's the
greatest performer in the world, he's certainly one of
the greatest songwriters, and I loved working with
him. We had a great time making that album.'
And to wind up the George Martin story, what better
than something more in the Beatle vein, although
this time relating to purely Paul McCartney, the only
member of the group with whom George has
worked since those halcyon days when success
was measured solely as a comparison with the Fab
Four from Liverpool. During the first half of the
1970s, Martin worked with McCartney on the theme
song for the James Bond film, Live And Let Die,
which turned out to be somewhat less
straightforward than might be imagined at first
glance. 'It all started with Paul ringing me up and
saying, "Look, I've got a song for a film. Would you
produce it and arrange it for me?" I said, "Sure",
and spent some time with him at his house going
through the thing, and from my point of view, we
were making a record, so I didn't spare any
expense and booked a large orchestra. I said, "This
is the way we'll do it we'll do it with Wings, and
work on the session with just the group, and then in
the evening, I'll bring in the orchestra, but we'll still
keep Wings there, and try to do if live altogether, to
try to get a live feeling to it", and that was what we
did, except that I found the pick up from the strings
was too loud for Paul's voice, so I took the strings
outside and overdubbed them. Apart from that, it
was a live recording, and then we put on backing
voices, and made what I thought was a good
record.

There's also the forthcoming McCartney LP, which

is due to be released around the same time as this
book is to be published. 'Paul's worked very hard on
this album, on getting the material and the sounds
right, and we've done eighteen tracks so far. It was
really like going back to Abbey Road and we've
been working very closely on trying not just to get
the songs done, but to get the ideas behind the
songs working as well, so that we're combining
sound effects with the songs, and playing about
with sounds trying to create something new. We've
got lots of different instruments on the thing for
example, we used Paddy Moloney of the Chieftains
on one track, and pan pipes on another. We were
just looking for different sounds that would fit, but in
the right way, and, of course, working with Stevie
Wonder was a great joy, because in many ways, he
complements Paul's talents. They're both extremely
multi-talented people, and having them both
working in the studio together was a wonderful
experience for me.
An appropriate question with which to finish, in view
of the length of time that the McCartney album was
evidently taking, seemed to concern the often
almost interminable amount of time it seems to take
nowadays to complete an album. 'Obviously, it's up
to the producer not to allow records to go on
forever, but I guess it's all part of the insecurity of
our times artists get terribly worried that they must

180

produce the greatest work since sliced bread, and

they worry about it and therefore keep going back
into the studio and doing the same thing over and
over. That's where discipline comes in, and
someone has to call a halt, and I always try not to
get into that state. With Paul, it isn't even like that
either, because although we've taken a fair amount
of time on it, we haven't wasted time. We haven't
been in the studio every day, every evening, every
week, we've done a few days, and then we've taken
some time off, so that if it's taken us three months
up to now, that hasn't been three months of solid
work. I don't believe in spending too much studio
time I think that if people got their ideas together
outside the studio, they could make very good
records without having to waste too much money.

Shane Fenton
1962 EP
The Beatles
1963 Please Please Me
1963 With The Beatles
1964 A Hard Day's Night
1964 Beatles For Sale
1965 Help!
1965 Rubber Soul
1966 Revolver
1966 A Collection of Oldies...But Goldies
1967 Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
1967 Magical Mystery Tour (not released as LP in
UK until 1976)
1968 The Beatles (Double White Album)
1968 Yellow Submarine
1969 Abbey Road
1970 Let It Be
1973 19621966
1973 19671970
1976 Rock'n'Roll Music
1977 At The Hollywood Bowl
1977 Love Songs

George Martin is an extremely nice man, and it

should not take too much imagination to appreciate
that his vast experience, coupled with his pleasantly
avuncular manner, provides numerous excellent
reasons for his being chosen as record producer by
appointment to such a wide and significant array of
recording artists.
George Martin Discography

Gerry and the Pacemakers

1963 How Do You Like It?
1965 Ferry Cross The Mersey

Flanders & Swann

1959 At The Drop Of A Hat
Various Artists
1964 That Was The Week That Was

Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas

1963 Listen...
1965 Billy Boy

Various Artists
1961 Beyond The Fringe

The Fourmost
1965 First and Fourmost

Peter Sellers
1959 The Best Of Sellers
1959 Songs For Swinging Sellers

Rolf Harris
1965 All Together Now
1966 The Man With The Microphone

Spike Milligan/Peter Sellers

1962 The Bridge On The River Wye

Cilla Black
1968 The Best of Cilla Black
1968 Sher-oo!
1969 Surround Yourself With Cilla
1970 Sweet Inspiration
1971 Images
1973 Day By Day

Spike Milligan
1961 Milligan Preserved
Temperance Seven
1962 Direct From The Balls Pond Road Cocoa

David and Jonathan

1966 David and Jonathan

Rooms
1964 Family Album

George Martin Orchestra

1966 The Beatle Girls

Bernard Cribbins
1962 A Combination Of Cribbins
1962 The Best Of Bernard Cribbins

Ringo Starr
1970 Sentimental Journey

181

Sea Train
1971 Marblehead Messenger

"LAST YEAR," says the man with more rings in his

ears than on his fingers, "I was sittin' round
wondering what I was gonna do now that I don't
drink and don't take stuff any more..."

Paul Winter Consort

1971 Icarus

Ringo Starr pauses for dramatic effect and a lungful

of Marlboro before resuming his tale in that deep
and fruity Scouse brogue which conjures instant
images of a Tank Engine called Thomas, "...then
suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue, I heard this
voice saying to meself, 'Well, you are a drummer.
And it's the most boring thing in the world to be a
drummer if you don't have any people in front of
you. There's very little melody in the drums.' So I
just pulled out me old phone books, and looked up
a few names. Every one of them," he adds, casually
alluding to those enormously secret networks which
separate the working lives of the very famous from
those who must place small advertisements for
bass guitarists, own gear and vocals essential in
weekly rock journals, "every single one was in me
phone books."

Stackridge
1973 Do The Stanley
1974 The Man In The Bowler Hat
John McLaughlin
1974 Apocalypse
America
1974 Holiday
1975 Hearts
1975 History
1976 Hideaway
1977 Harbour
1977 Live
1979 Silent Letter
Jeff Beck
1975 Blow By Blow
1976 Wired

A few long distance calls later, the Ringo Starr AllStarr Band came into being. A few months and a
few rehearsals after that, the immensely
distinguished, if somewhat battered-looking, nineman combo toured North America and Japan,
drawing modest but enthusiastic crowds and
attracting a generally good press. A whole year
further on, Ringo Starr has just released his first
album in the UK since 1981's barely remembered
Wrack My Brain; and while "comeback" is perhaps
too strong a word to describe the man's reviving
fortunes, and only fitfully applies to the genial, lowkey style of the All-Starr Band playing a
miscellaneous bunch of golden oldies live in Los
Angeles (the new album), Ringo can now plausibly
claim to be contemplating a career again rather
than just a string of bad habits. He may not be a hot
contender but he isn't a rock 'n' roll casualty either.
Seemingly terminal decline has been arrested and
possibly reversed. Record companies are again
returning his calls; a deal, he says, is imminent.
Another All-Starr Band is being recruited with the
help of those well-stocked phone books, and
another tour to take in Europe this time as well
is tentatively planned for next summer.

American Flyer
1976 American Flyer
Jimmy Webb
1977 El Mirage
Neil Sedaka
1977 A Song
Various Artists
1978 Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
(Soundtrack)
Gary Brooker
1979 No More Fear Of Flying
UFO
1980 Nowhere To Run
Cheap Trick
1980 All Shook Up

The story of last year's adventure makes other

recent products of rock's 40-something old boy
network like the Traveling Wilburys, say pale
into logistical insignificance. From his home base in
Monte Carlo, Starr managed to mobilise an allAmerican band of eight assorted veterans, legends
and rare birds, and then got them and himself on to
a full concert tour, all in the space of about three
months flat. The first call went out to former Eagle
Joe Walsh on the grounds that "Joe's a great

Paul McCartney
1982 Tug of War
Stuart Grundy, John Tobler, 1982
Ringo Starr
Robert Sandall, Q, January 1991

182

guitarist and a good pal and he also produced my

last album, Old Wave, in 1984. No, you wouldn't
have heard it because nobody wanted to. It only
came out in Canada and Germany."

the years and I was always getting up to play. But

though I've got photographs of me playing all over
the world, I've absolutely no memory of any of it.
And I've never practised on my own in a back room.
The great discovery this time was that I could still
play at all."

Walsh was keen, and with an American promoter

and oldies tour specialist called David Fishof
offering both his services and Pepsi sponsorship
deal, Ringo cheerily anticipated life on the road for
the first time since The Beatles gave up touring in
1966. "After Joe told me yes, I told him we'd been
offered 30 gigs and in my naivety I said, Well, we
can do six a week you know, and get it over with.
Anyway, Joe asked me how long it was since I'd
been on tour and explained that three shows a
week is great, four is OK and five is stretching it."

Even more remarkable perhaps with so many highly

individual talents jostling around on the same ticket
was the realisation that the nine of them made up
an ego-friendly team. "The worst band I ever played
with in my life," Starr recalls, warmly, "had Eric
Clapton, Elton John, Keith Richards, Ronnie Wood
and I all playing in my studio in Tittenhurst in 1985.
Too many leaders. It just didn't work. Whereas with
this band there was a really magical atmosphere,
and a feeling that everybody was out there to do it
for each other. Everyone admired everyone else.
You see, I don't need to be the one, I like to spread
it around. And all that business about 'musical
differences', well this was short enough that we
didn't have any."

With a settled gameplan of 30 cities in 43 days, the

rest of the players more or less select themselves.
Billy Preston "I've known Billy since he was 16,
he played with The Beatles" didn't take much
persuading. Nor did Nils Lofgren: "We jammed
together when Nils last toured with Springsteen in
1988." Which reminded him of another of the Boss's
regular workforce. "I thought, Clarence Clemons
plays great rock 'n' roll sax, what's he doing?"
Clemons was temporarily out of work, as were
another couple of willing recruits, Levon Helm and
Rick Danko of The Band. Then Jim Keltner "my
favourite drummer of all time, we've played together
since the Bangla Desh concert in 1971" climbed
aboard as an auxiliary tub thumper "because I didn't
want to be stuck behind the kit all the time. I wanted
to go down the front." Eventually, only one question
remained: what on earth was Mac Rebennack, aka
Dr John, going on about? "Joe suggested him. Mac
speaks in a weird language which is half English,
half cajun and half rhyming madness and that's fine
if you're face to face with him, but down the
telephone it's murder. I'd get off the line thinking,
Mac doesn't wanna do it, then I'd talk to this other
pal in L.A. who said, Sure he does." And he did.

The tour, cosily and fairly accurately titled Songs

You Know And Love, opened for business in Dallas
on July 15, 1989. It had been booked into what are
known in the States as open-air sheds walled
but not roofed, arena-type venues which hold
between 4,000-10,000 paying customers. Many of
these, Starr calculated, would probably be
responsible parents and so children under seven
were thoughtfully allowed in free to minimise on
babysitting costs. In the event, and in the way that
young America seemingly still reveres the heroes of
an older generation, the All-Starr Band pulled in a
lot of teenagers as well. Despite the torrential rain
which attended most shows "they should have
sent us to Ethiopia" the tour sold out in the
States. Although in Canada unkind remarks were
aired in the press about Ringo's stage wear a
Chinese silk jacket covered in dragons and tassles
which he would waggishly introduce with "Yes, I did
get this from Elton's sale" demand for tickets
outside the U.S. was strong enough to support a
Japanese excursion. A trip to Europe was mooted
for this summer but problems in finding suitable
venues and worries about the box office distraction
of the World Cup ruled that out.

The rehearsals got off to a confusing start. The

general direction of the music whereby "everyone
sort of got out their hits" was no problem. There
were plenty of voices to sing them. But it hadn't
made clear to Levon Helm that he was required to
play not the drums as such but percussion. "So
Levon turned up on the first day and said, I don't
really play percussion, boss. And I thought, 'OK,
fine, it's my show, we'll have three kits up." Of the
three however, it was Ringo's stool which needed
the most careful tending, chiefly on account of all
those wasted years. "The others had to be very
patient with me because I had to learn all my songs
again. I'd sung a tune like Yellow Submarine on the
record but I 'd never played it live. I'd actually
stopped. I mean, I'd turned up to a lot of gigs over

On stage, Starr was in heaven. Behind the drums

he rediscovered "the love of my life, the dream I'd
had when I was 13 and which, in a haze of alcohol
I'd gradually forgotten." While Keltner though stayed
hard on the beat, Ringo played fractionally behind
it, the way he always used to. Behind the
microphone he felt more nervous and exposed
initially, "but the roar and the love that I came
across was just fabulous. The support in America
for acts who are getting their act together again is

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so brilliant. When we did the No No Song and I

sang, 'No, no, I don't take it no more', they all
understood it."

like that when he's on tour and everybody's asking

questions, but there'll never be a Beatles reunion.
The Beatles are finished. One of us is dead. The
Beatles have an unreleased movie called Long And
Winding Road and Paul keeps saying the three of
us should do some incidental music for it. But all
that dogshit about us getting together with Julian
Lennon or Sean Lennon, it's never gonna happen."

Keeping to that pledge offstage was a bit more of a

struggle. There were no mood-altering substances
or beverages allowed at any time in any of the
dressing rooms. And for Ringo, less than nine
months out of his detox programme, the lack of
post-performance refreshments in particular proved
something of a trial. "For the first week it felt real
strange to be playing, 'cos I'm an old rocker and
after the show you go crazy, right? So after these
shows one half of me brain was goin', 'Let's go
crazy!' and the other half was goin', 'We don't do
that now!' " Trouble was, though, some of "us" did.
"When I called them originally, I explained to the
band that I'd just come out of a clinic and I'd like the
hotel rooms to be left as we found them. But after
the show if some of the members liked to drink, I
couldn't be in charge of that. And you could always
spot the ones who'd had a night out when we were
got up the next morning for the plane. Ha ha ha."

So how did the experience of touring with the AllStarr Band compare to his last on-the-road
adventures with the Beatles in 1966? "The '60s was
totally different. I mean, that was the fabs up there,
this was just the greats. It was a zoo attitude. They
just came to see you, no one could hear anything.
By 1965 we were turning into such bad musicians
'cos we were just playing chords on the beat. There
was no groove to it, and that's the reason why we
stopped." However, the long lay-off seems to have
done no lasting harm to either his playing or his
attitude. Ringo Starr sucks on another cigarette and
chuckles to himself.
"I have nothing to prove any more, you know. I am
the best rock 'n' roll drummer in the world. What
else can I do?"

Though he talks sparkily enough about his

recuperative present, Starr is unremittingly scathing
on the subject of his heavily liquorous and
powdered past. The Beatles kept such things at
bay, he insists, because they "always worked
straight. Sometimes we'd try something while we
were in the studio but then in the morning we'd
listen to the cassette and it would be like, What was
that! Take it away!" After 1970 of course, the
constraints of being fab were abruptly removed.
"And I just got caught up in that strange belief that if
you're creative you have to be brain damaged. I
went through the whole thing whereby I was so
deranged I wasn't creative. I was too busy taking
stuff to do anything. If you listen to the records you
can hear them going downhill. I was taking less and
less interest in recording and promoting them."

Robert Sandall, 1991

Eyewitness: Dylan Turns The Beatles On To
Dope
Al Aronowitz, Q, May 1994
History ahoy! In the second of our new series,
journalist Al Aronowitz recalls introducing Bob
Dylan to The Beatles and how His Bobness
turned the Fabs on to marijuana for the first
time.

We were taking appreciably less interest in buying

them too. Ringo stopped charting here in the
mid-'70s after Goodnight Vienna. "By 1980 I could
not write any more and I was just that personality
person. I would be at all the parties with me bow tie
on. The only crowd I hung out with were all
addicted. If you were straight I wouldn't have you in
me house. But I wasn't creating anything. Unless
you wanna call Thomas the Tank Engine and his
friends creating something. And in the end I couldn't
even get a record deal. I wasn't hungry any more."
He pauses. "I'm still not hungry now, but I do wanna
play."

It's my experience that to smoke marijuana for the

first time is to explore the limits of hilarity, only to
find that there are no limits. You laugh so hard that
you get addicted to it. You want to laugh that hard
again, so you smoke marijuana again. And again
and again and again and again and again. I'm told
that only a few ever really succeed in laughing that
hard a second time, but I did. In fact, the two
biggest laughs of my life were the first time I
smoked marijuana, and the first time The Beatles
smoked it.

And would he like to play in the fab trio recently

proposed by Paul McCartney? "Oh, I was out to
dinner with Macca the other night. He always talks

The latter occasion was at the Hotel Delmonico on

Manhattan's Park Avenue on August 28, 1964. The
Beatles and their manager, Brian Epstein, had just
finished eating their room service when Bob Dylan

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and I pulled up in Bob's blue Ford station wagon

driven by Victor Maimudes, Dylan's tall, slender
roadie. Victor carried the stash in his pocket as we
made our way through the mob of teenyboppers on
the sidewalk and into the hotel. In the lobby, cops
blocked our access to the elevators until the
number two Beatles road manager, Malcolm Evans,
came down to the lobby to escort us through the
police lines. When we got to the floor of The
Beatles' suite the elevator doors opened on a hotel
corridor crawling with still more cops, plus an
overflow from a suite adjoining that of The Beatles
which was filled with reporters and photographers
and radio and recording and TV personalities,
including folk-singing combos Peter, Paul & Mary
and The Kingston Trio, all of whom were being
charmed by Beatles press officer Derek Taylor while
awaiting their turns to meet The Beatles. I doubt
The Beatles ever got around to meeting many, or
even any, of them on that particular night.

with them, too. Dylan, of course, had captivated me

with his words. With The Beatles, I found their
sound so contagious that their lyrics didn't matter.
Bob's girlfriend at the time, Suze Rotolo, thought
The Beatles were great, too, and she and I used to
gang up on Bob about them. To him The Beatles
were "bubblegum". But then, Bob had a habit of
turning up his nose at most everything that
everybody else liked. Bob didn't want any of his
concerts drowned out by screeches. "It'll never
happen," he told me.

*
OBVIOUSLY, BOB AND THE BEATLES were fated
to meet and I was determined to be fate's helper. I
certainly did my best to be the one to bring them
together. After all, they deserved to know one
another. To me, John Lennon was Dylan's English
reflection. As soon as I got to know John well
enough, I started telling him that he ought to meet
Bob. John kept saying he wanted to wait until he
was Dylan's "ego equal". "Yeah, I wanna meet 'im,"
Lennon told me, "but on my own terms."

Mal led us directly through the mele and into The

Beatles' suite, where I introduced everybody to
everybody with an awkwardness for which I've
always hated myself. Allen Ginsberg would
afterwards ask me if this initial meeting between
Bob and the Beatles was "demure". That is exactly
the right word for it. Drugs have colluded with time
to erode my memory of what was said that night but
my overall impression remains that of Billy the Kid
and the Jesse James Gang acting like bashful little
girls. Bob and The Beatles all needed room to
swashbuckle, but nobody wanted to step on
anybody else's ego.

In other words, John, like Bob, had a mountain of

an ego and so, in order to effectuate this meeting, I
had to scale both those peaks. By the time August
28, 1964 came around, Bob was still high on his hill,
as if he were reluctantly doing me a favour, but
John had been willing to let me walk him down from
his high perch. To John, Bob might not have been
as important an inspiration as Elvis Presley, but just
as Dylan's magical lyrics had stopped an entire
counter culture dead in its tracks, so, too, was John
caught by the words of Bob's songs. It was after
listening to Dylan's first album that John had written
his autobiographical and deeply introspective tune,
I'll Cry Instead, intended for use in the soundtrack
of A Hard Day's Night. The song never made it into
the movie, but it very easily could have been written
by Dylan about himself. "I've got a chip on my
shoulder that's bigger than my feet," the song said,
"I can't talk to people that I meet."

All these first few get-togethers of Bob and The

Beatles could be described as demure. And all of
them were left to me to arrange. I was as proud and
as happy as a shadchen, a Jewish matchmaker,
dancing at the princely wedding he'd arranged.
Buttons popped off my shirt. This was a marriage
made in heaven. I knew I was stage-managing a
major event, certainly in the history of pop and
maybe even in the overall history of culture.

*
TO ME, BOB WAS THE Cat's Meow, The End, The
Ultimate. Assigned months earlier by the Saturday
Evening Post to write an article about Bob, I instead
had fallen in love with him. To me, no other artist
had ever come along with such wit, perception,
insight, charm, cleverness and charisma. Bob was
going to revolutionise contemporary culture. Bob
was doing more to change the English language
than anybody since Shakespeare. Then, later, when
I was also assigned by the Saturday Evening Post
to write an article about The Beatles, I fell in love

*
WHEN MY COVER PIECE ABOUT The Beatles
sold more copies of the Saturday Evening Post than
any issue since Ben Franklin first founded the
magazine, the editors sent me to England in the
summer of 1964 to write a second cover story about
the band.
My first day in Liverpool, I scored some grass. The
kids were ready to trade me for any kind of pills I

185

had in my pocket. All of England's youth seemed to

be pill-heads, hooked on uppers, mostly. In my
pocket, I had Dexedrine spansules my doctor had
given me as diet pills, plus some Elavil, a mood
elevator which I never bothered taking.

Avenue, we all seemed to migrate to the room

service table in the sitting room, in search of
something to drink. Bob just wanted what he usually
drinks, cheap wine.
"I'm afraid we only have champagne," said Brian.

I was becoming anti-chemical. I had discovered

marijuana and, rather than swallow pills, I had
swallowed the pothead litany that marijuana grew
out of the ground while pills were manufactured. By
that time, I knew John Lennon well enough to tell
him to try marijuana instead of poisoning his system
with chemicals. Originally, I had thought for sure
that The Beatles smoked pot. I had thought that any
artists who could make music sound as hip as they
made it sound had to be a pot-smoker. Weren't they
singing, "I get high! I get high! I get high!"? I had
even asked Dylan, didn't he think they were singing,
"I get high! I get high! I get high!"? and after
listening, he had answered, Yes. So, I was
surprised to learn that they weren't pot-smokers.
They sort of considered pot-smokers to be the
same as junkies. Like the DEA, they put grass into
the same category as heroin. Finally, John said he
would try some if I brought it to him. When Victor
and Bob and I pulled up on Park Avenue in front of
the Delmonico, I made sure Victor had that baggie
full of stash in his pocket.

There also were some French wines and the

Scotch and coke which had become the standard
Beatles drink. The Beatles offered to send out for
some cheap wine and also offered some pills, but
Dylan said he would drink whatever was available
and I said we'd rather smoke some pot. When The
Beatles said they never smoked pot, I forget
whether it was Bob or me who brought up the story
about thinking they were singing: "I get high! I get
high! I get high!"

*
THEY WANTED TO KNOW HOW THE marijuana
would make them feel and we told them it would
make them feel good. I still hadn't learned how to
roll a joint in those days, so when The Beatles
agreed to try some, I asked Dylan to roll the first
joint. Bob wasn't much of a roller either, and a lot of
the grass fell into the big bowl of fruit on the room
service table otherwise filled with the remains of
The Beatles' dinner. Bob hovered unsteadily while
he tried to lift the grass from the bag with the
fingertips of one hand so he could crush it into the
leaf of rolling paper which he held in his other hand.
Besides being a sloppy roller, Bob had started
drinking whatever expensive stuff was already
there.

*
FIRST, BRIAN EPSTEIN CALLED ME from
London. He said John would call me as soon as
The Beatles got into New York. I was in the family
room of my FHA ranch-type house in Berkeley
Heights, New Jersey, when John telephoned.

There must have been about 20 cops stationed in

the corridor outside the door of the suite and room
service waiters were constantly coming in and out.
Before we lit up, Bob and I explained that burning
marijuana had a particularly strong and identifiable
aroma. We suggested that we all go into the
bedroom and shut the door for some privacy. I don't
remember anybody bothering to stuff towels into the
door cracks to keep the smell from leaking into the
other room. Epstein and The Beatles stationed
themselves at the far end of the room near the front
windows, clustering around John, at the head of
one of the beds. Also with Epstein and The Beatles
were Neil Aspinall, The Beatles' number one road
manager, and, of course, his assistant, Mal Evans.

"Where iz 'e?"
"Who?"
"Dylan!"
"Oh, he's up in Woodstock, but I can get him to
come down."
"Do it!"
Bob had slept many a night in my house where he
and Victor had arrived from Woodstock to pick me
up for the ride to Manhattan and the Delmonico
Hotel. When we were ushered into their suite, the
Fab Four and Epstein had adjourned from their
room service table in the sitting room to an
adjoining room which was separated from the much
larger sitting room by a wide rectangular arch. From
the front room near the windows overlooking Park

*
BOB HANDED THE JOINT TO JOHN, who
immediately handed it to Ringo. "You try it!" John
commanded. That act instantly revealed The

186

Beatles' pecking order. Obviously, Ringo was the

low man on the totem pole. When Ringo hesitated,
John made some sort of wisecrack about Ringo
being his royal taster.

about everybody I ever knew. I am still trying to get

my life back together.

*
"Inhale with a lot of oxygen," I instructed. "Take a
deep breath of air together with smoke and hold it in
your lungs for as long as you can."

SOON, RINGO GOT THE GIGGLES. In no time at

all, he was laughing hysterically. His laughing
looked so funny that the rest of us started laughing
hysterically at the way Ringo was laughing
hysterically. Soon, Ringo pointed at the way Brian
Epstein was laughing, and we all started laughing
hysterically at the way Brian was laughing. "I'm so
high, I'm on the ceiling," Brian kept saying. "I'm on
the ceiling"

As Ringo kept taking hits, Victor, Bob and I waited

for him to pass the joint to John, who was sitting
right next to Ringo. But The Beatles were
unacquainted with the rituals of pot-smoking. Potsmokers share joints because it's precious stuff. It's
illegal, expensive and not easy to get. Pot-smokers
don't waste any smoke letting the joint burn idly like
a cigarette. That's what's known as "Bogarting" a
joint, in honour of the way Humphrey Bogart held a
lit cigarette in his fingers until the long ash would fall
from its own weight. I neglected to instruct Ringo
about passing the joint and it was obvious that he
was going to hold on to it as if he were smoking a
cigarette filled with tobacco. I didn't want to risk the
possibility that Brian and The Beatles might recoil
from the idea of passing a joint from lips to lips like
a bottle shared by winos on a street corner. I asked
Victor to roll more joints. Victor was an expert roller.
His joints looked like regular cigarettes.

We kept laughing at one another's laughter until

every one of us had been laughed at. There also
came a certain point when Paul realised he was
really thinking for the first time in his life and he also
realised that this was a great occasion. He told Mal
to get a pad and a pen to write down everything he
said. From then on, Mal followed Paul through the
rooms of the suite, writing down everything Paul
said, but I never learned what happened to Mal's
notes. Mal was a romantic character who had more
beautiful women chasing him than even The
Beatles. All over the world, they chased him until
Mal finally left his wife and kids for an LA divorcee,
a Jewish American princess named Frances
Hughes. On the night of January 4, 1976, Frances
called the Los Angeles Police to say that she'd had
an argument with Mal and that he had locked
himself in the bedroom with a rifle. The cops,
bursting through the bedroom door, startled Mal
from a heavily sedated stupor, and Mal grabbed for
his rifle in alarm. When the cops saw Mal grab the
gun, they shot him to death.

*
SOON, EVERYBODY WAS SMOKING HIS OWN
joint as if it were a cigarette. After a while, Derek
Taylor also got into the act, popping in and out from
the suite where he was keeping at bay all the press
and VIPs who were waiting their turns to meet The
Beatles. Derek was another champion hangout
artist. In the end, he turned into as big a pothead as
I ever was. When I once visited him at his farm in
East Anglia, where he lived in a picturesque house
that had been converted from a mill, he was even
growing pot in his garden.

*
THAT NIGHT AT THE DELMONICO HOTEL was
one of monumental laughter. Despite the
demureness, the tension and the hipper-than-thou
games, these get-togethers with Bob and The
Beatles were always occasions of glorious hilarity. I
particularly remember another night when Bob and I
were driving The Beatles around Manhattan in my
station wagon, showing them what Greenwich
Village looked like at 4 am. Afterwards, we all
greeted the dawn with breakfast at The Brasserie,
in the Seagram Building, on 53rd, between Park
and Lex. While we were all sitting around the table,
John produced a little plastic aeroplane he had
found in the back of my station wagon. It was one of
my children's toys, not much larger than John's
hand. At the table, he played with it like a kid,
zooming it over heads and into faces while

When I visited him, Derek told me his only

alternatives to joining Alcoholics Anonymous were
to drink himself into the loony bin or to drink himself
to death. By that time, Neil, too, had quit drinking
and Ringo eventually also would end up joining AA.
As for George, he recently told me that he doesn't
use marijuana any more and, as for me, I have
come to recognise that smoke is anti-life and so I
am now anti-smoke. They used to say that
marijuana, although it is a comparatively harmless
substance, leads to harder drugs and I suppose
that was true in my own case. I eventually joined
many others of the '60s in smoking cocaine freebase, now more commonly known as crack, which
drove me crazy enough to alienate myself from just

187

everyone broke up. For years afterwards, that toy

aeroplane hung as a memento on the wall of my
room. I forget when or how it disappeared. I no
longer have the slightest idea what happened to it.

learned to play and end with their first narcotised

Number 1, Ticket To Ride.
Don't come expecting a pristine George Martin
production, that's all. Most of these performances
were captured on the run, during The Beatles' most
many years, 1963 and 1964: they managed 18 in
just one day, July 16, 1963. More than half of the 56
songs are cold in the studio, one-take versions of
the stuff The Beatles played in the clubs during
1962 but didn't record for EMI: crank up this mix of
rock'n'roll and pot schlock, and you get an
approximation of what they would have sounded
like live in early 1963, just before their world
changed.

Yes, we all probably had one of the best laughs of

our lives that night at the Delmonico. Certainly, I
hadn't laughed so hard since the first time I smoked
marijuana. That's why, after that night at the
Delmonico, whenever John wanted to smoke some
pot, he would never say, "Let's smoke some
marijuana" or "Let's get stoned" or "Let's smoke a
joint" or "Let's turn on".
To Paul, George, Ringo, Neil and Mal, John would
say: "Come on, let's 'ave a larf!"

This, to use Dave Marsh's phrase, is The Beatles

as "bar band": staples like Johnny B. Goode
abound, but just when you're getting bored with
more Chuck Berry, there's some oddity like their
version of Margret's US Top 20 hit I Just Don't
Understand, or the definitely peculiar Honeymoon
Song. Like any group that initially played to please
the audience rather than themselves, The Beatles
had their own area of expertise but traveled the
spectrum in an effort to vary the pace. That stopped
when the screams started: their live repertoire
dwindled from the variety on offer here to the paltry
11 songs they played on their final tour.

Al Aronowitz, 1994
The Beatles: Live At The BBC
Jon Savage, Mojo, January 1995
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS on from their demise, The
Beatles continue to exercise a hypnotic spell as the
ur-myth of modernist pop culture. As befits the
group who epitomised the youth principle in
Western society, their early records retain an
innocence and first-time energy which still makes
them fresh. The conduits of what later became a
significantly new youth perception, they can stand
up to the most rigorous analysis like Ian
MacDonald's great Revolution In The Head and
come out sounding even better.

With such a work rate in 1963/64, it's not surprising

that some of these tunes are what Ian MacDonald
describes as "pressurised hack work". For every
poor version like a perfunctory That's All Right
there are masterpieces of interpretation like
Memphis, Tennessee or Soldier Of Love. There's
an awful lot of Little Richard and definitely too much
Carl Perkins here: much more interesting are the
tricksy Arthur Alexander songs, Soldier and A Shot
Of Rhythm And Blues, which map out the territory
that The Beatles would make their own tough but
tender, rockers but girly with it.

The fanatical reverence in which The Beatles are

held that untouchable quality which makes them
so infuriating to pop iconoclasts is merely the
vestigial trace of their contemporary impact. The
Beatles were major liberators: from 1963 on, they
made life in Britain easier. They embodied the
social gains of the '60s, among which you could
include a new awareness of class bias, the partial
liberalisation of the laws around sexuality, a more
general acceptance of the positive qualities new
ways of seeing the world, for instance associated
with youth.

Maybe some things are irrecoverable. Overexposure to pub rockers makes me feel ill when
confronted with Johnny B. Goode, but in 1963 it
was part of the revelation. You wouldn't hear much
Chuck on the BBC. The Beatles popularised whole
genres of American music which had barely been
heard in Britain: deep rock, the girl group sound,
country, even doo wop. A mawkish transposition of
To Know Him Is To Love Him is transformed by a
classic Lennon vocal in the middle eight, while a
crackly Keep Your Hands Off Baby shows the
group having the balls to cover Little Eva, and do it
well.

This is an impossible weight to carry as the group

themselves, ever self-aware, noted on their last
real-time album. Yet from 1965 on, The Beatles
took this weight of experience and significance,
no less upon themselves, with Help, The Word,
Norwegian Wood. In contrast, these 56 songs are
a diary of The Beatles' innocence: recorded
between January 1963 and June 1965, they begin
with the very first material that the group ever

The group's own compositions are enriched by

being placed in context: enough to propel you past

188

the fact that several are inferior in sound to the EMI

recordings, if not in spirit. There is a "new" Lennon
McCartney song, I'll Be On My Way; poignant but
slight: much more substantial are stomping versions
of She's A Woman, I Feel Fine, or Thank You Girl
where, coming off a hyperactive Some Other
Guy, playing live in front of an audience, the group
cut the original to shreds.

This interview was conducted originally for

International Times (IT) to coincide with the release
of Abbey Road, but because the latest issue of IT
was at the printers, I gave it to OZ magazine, who
printed less than a quarter of what you see here. It
was not a formal interview and people wandered in
and out throughout the recording. Yoko's daughter
Kyoko was around at the time too, as I recall. There
were a great number of interruptions, usually to
answer telephone calls; sometimes John would give
a five minute interview over the phone to a foreign
journalist or radio station or an aide would have a
quick conference. Apple press officer Derek Taylor
was there for some of the time, 'Magic' Alex
stopped by, and another, unidentified, journalist
came in and asked questions halfway through the
first tape. As far as I know, all interviews with John
and Yoko were recorded throughout that period,
resulting in hundreds of hours of tape, presumably
now in Yoko's hands.

For all its charm, this is not a top quality Beatles

product. The sound quality is, occasionally, intrusive
and, despite a full booklet, the price is definitely at
the upper limit. Beginners should start with all the
EMI albums, but for those on the bus and there
are many of you this will afford a great deal of
pleasure. Fifty-six songs are several too many but
even the dull ones are over with fast, and the
programming fast segues, appropriate DJ and
band chatter is exemplary. So put it on, forget the
sound, turn off your mind, relax and float
downstream.

In those days there was no serious rock press.

Most serious music journalism appeared in
broadsheet newspapers. The underground papers
IT and OZ were the only outlets for uncensored
interviews where rock stars could discuss drugs or
sex and know that their words would not be taken
out of context, though, in the case of OZ, they might
be hard to read beneath a psychedelic overlay

You'll be taken to a parallel world where a Liverpool

accent isn't an object of derision, where the media
treatment of pop isn't cynical, where to rock is
simply enough. It will lift your spirits, yet, for all The
Beatles' apparent nearness in the voices, the
spontaneous ad-libs they remain as far away as
ever. Ending with Love Me Do that elliptical,
almost non-song that rang like a bell as their first
single Live At The BBC returns The Beatles to the
beginning, from where their scarcely believable
story can be retold yet one more time.

To listen to old tapes like this is a form of time

travel. To go back 26 years to a specific time and
place when John was still alive has a poignancy.
John and Yoko had just kicked a heroin habit but,
as far as I remember, they were in very good
shape. I sound stoned on the second tape, probably
the result of spending too much time in Derek
Taylor's room. This may account for some of the
odd questions.

Jon Savage, 1995

My Blue Period: John Lennon
Miles, Mojo, November 1995

The strangest thing, however, is that despite all the

talk of Beatles records and Beatles music, John had
in fact resigned from The Beatles three days before,
on September 20, so we were talking about a group
that no longer existed. The Beatles had decided to
keep their demise a secret and the news was not
released until six months later.

WE DID THESE interviews on September 23 and

24, 1969, at Apple. When Allen Klein fired Ron
Kass, the head of Apple Records, John and Yoko
took over his elegant white ground-floor office at the
front of the building overlooking Savile Row. Here,
surrounded by pictures of themselves, they
organised their bag events, their peace campaign,
their exhibitions and films, and kept open house. I
had been label manager of Zapple, the
experimental and spoken word division of Apple
Records, since October '68, and spent a lot of time
at 3 Savile Row, using their equipment to edit
spoken word tapes. Though it was Paul McCartney
who started the Zapple division, John and Yoko
took a great interest in it so I saw quite a bit of
them.

Reading the transcript with hindsight, it is amusing

to see John sidestep questions and carefully word
answers to avoid lying, but at the same time
maintain the fiction that The Beatles, the world's
greatest rock'n'roll group, were alive and well.
*

189

Abbey Road, then. Does Come Together relate

to you getting more involved with the so-called
underground in the last year or so?

by infiltrating, by playing blues at art school,

because they would only let you play trod jazz on
the art school record player. So I got myself voted
onto the committee so that we could play rock'n'roll.
We could get the snobs by playing them blues
which was all right. All that Leadbelly, Bo Diddley...

I don't know about the underground I don't believe

it exists. Leary was saying, "Write me a song" for
his campaign. And his campaign slogan was "Come
Together". But obviously Come Together is not a
good campaign song. It didn't work out it ended
up like that, a funky bit of rock. I've got another one
for him.

There seems to be a whole range of music on

Abbey Road.
I suppose it's because I do what I like, Paul does
what he likes, and George and Ringo. We just
divide the album up between ourselves, It's more
apparent on the double album. It's always been that
really, and the combination of the music is what we
call pure Beatle. Like Getting Better where we've
all written it and we've all turned into pure Beatle.

Something?
That's George. A great song, I think. Possibly a
single in the States. If I can get Come Together on
the backside I will be very pleased. Just so I can
listen to it without listening to the whole album.

That's McCartney, as you might know. We don't

really write together any more. We haven't written
together for two years. Not really, you know. Just
occasional bits we help.

I want to sound like Come Together and I Want

You all the time, which I always did and I always do
Dizzy Miss Lizzy and whatever, I wanted to be
that guy. And Paul wants to be whoever it is he
wants to be. And George. So when the combination
does it, we come out with what we term Beatle
music.

How does that affect you when you're playing

then?

Do you no longer have a direction that the

whole group is going in?

It doesn't make any odds who writes them. It's

when The Beatles perform that makes it into Beatle
music. It's a long time since we've sat down and
written together for many reasons, because we
used to write together mainly on tour. Then there
was a valid reason for it. It got false "Come round
to our house and we'll write some songs" it
doesn't work any more.

We never did. I mean, it was just whoever was

pushing the limits of the bag at the time. You know,
we often all pushed at the same point. There was
never, "This is the way we are going".

You still go into a studio isn't that a great

ideas place?

Well, does that no longer exist? I don't know, you

see, I can't really be objective about it. On this
album I thought probably it didn't.

Maxwell's Silver Hammer?

No, but there seemed to be a type of music one

could identify as Beatle music which had
elements of all four personalities in it.

With Come Together I just said to them, "I've got

no arrangement for you, but you know how I want it.
Give me something funky." And they play like that. I
think that's partly because we've played together for
a long time. I'll set a beat maybe and they'll all just
join in.

Well, did it exist on The Beatles double album?

Octopus' Garden?

To a greater extent, and even more on Sgt. Pepper.

As far as we're concerned, this album is more
Beatley than the double album. Because that was
just saying, "This is my song, we'll do it this way.
That's your song, you do it that way."

That's Ringo we all sing on that and we all helped

on the arrangement or whatever.

How do you conceive of an album these days?

Do you have a vast array of material?

What's your attitude towards heavy blues?

There's an awful lot of songs. It's pretty hard trying

to fit three guys' music onto one album, that's why
we did a double. It's hard to bring out double
albums all the time, it takes us a long time. So we

I love it, you know. I've always liked it. We used to

play it at college. We were allowed to play rock'n'roll

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probably outlet them in other things like Plastic

Ono, or George gets Jesus and the something else.
That's the only way we can do it really. We don't
have conceptions of albums. I think Paul has
conceptions of albums or attempts it. Like he
conceived the medley thing. I'm not interested in the
conception of an album. All I'm interested in is the
sound. I like it to be whatever happens. I'm not
interested in making the album into a show. I just
put 14 rock songs on.

so-called avant garde or underground or wherever

she came from. She came in through the bathroom
window. She encouraged the freak in me.

The idea of the track at the very end...

Well you'll have to ask them...

We like gags, you know, we always have. We like

little jokes and surprises at the end of things.

As one quarter of them...

Yoko: He had all these things in him that were just a

little bit outside the frame of Beatles. It was all
there. We stimulated each other, woke each other
up.
How did that affect The Beatles?

I can't say how. I know it has affected us, obviously,

me getting married to Yoko, and Paul getting
married to Linda. Everything affects them, but how I
don't know.

There seems to be a bit of stage act...

We've got a bit of that too...
Do you long for those days?

The things you're doing don't seem to have

given rise to new subjects for your songs yet.

I don't long for them, no. We stopped doing it

because it was a drag. But I dug performing in
Toronto and I didn't have that Beatles mystique to
live up to, which is the drag about performing with
The You've got to be The Beatles. But performing is
a groove, I enjoyed it like mad, even if I did have to
sing Dizzy Miss Lizzy and Money again because
they're the only things I know! It was just the
performance was good. With a different band it was
very good.

What is there to sing about? On the album I sing

about Mean Mr. Mustard and Polythene Pam, but
they are only finished bits of crap that I wrote in
India. But when I get down to it, I'm only interested
in Yoko and peace, so if I can sing about them
again and again and again it's only like I'm going
through my blue period as a painter. And I'll do that
'til I get tired. I can always write Mr. Kite and those
songs anytime of day. But when I get down to it, I
like funky music. I like rock or blues or whatever
you call it. On 24 Hours ['60s TV news magazine]
they sardonically read out [the lyrics to] I Want You
"I want you, she's so heavy". That's all it says but
to me that's a damn sight better lyric than Walrus
or Eleanor Rigby because it's progression to me.
And if I want to write songs with no words or one
word...maybe that's Yoko's influence.

Do you think you will do anything else like that

again?
Yes, sure. I'm bound to now I've had a taste of it.
Not going out as a Beatle. Nothing's expected of
John and Yoko or the Plastic Ono. They could be
anybody or perform anything. So with that sort of
freedom there's no hang-ups.

When it gets down to it, awopbopaloola et cetera is

great, and that's what I'm getting round to. I
remember in the early meetings with Dylan, Dylan
was always saying to me "Listen to the words,
man". And I said, "I can't be bothered, I just like
listening to the sound of it, the sound of the overall
thing." And then I reversed that and started being a
words man. I am naturally playing with words
anyway. That's when I made a conscious effort to
be wordy, a la Dylan. But now I've relieved myself of
that burden and I'm only interested in pure sound.

How much do you think Yoko's influenced you?

Well, a lot. She's now 50 per cent of me.
Yoko: We influence each other.
How about on the stuff you write for The Beatles
as opposed to the stuff you do solo...
(interrupting) I don't write for The Beatles, I write for
myself. So I'm influenced by whatever's going on at
the time. I'm in love and that's the end of it. So
every time I pick up the guitar I sing about Yoko and
that's how I'm influenced. I am obviously influenced
by her ideas and her coming from that other field,

Do you think that your future recordings will be

getting more and more instrumental?

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I don't know. A voice, like Yoko's modulation I'm

interested in that we did that in Toronto too. We
did Blue Suede Shoes and ended up doing
Cambridge 69, only with all of us blasting it.
Fantastic. It's just pure sound.

emotion, genuine or whatever. You can't explain it in

words. Words are like a sort of ritual.
John: You grunt when you come, you know...
I accept the validity of the music, but I was just
wondering how you bring along the audience
The Beatles have got five or six million teeny
bop fans.

The thing that got me about Heartbreak Hotel in

the early days was I couldn't hear what he was
saying. It was just the experience of hearing it and
having my hair stand on end. I don't care what the
words are about and if there are going to be words,
they can either be rubbish what I call rubbish,
which is just word play or "I love you and you love
me and let's get together", you know? Because I
don't want to sing about suburbia.

Yes...I don't know what influence Revolution No 9

had on the teeny-bopper fans but most of them
didn't dig it, so what am I supposed to do? I
probably won't impose it on a Beatles album. Life
With The Lions sold 60,000 in the States. I'm very
excited, it's nothing on Beatles sales but it's a lot of
albums for that music. Maybe some of them were
Beatlemaniacs who thought they were going to get
something else, but I think they might have guessed
by now after Two Virgins. I can't keep framing it in
Beatle music to sort of bring along the people. How
many Revolution No 9s am I going to get on an
album, you know?

So, the whole middle period is sort of over with The

Beatles, the really complex... I think that one note is
as complex as anything, but I can't go on the rest of
my life explaining that to music critics who want
complex harmonies, tonal cadences and all that
crap. I'm a primitive so I'm not interested in that.
And it was quite flattering at the time to hear all that
crap about The Beatles but I don't believe it, you
know. Paul himself said in 1962 in his house, "We'll
end up with a one-note pop song". And I believe it,
you know. I can groove to the sound of electricity in
the house, or the water pipes. A lot of people do
groove to that, but if I lay it down on record and say,
"This is a John and Yoko record!" then we're going
to get all "Who do you think you are? This isn't like
Cage." And they intellectualise about what Cage
and Stockhausen do, and say, "You're not doing it
because you're only playing a teaspoon" that's
crap.

It's probably the most important direction that

The Beatles have gone, this new approach of
getting down to the more simple areas.
You know, I think it is too...
I knew Yoko's work about five or six years ago. I
was hoping the two would combine and they
combine but not quite that obviously.
You would have dug the Toronto show then. With a
rock'n'roll audience we didn't know how the reaction
would be. But something magical happened that
night. The fact that it affected Eric [Clapton] and
Klaus [Voormann] and Alan [White] they really got
turned on by that experience. The whole thing really
just was a big, big turn on. And it was like a new
direction. We didn't do anything that Yoko hadn't
done with Ornette Coleman at the Albert Hall.
Conceptually you think you're going to howl and the
musicians are going to play, but the difference
between Ornette Coleman intellectualising that jazz
which is just to me intellectual literary crap coming
out of a trumpet, or whatever he plays and just
playing rock'n'roll or just playing the amplifier is
tremendous.

Don't you think you have to explain it?

Why do I have to explain what a sound is? I mean,
we all sit by the sea and listen to it, and nobody
says, "This sea is good because it is reminiscent of
childhood experiences when we were at the
seaside" or "it's like your mother's water" or
anything like that.
Yoko: A genuine emotion, that's what we're aiming
at. People say we're howling and all that I don't
know...
John: My schoolboy magazine was called The Daily
Howl.

Yoko: I was intuitive, and so when I followed even,

say, Ornette, you can see immediately that
Ornette's job is highly intellectualised, sophisticated
stuff. And I'm howling, and the combination is not a
combination really, it's not merging. But then I met
John who was having the same kind of problem. He
was always having to cut himself down for The

Yoko: Really?
John: Yes, I invented it.
Yoko: Well, there you go. It's sort of a spiritual howl,
you know when people come to an extreme of

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Beatles. And playing old stuff by himself at home.

He was really freaking out at home. And I've heard
some of that freaked-out stuff. This time it was
really very easy, because both of us are basically
intuitive people and we are normal oddballs. And
you know what they say, when two people dream
it's a reality... We were like in a dream state and
then he came and we started to make love.

I'm not a politician so I don't rely on public opinion

as to how I run my life I refuse to do that. I mean,
I don't even consider it. For a politician to go into a
white bag in the Albert Hall he'd have to consider
the effects it would have on his constituents, but I'm
not a politician and I don't owe my constituents
anything other than I create something, whatever it
is, and they accept it or reject it on its own merits
and not on any pre-conceived ideas...

John: I've never heard any avant garde stuff that I'd
want to bring in. I'd sooner have 10 Eric Claptons.
I'd sooner get a Salvation Army Band than a lot of
avant garde people to squeak and play all that
intellectual crap. I think anything's valid, but if Yoko
says, "This is a particular performer that I
recommend and we should perform with him", then
I'd do it, but anything I've heard has always left me
cold. I haven't heard anything better than a car
engine yet.

Nothing pressurised me into going to Toronto and

performing with Yoko. Just felt like it. Somebody
rang up and I said "OK" and we were invited to the
Albert Hall and we thought, What shall we do? Let's
do the bag. I'd never done it before and it was going
to be that kind of evening, with Jack Moore painting
lines or whatever, so we did something to suit the
occasion.
Other journalist: What was it like inside?

Other journalist: You say that you don't want to

intellectualise most people feel that you have
started to do that by getting into bags and
sitting in bed, and they just don't understand.

It was fine. We just wondered what it was like

outside. What they were thinking while we were in
there; wondering if anyone understood it or didn't
understand it or what they thought we were doing.
We could hear a lot of chanting and noises going on
and then we saw the video of it later and saw it all
from the outside on the simplest level it's just like
a practical joke.

But I haven't started to intellectualise at all all I do

is get into a bag you know, literally.
Other journalist: And that was it, forget it?

With the campaigns for peace you are definitely

trying to put across a point.

Yes, that is the end of the experience.

Yoko: I mean, what's so intellectual about getting
into a bag?

We just thought, What have we got in common?

Mainly it's just to change the world a little bit. So
how to do it? And we went through creating the idea
of being in bed 'til we came up with that conclusion
that's the best way for us two to do it.

John: If I painted myself blue what could we do

about it? If there's a concert on and for my party
turn I want to be painted blue there's nothing to
intellectualise about. 60,000 kids in America are
having no trouble with Life With The Lions. There's
always going to be people complaining because we
left the Cavern and went to work in Manchester, you
know? That's all it is, really: how dare I leave the
Cavern and jump into a bag in the Albert Hall? But I
can't wait around for those people to decide they'd
like me to go into tap dancing.

How do you consider this kind of action?

How to perform without performing was the
problem. At the time we didn't feel like appearing in
public maybe we were feeling paranoiac or
whatever so we wanted to do an event or a stunt
without having to do anything, and that's how we
came up with it. But it turned out a mistake in a way,
I suppose. She could go to Trafalgar Square in the
old days and do an event or wrap the lions up,
which she did, or stand in a bag. But as John and
Yoko to stand in Trafalgar Square, we couldn't do it.
The trouble was to carry on events with my
involvement without getting beaten up or trodden
on, you know? So that was a practical conclusion to
that problem.

I'm just moving out, or pressing the outer limits of

whatever's going on, and people say, "I don't
understand why you're leaving your cosy rut and
doing something else. Why don't you stay where we
can recognise you?" There's no time to wait for
people to understand why I've grown a beard or
why I've shaved it off, or why I want to be naked or
why I want to stand on my head. If people waited
for people to understand everything they did,
nothing would ever be done.

Another journalist: You said that inside the bag

you wondered what other people thought and if

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they understood, but according to what you

said previously... there isn't anything, yes, well
that's... because I wondered if people would be
thinking, What is the message behind the bag?

[John and Yoko leave for a film screening. The

recording continues the next day.]
Then somebody comes up and says, "What about
Biafra?" and we have to start coming out of our
shell again and doing another performance and
relive our initial anger that made us go and do those
bed events. And the point about the Bed-In, as
we've said all along, is to keep it in mind that peace
is an alternative and they can have it if they want it,
because the people have the power, and all this
crap about the people being given the power by a
group of revolutionaries is rubbish. The people have
the power now, and if we can't remember it
ourselves how can we expect all the other people to
remember it?

Another journalist: In fact you were just trying

to provoke them into thinking something.
Yes... There is the basic thing of...when you're in a
bag and communicating with somebody they can't
be hung up with what you're wearing or what colour
you are. And that's a basic, you know? If you went
for a job in a bag if that was the game then later
they can't say, "Well you can't live here" or "You
can't have the job because you're a spade". They'd
have to say, "Well what are your qualifications?"
Then the guy can say, "I've got 10 GCEs", and they
wouldn't know who was in there so that would be a
nice dream of Bagism come true.

Yoko: Yes, we've seen the film that was taken of our
Bed-In and it's not a peaceful film at all.

Derek Taylor: When they wrote about the bag at

the ICA one person said of the voices one was
distinctly Liverpudlian, the other was Japanese.

John: The whole film is just rolling and shouting and

arguing with people. You saw that interview with Al
Capp and he was pretty tough on us, and I ended
up screaming at him. He was suggesting that we
were doing the Bed-In for money. He was throwing
everything that he could at us, a real clever bastard,
and I really lost my temper and said, "What are we
doing taking shit from people like you?" and he
says, "Well I'm your guest here", and I really felt like
a cunt then. It's all on the film and we're raving and
shouting at him and he's going on about the
students taking over the university, and we're both
screaming at him "Who wants the university,
answer me, who wants the university? Answer!" He
wouldn't answer me. It went on for hours and hours.

Oh yes, in fact we weren't there at the ICA, you see,

there was two Hare Krishnas in the bag but one of
the musicals wrote that they could hear a distinct
Liverpool voice shouting Hare Krishna and a distinct
high Oriental voice so that's Bagism.
The reaction to the bag in Vienna was something
else again. It was very indignant. That we should be
in Vienna and in a bag it really bugged them. The
Hapsburg family actually lived in this room and
these two obscene people were in a bag! So, I
mean, just to upset those people is enough.

Other journalist: What do you think of the

situation in London at the moment with the
hippies, squatters and skinheads?

On the album you go back to some pretty early

rock stuff.

I don't know what it is. I don't understand it. The

skinheads are a new thing to me. Are they the
Mods? I don't have a clue. I mean, I've got to try
and throw myself back to 16 and imagine where my
sympathies would lie. Who I'd be imitating at that
age, whether I'd be a skinhead or a hippie. I don't
know. But if they got together they'd be quite
powerful, but while there's diversity among them
they don't stand a chance really.

Yes, well we always... Lady Madonna and Day

Tripper we never went away from it. There isn't
an album without some rock'n'roll on it is there? I
mean, Sgt. Pepper is a rock'n'roll song, Good
Morning, Good Morning was fairly straight
rock'n'roll except for some strange beats on it,
Sounds Incorporated playing their saxes and all
that.
Get Back's similar to Abbey Road...

Other journalist: It must disappoint you a bit

that this type of diversity is building up.

It's nothing like it because Get Back is unfinished

you know. We never got to the final Beatlifying of
the whole lot you know, we just got so involved and
fed up with it that we just thought, Well this is it you
know couldn't stand to go further with this album...

Well, it builds up and dies the Mods and rockers. I

mean, the rockers are now helping the hippies as
Hell's Angels, what's left of them, and there's no
such thing as Mods now. The Who were the kings
of the Mods and what are they now? So it's a thing

194

you go through when you're a teenager, the

identification bit. Maybe all the real ardent
skinheads will be skinheads at 30, but they're
bound to mature and change a bit. I'm still a Teddy
Boy somewhere inside me I imitated Teddy Boys,
I was never a real one but I was always torn
between being a Teddy Boy and an art student, so
there was always a bit of both. But I don't have the
same mentality or the same ideas as I had at that
age and identified with then, so, obviously, they'll
change as they grow up.

beginning of Be Bop A Lula "Weeeeeeeeell" I

always meant to start one just like that. Either that
or just do Be Bop A Lula. I'm just a 30-year-old
rocker, you know.
I consider myself a primitive musician just because I
never studied music. They were always asking us in
the early days, "Would you and Paul ever consider
learning music?", and we always said "No, no it
would wreck our style". Sometimes it's annoying not
to be able to write down something. I have to go
through a whole complicated process to remember
it, and I've lost lots of music through not being able
to write it. But if we could write it...I think there
would be some counter loss. I tape record it.

They want to remember the laws on dance music.

The basic thing is dancing together in a club or
town hall, so even if they go out of their minds
they're still going to a dance and listening to dance
music they keep the beat behind the howling,
that's what they're doing. What kind of music do the
skinheads dig? I heard it was rock steady, I don't
know.

I think writing music would be all right if it was

updated, it's just a very old-fashioned style of note
formation. On most of my songs, the sheet music is
always incorrect if I ever get anybody to play me the
notes on it. I'm always singing minor notes against
a major chord. I think it's bluesy but it turns out that
it isn't. It's a mistake, they keep telling me, so they
never write it like that, they always write a major
note.

Blue beat.
Blue beat. Oh, maybe they'd like Give Peace A
Chance blue beat. It's a great version, I'll just play it
to you. (He puts on a tape of Hot Chocolate's
version, later released as Apple 18)

How strongly do you feel about peace?

Suppose there was a war, what would you do
fight or go to prison?

So maybe we'll get through to the skinheads with

that. There's always been those gang fighters I
mean, in the '30s they used to have the A gangs or
something in Liverpool. They wore those flat hats
with the razors in. And when I was a youth it was
the Teddy Boys and now it's the skinheads. There's
always going to he fighting. Local village fights,
that's all it is one town against the other.

I wouldn't fight at all. Never ever any intention of

fighting. Up until about 18 there was still call-up,
and I remember the news coming through that it
was all those born before 1940, and I was thanking
God for that as I'd always had this plan about
southern Ireland. I wasn't quite sure what I was
going to do when I got to southern Ireland, but I had
no intention of fighting. I just couldn't kill somebody,
you know, I couldn't charge at them. I don't know
whether I could kill somebody who was actually
trying to kill me in the room.

When we first started listening to our records Yoko

always said, "Why do you always put that beat in?"
I said, "Why not?" and she used to get very uptight.
I mean, it's basic, basic music. It's just like the
jungle or whatever; all societies have a rhythm to
them, and it's always the on beat or the off beat, it's
never anything else. The off beat wasn't invented in
the last 20 years, you know, it's been there for ever.
So I used to say I like them with beat (laughs). But
she came round, arty snob she was.

I still don't think that's comparable with, "That

country's trying to kill this country", because then it
is just big game politics. I can't understand how
highly-educated people, middle-class mainly, are so
unaware as to think the game is really down to
street fighting, because the game is a lot subtler
than they imagine. That's what I mean when I
suddenly get reminded that it's to do with oil in
Biafra. What's the street fighter going to do about
that? How can you fight big business? Only by
attacking the shares or their image.

The most exciting thing about early Little Richard

was when he just screamed, just before the solo,
and that was howling. It used to make your hair
stand on end when he did that long, long scream
into a solo. I still imitate him when he comes to a
solo on a record I always have to prevent myself
from going "aaaagh", which I've been doing ever
since I first heard Richard. So it's just eliminating
the song bit and elongating the howling bit because
that definitely got everybody I knew...that and the

In other words, it's revolution by infiltration.

I think that's the only way, because all revolutions
are violent. I've said this a million times, all

195

revolutions produce status quo or imitation, you

know, like Russia and France and Britain, we've all
had our revolutions and where is it? It is exactly the
same, because the people's minds are the same.
The new bureaucracy is created in Russia and the
reason they appear less cool than Western
politicians is that they probably are less cool. They
are the workers and have got the control, and the
red tape gets redder and longer and longer. So if
someone could show me one that has worked then
it might turn me a bit. I'd say, "All right, that's the
way to do it", then turn the place upside down. But
there isn't one. Cuba is the nearest but how long
has it been going? Five years relatively no time at
all. Give it another 50 years and see what the
machinery is like. They always think in terms of 20,
30 years but I'm thinking in terms of hundreds or
thousands. The only way to ensure a lasting kind of
peace of any kind is to change people's minds.
There's no other way.

Derek said you've been reading Wilhelm Reich.

Yeah, because my friend Ivan Vaughan I think you
might know him, he's like a forever student he
sends me books through the post now and then. He
sent me The Murder Of Christ and Listen Little Man,
so I read them. Reich seems to be right on the point
to me. He really knows what's happening. I just
read some review of him last weekend in the
Sundays and it was sort of saying he died insane
and hated. They talk about him as if he was a
madman.
Towards the end of his life he did get pretty
paranoid.
It looks like he made the mistakes he warned
people against. There's a good communication
thing going with Ivan and I because he sends the
right book at the right time. He sends the book
about not being a leader was that The Murder Of
Christ? I think it was just at the time when we're
going out on the bed again. So I had to keep not
being a leader, refusing, because many people
wanted to crown me. Different movements, "You will
be it, John, and you will lead us to..." like they did
with Jesus. So Reich's a good right-hand man to
keep reading for not getting tricked into being the
king.

That's the most difficult thing of all.

That's the hardest one. The Government can do it
with propaganda, Coca-Cola can do it with
propaganda, the business men do it with
propaganda, why can't we? We are the hip
generation.
How successful are things like the Bed Peace?
Do you follow up whether they have taken up
any of your points?

I'd like to read about one of the Orgone things,

very strange, that machine.

Yeah. There are millions of photographs and

articles circulating around the world now, some
exactly what we said, and, allowing for all the
distortions, I think the mantra of the word works. So
therefore whenever we have the press in we always
have the word "peace" there. I think it's that subtle
as well, that kind of what do they call it in
advertising? subliminal message? Even when the
word is distorted and they say, "Those two gurus in
drag", as we said in the song. So there's a moss of
propaganda gone out from those two Bed-Ins, and
it's still going round now. We just get our feedback
from letters and newsprint in general, and that's all
we can hope for, really. Circulation.

Yeah, I used to have one of those.

Every garden party this summer in Britain, every

small village everywhere, the winning couple was
the kids doing John and Yoko in bed with all the
posters around. And that's a very mild thing but
we've got thousands of them, Newcastle, Scotland,
Wales, everywhere. Instead of everybody singing,
"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah", they're just singing "Peace"
instead. And I believe in the power of mantra. I think
all words are mantras and some are more powerful
than others.

You sit in it. You sit in it and gather energy. And it

charges you up.

What do they do?

It's a very simple mechanism which gathers
atmospheric energy. Just the general vibrations that
are in the air.
And what's the function of them?
Well, it concentrates them to three times normal.
And what do you do with it?

And do you use it still?

Not in London, no.
Why not? If it was good you would have used it,
wouldn't you?

196

Well, in London there's all sorts of weird things in

the atmosphere and there tends to be the wrong
type of energy.

down. People say, "You're staying in bed, why don't

you go down and shake hands with the people?"
The answer is that communication isn't just shaking
hands. And how much communication do they
really want? These are intelligent people, but do
they really want to see pictures of us like Nixon or
the Queen shaking hands with a few people in the
street and nothing happening at all except I sign a
few autographs?

Oh, I see. Well, maybe we could set one up in

Ascot, you know; maybe it's a bit freer there.
Yeah, it would be easy to build one. It's just a metal
box with organic material round it. It doesn't have
any knobs or anything. Come out and recharge in
Ascot...

Or maybe they don't like hustling.

There are intelligent people asking us, "Why, why in

this luxury hotel and not in the street?" And the
answer is it's impractical, and less is done shaking
hands on the street corner. They've got to look at it
from our point of view, not from theirs. They always
see it from theirs. It must be hard to imagine what it
is to be Nixon or Queen Elizabeth, which is the
position we're in. You can't go on the street and
shake hands and protest at Hyde Park unless
you've got a bullet-proof outfit to protect you. This is
public to me. This is communication, talking to you,
and we're either doing this all the time or we stay
completely alone in our room. Maybe we get a full
day a week alone, and that's our Orgone machine
where we revitalise and come out the next week.
We don't even go to dinner with people or anything
like that.

Right, because I don't like hustling I couldn't do it.

What do you do when you're alone?

The only way to reach you people is to hustle.

We stay together, we talk and think about things

and go over everything we've done and what we're
going to do go round the grounds like The Squire
Of Trelawny and enjoy the trees.

[Garbled, faded conversation and then a break in

the tape.]
Apple was a manifestation of Beatle naivete,
collective naivete, and we said we're going to do
this and help everybody and all that. And we got
conned just on the subtlest and the grossest level.
We didn't really get approached by the best artists,
we got all the bums from everywhere they'd been
thrown out from everywhere else. And the other
people who were really groovy wouldn't approach
us because they're too proud.

Right, and that's why it didn't work. And then we

have to quickly build up another wall round us to
protect us, from all the beggars and lepers in Britain
and America that came up to us, and the vibes are
getting insane. And I tried, when we were at
Wigmore Street, to see everyone, like we said "You
don't have to get down on your knees"; I saw
everyone day in day out and there wasn't anybody
with anything to offer to society or me or anything.
There was just "I want, I want" and "why not?"
terrible scenes going on in the office with hippies
and all different people getting very wild with me.
Even the peace campaign, we had a lot of that too,
but once you've opened the door it's hard.

Don't you have a lot of people down there?

Yeah, but the rule seems to be that they keep out
the way and we've got Dan and Jill right in the
house with us who are running the thing for us.
We've got one gardener and he's right at the other
end. The original people had 30 gardeners but
we're not running the thing like that.
Do you just have one room?
At the moment, yeah, because the house is being
redecorated and knocked to pieces and things like
that. All you need is one room, when it gets down to
it. I think we tend to feel a need to have acres and a
large house, protection in a way. If we were in a
mews cottage in London life would be unbearable.
But a big house and big grounds protect us. It has
that overpowering image to a lot of people and it
keeps a lot of people off our backs. It's not so
inviting as a flat in town. But when you get down to
it all you need is a bedroom and a kitchen

What's the answer? You obviously don't want to

cut yourself off from humanity like that.
I have to take it slower and I have to deal with
people, even people who are thinking the same way
as us, we have to agree on steps to be taken. Make
a deal, whether it's on paper or a shake of the hand,
and then move forward together. See I'm very
impetuous, so I like it now, everything tomorrow,
and I'm beginning to find out that doesn't work. It's
just impossible to do it like that so I've got to slow

197

functionally, but for us at this period of time we need

more.

lives: "You haven't got the ability, you're a cobbler."

It's like in one of me books, "You're a Brummer
Striver", or something. That's all we're told all our
lives, what our limits are. People are limited into
thinking they couldn't run their own affairs and what
we're trying to say is that you are unlimited and
you're all geniuses and you were all artists and
musicians until some bastard told you about 12,
"You must do woodwork, and you do metalwork,
and we haven't got room in lithography for you, so
you've got to be a lefterer", and all that. It happened
to all of us, but if somebody had told me all my life,
"Yeah, you're a great artist, you're a great artist", I
would have been a more secure person all the time.

You seem to have changed a lot recently.

I don't know, I suppose we have. Since when?
Since recording Sgt. Pepper.
Oh yeah, sure. I'm more myself than I was then
because 'ye got the security of Yoko, that's what's
done it and it's like having a mother and everything.
That's it. So I'm secure in my relationship with her
so I can afford to relax. I was never relaxed before, I
was always uptight. The me that you see now was
in there but only came out at a very intimate party
or with somebody who knew me very well, could
never relax in these kind of situations, very seldom
anyway. I was always in a state of uptightness and
therefore the cynical Lennon image come out, the
remarks and all that bit.

The two years before I met Yoko, I think the others

were on to the same thing. I was really going
through, What's it all about? and, This songwriting
is nothing, it's pointless and I'm no good, I'm not
talented and I'm shitty and I couldn't do anything but
be a Beatle. And it lasted nearly two years, and I
was still in it during Pepper. I know Paul was feeling
full of confidence. I was just about coming out of it
around Maharishi even though Brian had died that
knocked us back again...well, it knocked me back. I
just about got my confidence. With the acid trip
scene, I went through that "Get rid of your ego" bit. I
really had a massive ego. Three or four years after
acid I spent the whole time trying to destroy my ego
which I did until I had nothing left. I went to India
with Maharishi, and he was saying, "Ego is good as
long as you look after it". But I'd really destroyed it
and I was so paranoiac and weak I couldn't do
anything. I'd really done a good job on the ego, and
I was just about building it back up again when I
met Yoko. It, literally, went in weeks. I was just
trying to work it back again and get confidence in
myself. Then we met Derek [Taylor] again after a
long time and Derek did a good job on building the
ego one weekend at his house. Reminding me of
who I am and what I've done, what I could do. He
just reminded me of who I am, him and a couple of
friends did that for me, they said, "You're great, you
are what you are and you're infinite", and all that.

I'm not uptight so much these days because I'm not

hiding anything. I'm trying to break away from that
because, when you get down to it, I've got nothing
to hide. I have fear and paranoia and happiness
and joy. I'm just like everyone else and know
everybody has the same problems that I have and
they're not something I carry alone. As for that
creative artist who you probably met during the
Pepper time, going through torture about not writing
good enough and all that, I still go through that, but
now I can remember, even in the worst depths of
misery, we're both going through it together. That
helps. (Tape break). When we were watching TV in
Montreal in the Bed-In some Harvard professor was
on saying how they'd done this test on kids about
11 or 12-year-old kids and they didn't tell the
teachers what the test was. They said that at the
end of a year these certain children in this class,
and they named them, are going to be exceptional
children. What they didn't tell the teachers was that
they'd picked the names at random out of a hat.
The teachers thought that they had done special
tests on them. So at the end of the year all these
kids were getting A plus; they all turned out to be
geniuses and it was the simple fact that the
teachers believed it and the kids believed it. The
kids were encouraged, the teachers were coaching
them, you know, "You're gonna be great".

I've got to believe I'm a genius, I've got to believe

that I'm great to do anything. It's my mantra. Yoko
came and opened the door a little bit. I love you for
what you are, whatever it is, and I respected her
genius. For her to love me was the answer then.
She wouldn't have loved a dummy, which I'd begun
to think I was. That helped the accumulation. Of
course she goes through the same thing where I
can help her the same, once I'd got over my
intellectual reverse snobbery about the avant garde.

All we're trying to say to the world is, "You're all

gonno be great' It's like the other story I've told a
million times who told us we were artists? All kids
draw and write poetry and everything and some of
us last until we're about 18, but most drop off about
12 and that's when some guy comes up and says,
"You're no good". That's all we ever get told all our

You've still got it, to an extent.

198

Sure, sure I can't help it. It'll take a long time to

wear off, but I'm getting better. So when she's in
trouble I can do the same for her so it's a good
combination. Why shouldn't I be a poet, a film
maker, a dancer, an actor? Let's do it all while the
going's good. It's a freedom, it's a relief, because
you can never escape from the hell on earth; there's
no escape from that. Even with two people who are
as lucky as us and have somebody that can be
close on all levels, there's still great depths of
misery to be found. That's the human condition and
there isn't any answer for that. The highs and the
lows are greater as you develop your confidence
but it's still the same old games.

Long after the hysteria has faded into television and

newspaper archives, the Beatles' magic is still
accessible on disc: 11 original albums and three
compilations during their lifetime not counting a
slew of singles and EPs. This is fitting: for the
Beatles, the record was always the thing. Like most
other Brits in the '50s, they consumed American
R&B and rock'n'roll on vinyl or shellac rather than in
concert (although John Lennon and Stuart Sutcliffe
did manage to see the Eddie Cochran/Gene
Vincent tour in March 1960): when they finally
entered the studio, they wanted to make something
as complete, as powerful as those extraterrestrial
noises that had changed their lives.

Just last year I remember seeing this film on BBC2

about a guy training a falcon and he lived in this
beautiful little cottage in Cornwall or somewhere like
that. It was dreamlike, he didn't have any problems
it was just nature and him training the falcon and it
was just so beautiful. And I thought, God almighty,
it's all I want really, but it can't be or I'd get it. Well,
can get it. I can get a cottage and live there if I
wanted to. I always have this dream of being the
artist in a little cottage, and I didn't do any of this
publicity or anything like that; my real thing is just
write a little poetry and do a few oils. It just seemed
like such a dream, living in a cottage and wondering
in the trees.

The result was an eight-year sequence of releases

which remain at once familiar yet enigmatic, near
yet far. The Beatles. as Nik Cohn shrewdly noted in
Pop From The Beginning, were great adepts of that
trumping showbiz maxim: "leave 'em wanting
more". Already aloof by 1964, they disappeared in
the second half of 1966, fuelling worldwide media
interest to the point that, by 1968, it had become a
morbid cult in North America: nothing excites the
media more than withdrawal. By then, the group
were seen only in brief TV and film appearances: if
you wanted the Beatles, you had to have the
records, and the records themselves leave you
wanting more.

I really can't wait to be old, you know. You do your

best and then there is a time when you do slow
down and it seems nice. I always look forward to
being an old couple of about 60, just remembering
everything, I suppose we'll still be cursing because
we're in a wheelchair.

The Beatles wrote and recorded for maximum

impact: there were to be no gaps in the sound, no
boring moments something had to be going on
the whole time. In this, they were aided by George
Martin, who suggested the speeding up of Please
Please Me, who helped hone the relentless hooks
of From Me To You: overseeing the mixing
process, Martin also curbed their later tendencies to
self-indulgence: whether it's the edited feedback
note at the start of I Feel Fine, the 40 seconds cut
out of Dr Robert, even the early fade on It's All Too
Much (which in an early mix pulsates for another
two minutes 8.30 in total). This collective firm
hand was only relaxed during their last two years.

Miles, 1995
The Beatles: The Outtakes
Jon Savage, Mojo, November 1995
Behind every great Beatles track is a version
not quite so good. But not necessarily less
interesting... Jon Savage listens to the outtakes.

Until 1967, everything came in pretty much under

three minutes, which, bearing in mind the pressure
of new ideas and experiences contained in Rubber
Soul and Revolver, made for some extraordinarily
compressed records so taut as to be addictive. A
song like She Said She Said extrapolates from an
actual event (Lennon dropping acid with The Byrds
in August 1965, getting spooked by Peter Fonda's
tale of a near-death experience) into a report from
the emotional frontline: the struggles of growing up,
from the security of childhood to the traumas of
adolescence, with LSD-aided personality
disintegration as part of he journey all within 2.31.
The unresolved Rickenbacker riff at the fade of A

AS BEFITS A MYTH, NOTHING WITH THE

BEATLES IS SIMPLE. It is in the nature of myth to
be paradoxical it must be easy to understand yet
elusive, must begin in the specific and become
universal because these unresolved, internal
contradictions keep us coming back for more. Such
tensions between mind and body, art and
commerce, Lennon and McCartney created the
group then tore it apart: they remain in the Beatles'
vigorous afterlife.

199

Hard Day's Night hints at a whole world of pleasure

just out of reach, if only you could hear another half
minute.

before the session ends in what can only be

described as the Beatles' version of The Troggs'
Tapes: four March 1963 stabs at a recalcitrant One
After 909, featuring appalling solos from George
Harrison and reaching a full-blown row when
McCartney tries some syncopation in take three. He
breaks down, provoking an exasperated Lennon:
"What are you DOIN?" The group then bicker about
plectrums and McCartney's luggage.

With such a perfect career trajectory (ie they

stopped just as they were becoming boring),
interest in the Beatles' recordings has only grown
over the last 25 years an interest slowly but firmly
catered to by EMI and The Beatles' holding
company, Apple (unlike the Rolling Stones, they
seem to have come out of their Allen Klein
experience with some degree of control).

This is entertaining but hardly serious. What many

of the outtakes do make clear, however, is that
essential Beatle trait noted by Ian MacDonald: "their
agility in making adjustments from take to take". On
the multiple takes, say of Misery or From Me To
You, you can hear the group's incredible drive:
beginning tentative and sloppy, winding themselves
to a pitch where they're all flying as one. When you
get to the patchwork of Strawberry Fields outtakes,
one of the few multiple take sequences worthy of
release, you can hear the song shift shape, as it
expands from an acoustic sketch into a complex,
multiphrenic epic.

Bootlegging is morally hard to defend: there is no

way round the fact that a performer should get paid
for his/her work. Having said that, the history of
illegal recordings since Bob Dylan's 1969 The
Great White Wonder shows that they can create a
market for a particular concert or unreleased song:
this eventually stimulates the artist and record
company to try to get some of this action for
themselves, and the official release follows some
years later in Dylan's case, box sets like the
Biograph and Bootleg Series collections. Indeed, it's
hard although everyone involved denies it, to see
the recent, highly successful Beatles At The BBC
double-CD being released without the many
exploratory unofficial recordings which preceded it
some of which provided source material for the
finished release.

Working tapes exist of most Beatle recordings

one of their most famous, She Loves You, being a
rare exception. The overwhelming bulk of what has
come out so far consists of run-throughs (basically,
studic demos: an index of the Beatles' privilege, to
do this in Abbey Road); early or different mixes (like
the Peter Sellers tape, a mono mix of several White
Album songs collaged with Indian music); actual
overdubbing (the famous Strawberry Fields
Forever sequence); or, more rarely, completed
songs which were either remade or remixed
radically (I'm Looking Through You, Across The
Universe) or never released.

Seven years after the CD floodgates were opened,

Apple and EMI are scheduling a comprehensive
release programme of Beatles outtakes, unreleased
and rare songs. The track-listing is as yet
undecided by the three ex-Beatles, Yoko and
George Martin, but what seems clear is that there
will be up to six CDs' worth of material released
before Christmas 1996, with the first two, covering
1958 to 1964, in the shops before the end of this
year. This is a bold and risky move: this may be
simply too much, too much rather like The
Beatles At The BBC, which could have been
whittled to one great single album; certainly, what
you hear from the outtakes that exist in the public
domain is a very different Beatles from the myth
not concise but sloppy, not pristine but raw, not
perfect but all too fallible.

Trawling across these choppy waters, you begin to

understand how the Beatles worked in the studio
and just how much fairy dust (EQ, reverb, etc)
George Martin and his team sprinkled in the final
mix- down, In the early days, the Beatles would
record a take straight through vocal and
instrumental, with occasional edit pieces for the
tricky bits: getting the intros and outros right,
mending an often broken Harrison guitar solo.
Lennon often dominates here, although it is
McCartney, with his superior sense of timing, who
does the count-ins. In most cases, like A Hard
Day's Night or Can't Buy Me Love, the basic
structure is in place from take one, with minor
embellishments like the Lennon/Harrison backing
vocals thankfully deleted from the latter's verses
using up the bulk of the time; Harrison ends his own
Don't Bother Me with a rather unconvincing shout
of "Oh yeah! Rock'n'roll now!"

All outtakes are like this: that's why they're

outtakes. Listening to a selection from 1963 to
1970, you're reminded of the utter boredom that
making records induces in all who are not directly
involved. Hearing The Beatles crash through small
edits on Thank You Girl the opening and climax
proving particularly difficult you can hear the
tension in the studio: three tunes to do on a day off
from a British tour, in one of the coldest winters this
century. "Go on!" hisses Lennon at regular intervals,

200

With its feedback intro and complex riff, I Feel Fine

was one of the first Beatles songs to be recorded
with the instruments first and the vocal later:
Lennon had to sing and do the tricky guitar part.
Outtakes exist of Paperback Writer, Day Tripper
and Help! in this pure instrumental state: this may
seem curiously pointless (unless you're into riff
heaven), but, in the case of Rain, hearing the
backing track without the vocals both highlights the
extraordinary performance from all four Beatles,
and teases out, as Ian MacDonald has noted, the
way that the opening chords are a direct steal from
Visions Of Johanna "Ain't it just like the night to
play tricks when you're trying to be so quiet".
Recorded in India before Harrison's vocal was
added in the UK, the backing track of The Inner
Light stands as a piece of music on its own.

mushed it up. Instead of rock solemnity, you have

three minutes of pure psychedelic pulses which, if
they don't rectify the song's shortcomings, precisely
locate it in a moment. In this, the backwards guitars
work perfectly with Lennon's ego-less vocal and the
young fans' voices, which are right up in the mix. A
certain tendency to solipsism "nothing's gonna
change my world" is transcended by a truly
cosmic finale: as Lennon chants "Jai guru deva",
you know that he's speaking to God. Released in
early 1968, this would have made perfect sense as
the Beatles' last great psych move: by 1970,
Lennon had gone through several further
incarnations and the song had little relevance.
Apart from an acoustic demo of While My Guitar
Gently Weeps which only serves to accentuate
the song's rather doleful, sanctimonious air there
is little available from the White Album sessions:
many think that some cuts on this daunting,
minatory release are little more than outtakes
anyway. The Beatles put everything on. As the
group began to fray round the edges, so did their
quality control: certainly, both Abbey Road and Let
It Be offer different approaches produced, faux
verite to the problem of how to break up in public.
The outtakes from this period only accentuate what
George Martin, Phil Spector and the waning magic
of the Beatles themselves were attempting to
disguise: the dissolution of a group mind.

Bar the pre-orchestral take five of A Day In The

Life, there is little else of any real substance from
1966 or 1967: an elongated Flying, called Aerial
Tour, with a cheesy 'hotcha' music hall ending, an
extended It's All Too Much, an early run-through of I
Am The Walrus, which emphasises its sly tune.
There is, however, one masterpiece from the
Beatles' most ambitious studio years, and that is the
piecing together of Strawberry Fields Forever:
takes one to seven, overdub takes 25 to 26. Take
one is a simple acoustic guitar/Mellotron runthrough, beginning with the verses "Living is easy
with eyes closed"; "No-one I think is in my tree".
The familiar invocation, "Let me take you down",
does not appear until well into the song. There is no
exotic instrumentation.

There is stuff of interest. Heard in full, the May 1969

Glyn Johns assembly of Get Back (with all the
verite and adding Rocker, Teddy Boy and Save
The Last Dance For Me) works as a concept album
of a lost adolescence: with hindsight, the Beatles
should have rushed it out as an Unplugged and
moved on. It highlights just how awful Dig It and
Dig A Pony are, emphasises the poor Lennon bass
playing on The Long And Winding Road, and
rescues The Two Of Us as a great song the last
attempt to regain the group adolescence that
changed the world, complete with McCartney's final
"goodbye". The Abbey Road material points to the
fact that the group had already dissolved: at the end
of Something, almost before the take has finished,
Lennon is off into a piano jam to work something
that's on his mind the central sequence of
Remember from his Plastic Ono Band album.

As the song moves through to the final first version,

take seven, it adds drums, bass and guitar (the first
appearance of Harrison's trademark slide-guitar
sound), as well as some extra choruses: the song
now begins as it does on the record. This early
version is poignant but inconclusive. Leaping to
take 26, you get the full freakout: backwards
cymbals, Lennon's vocal, pounding drums. This is
an overdub for the second version: at the end you
can hear why the first fade exists, as the take
breaks down. Starr quickly gets a second wind,
which sets Lennon off again, with shrieks and cries
of "cranberry sauce". The take ends on his shout:
"Right, calm down Ringo." Take 26 is the same
backing track with a different mix: the backwards
percussion, Harrison's swarmandal, Lennon's
piano. Putting these versions together, you can see
what happened in the famous edit: as well as
increasing the tempo, Martin added an extra,
chorus, which adds to the song's relentless
downward momentum.

Hearing these outtakes is an ambiguous business.

On the one hand, they are often exasperating:
unlike jazz giants like Charlie Parker, who can vary
from moment to moment, the Beatles were not
great improvisors. Most often, they are searching
and, later, noodling for something just out of reach.
You can know too much and, to some extent, the
glitter is tarnished, the idols rendered all too human
an unsettling experience. Yet they are valuable in

Another find is the first (February 1968) mix of

Across The Universe in all its glory, before Spector

201

several ways, if only to show that young groups

should not compare themselves to the Beatles
lightly: The Beatles worked in the studio with an
incredible dynamism and willingness to experiment
that, for all the claims made on their behalf, it is not
yet possible to hear in Blur or Oasis.

stores, a film division and a record label releasing

all future Beatles product. The band envisaged a
happening "Western communism", they called it,
a way of amassing cash and using it as patrons of
the alternative arts. First came the Apple Boutique,
peddling the regulation 60s Hobbit satin-and-velvet,
overseen by a team of Dutch designers named The
Fool. The Beatles old ladies modelled the stock for
Rolling Stone; John and Paul flew to New York and
gave interviews to Business Week. Recalled Derek
Taylor, "They said they had set up this company
and that anyone who had a dream could come and
see them in London and they would make it come
true." Taking them at their word, London Airport
immigration was crammed with Americans naming
The Beatles as sponsors.

They also help us to read the Beatles better. This is

creative nostalgia: these outtakes make it clear that,
far from being a fixed, static artefact, each record
was an adventure. The fact that each journey could
have had a different ending throws up speculation
about what would have happened to pop music if,
say, Across The Universe had been released
instead of Lady Madonna such was the Beatles'
centrality in '60s youth culture. In this way, the
stripping of the veil is yet another tease for, in spite
of all the attempts made upon it, The Beatles' myth
remains inviolate: the century's ideal of group
adolescence made flesh. This hidden history
returns us to the beginning of the story that many of
us are compelled to tell and retell.

Apples philanthropic side was Pauls idea, but John

was up for it, bristling from criticism in left-wing
magazine Black Dwarf that they only sang about
revolution. John replied, "We set up Apple with
money we as workers earned, so that we could
control what we did." Only The Beatles couldnt
control their way out of a wet paper bag. Their
manager, Brian Epstein, had always controlled
everything for them, cocooned them from harsh
reality. Three months after forming Apple, Epstein
was dead.

Jon Savage, 1995

Apple Corps
Sylvie Simmons, Request, 1996

And yes, it did rot. Only it cost a lot more than 200.

The lunatics started taking over the asylum. Chaos

reigned. Over 20,000 a week was leaving the
company; no-one had any idea where it went.
"Apple", said John, "was like playing Monopoly with
real money". The Beatles accused everyone of
ripping them off, while giving carte blanche to every
leech in the Western world to do just that. Like
Magic Alex, money-eating inventor of an electronic
pulsing apple and the aptly-named Nothing Box.
Or Stocky, the Massachussets artist who lived on
the filing cabinet and drew pen-and-ink drawings of
genitals. Some California hippies set up a
commune; naked children ran up and down the
corridors. A messenger stripped the lead off the roof
and sold it. Squeaky Fromme phoned to laud
Charles Manson. An American wanted six square
miles in Arizona for an orgy site. Richard DiLellos
Apple memoirs Longest Cocktail Party recounts
how George posted a memo to staff in 68 warning
of the imminent arrival of a dozen Hells Angels "on
their way to straighten out Czechoslovakia(!)...
Dont fear or uptight them...Try to assist them
without... letting them take control." But no-one else
was.

May 1967 a month before Sgt Pepper The

Beatles sold 80% of themselves to Apple Corps, the
company formed to manage their alarmingly
slovenly financial affairs. The accountants
envisaged a commercial enterprise with retail

"Apple", says Derek Taylor, "had an aim, but it didnt

have enough order or structure. There were lots of
vague phrases like get it together and be there
and just see what happens. It was an iconoclastic
organisation and each of them would want their

"It was a good scene even when it was shitty,

wasnt it?"
Derek Taylor, Beatles publicist, 1970.
WHEN THEY make the movie, they could open at
Yokos 1966 Indica exhibition, the one where she
met John Lennon. There he is, bemused, sarcastic,
dragged along by a mate, staring at a pedestal with
an apple on top and a sign reading 200. John asks
if it costs 200 to watch it rot. Pan to a five storey
house in an expensive part of London Apple HQ.
Outside, psychedelic mural, inside antiques, Old
Masters and the weirdest collection of people
tailcoated doorman, flower children, Hells Angels,
someone on a filing cabinet impersonating an
existentialist fly. Close-up on "house hippie" Richard
DiLello: "The reception lounge at 95 Wigmore
Street looked like the waiting room at a VD clinic in
Haight-Ashbury at the height of the acid madness. It
seemed that every singer, songwriter and fast-buck
artist was hitting the fan and winding up at Apple."

202

own acts in there George was recording Ravi

Shankar and Hare Krishna, Paul, more mainstream,
was recording Mary Hopkin and James Taylor, and
John, whod met Yoko by then, was well into the
avant garde. We were attempting to fight on too
many fronts though we did stay true to the
original dream, without being in any way able to
meet the demands."

lawsuits. Its unofficial function was as a symbol of

the terrible fact that The Beatles no longer were a
group.
At the time of the split, Aspinall had started
compiling Beatles archive material for a
documentary film to be called The Long And
Winding Road. Inter-band squabbling shelved it,
and later rumours that Steven Spielberg would
resurrect it proved unfounded. But Aspinall wouldnt
drop it "hes very dogged,", says Derek Taylor,
"But then, hes been around since 1959!" Nineteen
years after the death of The Beatles, nine years
after the death of John Lennon, suddenly The
Beatles were no longer in dispute with each other,
Apple was no longer in dispute with EMI, and the
way was open for Aspinall to finally start making the
most of the bands assets. The documentary film
morphed into a money-spinning six-part series.
Somehow Aspinall persuaded each band member
to get completely involved. Yoko, representing
John, dug up some old demos, resulting in two new
Beatles singles. Three double anthology albums
were planned. An outbreak of Beatlesqueness
meant a move for Apple to new and bigger offices in
Knightsbridge and an expanded staff. Derek Taylor,
25 years after the band had broken up, was brought
back as Beatles press officer. A company called
Apple Productions was set up for the anthology. A
merchandising division, Apple Organics, handled
the sale of T-shirts and baseball caps made,
please note, without the use of pesticides and from
environmentally-friendly, smoke-it-when-yourebored-with-wearing-it hemp.

First casualty was the boutique. Losing money, The

Beatles announced they would give the clothes
away. The band, spearheaded by Yoko, raided the
place first, then threw the doors open to looters.
Everything disappeared, carpet included. "All our
buddies that worked with us for years were living,
drinking and eating like fucking Rome."
John,1970 "It was just hell, and it had to stop."
To stem the haemorrhaging, they consulted the
head of British Rail, a newspaper baron and The I
Ching. Then, at Mick Jaggers suggestion, they
approached Stones manager Allen Klein. The hardnosed accountant instituted a clean-up at Apple that
would have shamed Mussolini. "It became clear that
Apple was on its last legs." said Peter Asher
musician, producer, and Apple A&R chief. "It was
crumbling and there was a lot of dissension among
The Beatles. Allen Klein... was changing the
character of Apple. John was all for him and Paul
was against him." Paul wanted New York attorney
Lee Eastman, to handle their affairs. He and his
lover, Eastmans daughter Linda, had set
themselves up in opposing camps to John and
Yoko. The band was polarising, disintegrating.
Though titled The Beatles, the White Album was
their least band effort. Within a year, Paul would be
taking his soon-to-be-ex colleagues to court.

"It certainly isnt the philanthropic organisation now

that it was in the late 60s." Taylor sums up the
Apple 96 vibe, "but in some surreal way it does
quite resemble the 60s again although the vibe
was more like early or middle period Beatles than
the end, all back together again making decisions in
the same room. Its not just a bunch of hard-faced
bastards brought in from the city theres still a
certain joie de vivre. But any company run by the
Beatles is always going to be a bit of an oddball."

Apple, post-Klein, had become, in the words of

former employee Peter Brown, "a mausoleum just
waiting for a death". It didnt have long to wait. By
the spring of 1970, with the release of Let It Be
(described by NME as a "cardboard tombstone")
and, almost simultaneously, Pauls first solo album,
The Beatles were no more.

"It was an enormously exciting adventure. Theres

never going to be anything like that again. Its like
one of those parties where all sorts of things
happen, and at the time you may be thinking, Oh
God, how did we get into this! but afterwards you
think, Well, that was a good party! We wouldnt do
it now. Were all too sensible."

But Apple was still there hollow though it now

was, as if a worm had crawled through a tiny hole
and devoured it from the inside out. Its five
subdivisions music, film, publishing, retail,
electronics ceased to exist. No new bands were
signed. Hand-outs dried up. A building that once
resembled Satyricon set in rush-hour Waterloo
Station now had just four people rattling about in it
a financial director, a secretary, a photo archivist
and overlord Neil Aspinall, The Beatles one-time
roadie and longtime friend. Its official function was
as a central organisation for anything to do with The
Beatles as a collective be it royalty collection or

Derek Taylor, 1996.

The Beatles: Anthology 1

203

Mat Snow, Mojo, January 1996

you'll just rattle your jewellery"). And if their

rendition of 'She Loves You' blasting through the
shrieking tsunami of Moptop Mania that night in
November 1963 fails to thrill every fibre of your
being, check for a pulse. Likewise the Beatles For
Sale outtake cover of Little Willie John's 'Leave My
Kitten Alone' and an early take of 'You Can't Do
That': 31 years later, Lennon's voice connects on a
level way deeper than all our yesterdays.

ANTHOLOGY IS RIGHT. HERE IS A SEQUENCE

of snap shots that just so happen to have been
taken in the six years from 1958's toddling steps to
the height of global Beatlemania. Plus, of course,
'Free As A Bird', cut 30 years later still but based on
an original sketch of 17 years before that.
Anthology? Better make that Assortment.

Yet Anthology remains a self-consciously historical

document, albeit frustratingly short on detail. What
are we to make of the revelation that the hitherto
unreleased first take of 'A Hard Day's Night' is quite
close to the chart-topping ninth, yet 'And I Love Her'
is almost completely stripped of band
accompaniment between the early take here and
the finished article? Mark Lewisohn's excellent
notes remark the hectic schedule that stoked a
working environment of intense creative
concentration. Sadly, though perhaps inevitably for
a release with more than one eye on the
mainstream market, Anthology refrains from the
fascinating indulgence of sequencing each take of,
say, 'Eight Days A Week' to demonstrate just how
each track was baked until deemed ready to whip
from the Abbey Road oven for public consumption.

'Free As A Bird' aside, Anthology chronicles a band

whose sense of their own potential marches in step
with their ability to realise it. The better they learn
how to sing and play, the more ambitious do their
covers and, eventually, original songs become.
Among a small goldmine of only recently unearthed
material, The Quarry Men's 1958 acetate of the
Paul/George composition 'In Spite Of All The
Danger' gives no inkling of the band who would cut
'Love Me Do', never mind 'A Day In The Life'. Even
the fabled Decca audition numbers from January
'62 hardly make much of a case for Lennon &
McCartney as a pair of song-smiths fit to polish the
piano lid of such contemporary partner-ships as
Goffin & King, still less Leiber & Stoller.
And yet The Beatles' rendition of the latter pair's
Coasters hits 'Searchin'' and 'Three Cool Cats' brim
with brio and comic flair. Unlike Decca's Dick Rowe,
Parlophone's George Martin wasn't bothered by
The Beatles' backward-looking repertoire of rockin'
retreads; he heard the brio and comic flair, and
gambled that they could all work on the same
wavelength. His professional confidence in The
Beatles' as-yet-unproven disc-cutting talents fired a
creative ambition only dimly discernible among the
juvenilia herein, such as on McCartney's moodily
tuneful 1960 guitar instrumental 'Cayenne'.

Which brings us to the demo of George's neverbefore-released 'You Know What To Do'. Verse,
chorus, middle-eight: it's all there, in fact, short of a
necessary harmonic lift that should have presented
no trouble to John or Paul yet which they never got
round to providing. And so 1964 came and went
with 24 Lennon & McCartney-penned Beatles
numbers but not one single Harrisong. The neglect
apparently still rankles. In a roundabout way, then,
'Free As A Bird' is George's revenge. The Beatles'
30 Year Rule may yet obscure what, if any, kind of
power play by George brought his old pal Jeff
Lynne in on the act as co-producer, and how Paul
and Ringo acquiesced in the reduction of their
engine-room talents to a plodding parody (with,
worse still, a dated '80s drum sound instead of the
classic '60s whomp that should come naturally) in
contrast to George's star turn on his signature popslide guitar. And yet 'Free As A Bird' transcends the
grudges and the hype as an elegy to John, and to
everyone of a certain age whose youth is receding
to memory, if not posterity.

The Beatles' half of the pact, of course, was to sack

Pete Best. The recently disinterred version of 'Love
Me Do' on which he played reveals sticksmanship
of such wobbliness compared to the buoyancy of
the guys up front that one is put in mind of Scottish
goalkeepers. Nor as an early version of 'Please
Please Me' attests, was sessioneer Andy White
quite the man for the job either. No, without Ringo's
steady hands behind them, you wonder if the
outfield players would have felt sufficiently surefooted to attempt the increasingly complex
harmonies and instrumental licks that sprung them
all to Britpop domination within a year.

Anthology, then, is not nor was ever meant to be

The Secret History Of The Mop Tops. But it sure is
a fascinating and at times electrifying set of
footnotes to the story we already know.

Anthology's second half presents the Fabs not just

hitting their stride but blasting off into a new kind of
pop fame altogether. Here are the lovable
Liverpudlians having fun with Eric and Ernie (Ernie:
"What's it like being famous?" John: "It's not like in
your day, you know"), and wowing the Royals ("If

Mat Snow, 1996

We're a damn good little band.

204

Mat Snow, Mojo, October 1996

thing. But, eventually, I think that the business

pressures got to us a bit.

On the eve of the release of Anthology 3, Paul

McCartney casts his mind back to The Beatles'
glorious sunset.

Just before John announced that he was going to

leave the group, and that it was breaking up, I had
actually put the suggestion that we go and do little
clubs; in fact, do what I did later with Wings: play
unannounced little university gigs. I said we should
get back to our roots, we're a damn good little band.
And that's what we'd forgotten, going through the
psychedelic period. I think we'd reached new
heights, but in doing so, inevitably, we'd forgotten
the bottom rung of the ladder, which was just
playing together. That was my suggestion, but then
John's account of that was all, "Well, I wasn't going
to tell you, but I'm leaving the group." So that was
my last suggestion with the group, actually.

When it came to going through the tracks for

Anthology 3, a lot of these songs are associated
with things not going as well as they had been,
and with tension. When you listened to the
music, were you reminded of those times, or did
you actually think that there were more
harmonious things there?
The latter is true, yeah. I'd expected to notice the
acrimony but, funnily enough, you don't. In fact, it
actually comes over as the opposite. We're all
having quite a laugh on some of these takes. That
was one of the things I loved about it.

Do you think that part of the problem was

simply with the new, multi-tracking studios it
meant that you no longer had to sit down and
play together, so you got out of that habit?

We were given options of takes. There's one song

called 'Two Of Us' a little bit of an Everly Brothers
thing between John and I. And the atmosphere on it
is really very good. Very warm, very uh...just people
working together. And one of us I can't be sure
who it was, actually sort of jousted to the other:
"Take it, Phil!" It's all kind of light-hearted. It's not,
you know, what was going down in the business
rooms.

That's probably a good point. I was actually just

showing someone around my studio, showing them
around 48-track recorders, and showed the four
faders and said, "Well, that's what we made Sgt
Pepper's on": those first four faders, 'cos mixing
was really easy. And it just meant you had to make
your decisions sooner rather than later, which I
thought was great. I still think it's a great discipline.
Having all the multi-track things it would mean, for
instance, that I could not play bass on the original
track; but I could take a lot of time to consider my
bass parts. So, my bass playing on record, my
parts, became more interesting because of that. I
got known, particularly around that time, as a very
melodic bass-player. And that was because I didn't
actually have to play on the tracks. It did actually
cause a little friction, I know George particularly
wasn't too keen at playing a backing track without a
bass. It didn't sound like a real band, you had to
imagine the bass. It sounded a bit thin. Then, what
it enabled me to do, 'cos I lived so near the studio
anyway, the other guys would go home, and I'd stay
a couple of hours and just work. I remember
working on 'With A Little Help From My Friends',
which has got a quite interesting, complex bass-line
on it. It was a double-edged sword, you know. In
one way it allowed the recordings to get better and
more complex, and we thought, at the time, more
interesting. It depends what album you think's the
best. If you like Rubber Soul and Revolver, like a lot
of people do that period then Pepper wasn't the
best. But a lot of people also like that later
psychedelic period, because of a lot of innovative
stuff.

That was from the period where you were doing

things at Twickenham, the 'Get Back' sessions,
when you were doing an awful lot of rock'n'roll
covers. Was it a decision taken by you all to try
and recover that spirit of excitement which
maybe you thought you'd slightly lost after
Brian Epstein's death?
Once we'd decided to give up touring, which was
after Candlestick Park just because we had had it
up to here with it, and it really was getting to
churning out the same old thing we decided we
needed to get back in the studio and concentrate on
that. And we decided that that would become the
performance: the actual recorded song. We'd say to
someone: "That is the performance of 'Lady
Madonna'. If you don't like it, then don't buy it. But,
there's your performance." We were thinking
conceptually that way.
So, we had a lot of time, which led to Pepper
which was good because if we'd have stayed on the
road, I don't think we'd have had the freedom to
make something as conceptual as Pepper. But we
virtually had the year off, I think in the end it took us
five or six months with a couple of holidays in
between. So, we took it nice and leisurely, and it
allowed us to free-up mentally. So, that was a good

205

When Ringo announced in 1968 that he was

leaving the group, and did for a week, he
claimed it was because he wasn't pleased with
his drumming. Was that because he was no
longer actually playing with you, kind of knitted
in with your basslines?

band, which you perhaps didn't want to say to

them straight out?
The message with 'You Never Give Me Your Money'
was more to Allen Klein: "You only give me your
funny paper." It wasn't particularly to the other
members of the band. I didn't really feel like they
were to blame. We were kind of all in it together,
and it wasn't really 'til Allen Klein came in that we
got really divisive and started getting our own
lawyers and stuff. 'Cos he divided us. It was
basically him that divided us. He got John and Yoko
off in one corner and he got a meeting with them
through Derek Taylor, and said, "Here's what I
wanna do." And John arrived the next day and said,
"Right, this guy now represents me." At which point
George and Ringo said, "Oh well, I suppose he
represents us too, then." They just fell in with it. At
which point I said, "Like hell it is, I'm not going to be
represented..." And that, actually, was very divisive
'cos I didn't see the strength of this guy other than
he was a great chatter. So, yeah, I think some of
those...like that song particularly...not so much
'Come And Get It'. That was a straightforward pop
song, you know, with the old innuendos: Come and
get what?

I think so. Probably. Yeah. In actual fact, I don't

think the actual playing suffered at all. Quite
different from some opinions the playing was
every bit as good. But I think your feeling about how
you were playing was what suffered. You didn't
have the constant reaffirmation, you know, "Hey,
you're good, Ringo! I'm screaming at you." "Hey,
you're good, Paul! I'm applauding you loudly." It was
more like a novelist, you know, "I think this is good.
I'm sure this is good. I'm told by the critics this is
good. This feels good. But I haven't got, actually, a
room full of people applauding me." And I think
that's what happened with Ringo. He'd sort of
forgotten how good he was, and, actually, once we
told him he was the best rock'n'roll drummer in the
world, he got happy again. He actually needed to
hear that. And I think your point is right, he just
wasn't hearing it from audiences, 'cos we weren't
getting the feedback. We were just getting the
record sales, which is a form of feedback, but it's
not an instant...it's a more invisible sort of feedback.

Did you consider it as a Beatles song for Abbey

Road?

Did you sometimes wonder whether the record

sales were more a vote of loyalty than of actual
confidence in the records themselves?

Yeah. Anything I was writing then was considered. I

mean, on the new Anthology we do 'Teddy Boy'
which was considered as a Beatles song, but we
never got round to it. There was a lot of material, as
you'll hear on Anthology 3. There was a lot of stuff
coming in. And, we tried it. We've now put together
a version, an edit of one of the takes of us trying it,
which sounds interesting. You can see that we
could've done it with The Beatles. But you can
actually hear on it, also, that the band wasn't very
interested in it. I don't know why. Maybe I hadn't
finished it well enough or something. Or maybe it
was just a period where...I dunno. Maybe it was just
tension coming in. But you can actually hear on
it...the bit I'd like to keep actually, was John sort of
making fun of it. He starts to, towards the end of it
I'm going, (sings) "Dah-dah dah deh dah dah...boy
named Ted", and he's going, "Grab your partners,
do-si-do!" So we've kept that on. And while it was in
some way indicative of friction, it also was goodhumoured friction. It's not like The Troggs tape.

No, not really. No. To tell you the truth, it sounds

arrogant, but I've always had this lovely lucky
feeling that when all The Beatles and George Martin
signed off on a record, that meant it was fantastic. I
mean, I would've been happy if I'd have signed off
on it, and really genuinely said, "I think that's the
best we can do." That would have made me partly
happy. But the fact that John also signed off on it,
and George and Ringo and then George Martin,
always gave me an incredibly confident feeling that
this was a very great piece of music. So, there
really wasn't ever much of a doubt as to why the
records were selling. I think we thought: It's a good
song, it's got good lyrics. We played well, we sung
well, we've come up with some new ideas. You look
at 'A Day In The Life', you didn't exactly think, Oh,
this is old hat. We managed to pull something off.
Similarly with Abbey Road. Even though we were
having lots of friction and stuff.

I think your first point was the interesting one, that

thinking of the period and thinking of the
acrimonious stuff coming down, it is surprising when
you listen...I mentioned a song called 'Dig A Pony'.
Man, John and I are having such a good time on it.
You can just tell in our voices. 'Two Of Us' we're
doing great. And then we do a nice version, I think a

On Abbey Road, the song 'You Never Give Me

Your Money', could one link that to 'Come And
Get It' which you demoed but gave to
Badfinger as a sort of message you were
trying to send to the other members of the

206

very early version, of 'Let It Be' which we've got

on Anthology 3 which is just a very early take. I
think it's take four and we ended up doing
something like take 20-odd was the one we used.
But this is kind of nice and rough and ready. And
there's a little bit where before it John just says,
"Are we allowed to giggle in the solo?" And I say,
"Yup." And then we go into it. So, you know, you
can see the tension there, but in actual fact there
appears to be the evidence that it was quite goodnatured tension.

George really got quite annoyed at us. But you look

at it now, and Frankie Goes To Hollywood take
three months to do 'Relax'. Two days doesn't sound
so bad at all. But it felt a hell of a long time. We
came in at 10.30, broke at 1.30, and at that time
you went to the pub for an hour and came back at
2.30 to 5.30. And in the 10.30 to 1.30 session you
were expected to have done two songs. And then
2.30 to 5.30, another two. So you pretty much were
knocking out four songs a day. It was really good. It
was a very good discipline, because it just meant
you had to have your songs finished. The words
had to be exactly what you wanted, 'cos you'd set
them in stone, 'cos you'd do a vocal take and then
you'd bounce it down, and then you'd rub it off
you'd actually erase it, so it was gone forever. It had
to be right on the bounce-down. So Ringo and I
would play bass and drums together, and if I got a
note wrong, it just stayed. Or if he hit something
wrong, you know...we just had to do it again.

I think really when Klein and the lawyers got in, then
there wasn't even room for that good-natured
tension. This was like playing Monopoly on a very
large scale with lawyers. I never used to be very
good at the game, anyway. I used to get very tense
during Monopoly. And when it was real houses and
real money and real Park Lanes and real Savile
Rows, it got very fraught. And then, 20 years of
sorting it out. That was the killer. We put every
lawyer's kid through school. lf only we'd just been
able to say, "Oh, come on, split it up." It took 20
years to sort it out. And only then did we feel free
enough to do what was going to be called Long And
Winding Road, which ended up being the
Anthology.

The whole thing?

Yeah. Which wasn't too bad. It was only three
minutes. Now the cards are on the table, you really
had to do it. Which is good. It just sort of frightens
you a little bit. You just think, Oh shiiit. We've
actually gotta play this really well. 'Cos the
temptation is always: play this pretty well and we'll
fix it later. I'll get it almost right. I don't know if when
you're writing a thing you think, Well, I'll get it nearly
right. Then, you had to get it actually right.

The actual song, 'Long And Winding Road',

which, on the version which came out, you had
no control over...
That was a Klein thing. He brought in Phil Spector.

That's the difference, as a writer, between a

typewriter and a word-processor. With the
typewriter, you really had to commit or you go
through the whole thing with Tippex and it's a
mess. Whereas with a word-processor...

Have you taken the opportunity to go back to

your original intentions?
Yes. On Anthology 3 we actually use take one,
which is interesting. We've taken off all the singers
and all the strings and everything. And it's just a
very plain, straightforward version. And in fact, as I
say, it is the first time we ran it through, which
makes it interesting for the Anthology. It really didn't
need all the stuff. That's one thing I was saying to
George Martin. We often looked at each other and
said, "Why did we do those 30 other takes? The
first was perfectly good." But, you know, it's just the
creative act when you think, I bet we can get a bit
better, let's try it again, or, Let's just fix that bit and
you go on a wild-goose chase just trying to fix a
little insignificant bit. That nobody is even going to
notice.

...it spell-checks. And I've never seen so much bad

spelling.
That's because people actually have a spellcheck and they don't bother to use it.
It really is true that we've been sold a sort of bill of
goods on this high-tech thing. A couple of years ago
I was doing a piece and working with computer
guys and they wanted to sample my bass, and it
took hours to sample every single note on my bass
and they took hours again for putting the program in
the computer and I said, "You know what? I
could've played the song 50 times and I bet I
would've got it right." In the old days you'd just walk
out into the studio and just play it again. Which, I've
said, only took the length of the song. And as the
songs were three to five minutes, that's all it took.
Nowadays it takes longer than that to switch on a

I heard 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer' took loads of

takes.
We actually spent two and a half days recording
that. Which, for us, was really a scandal, and

207

computer. Well, anyway, it wasn't a better or a

worse technique it was just a different technique.
It actually meant you got more stuff done. And the
great thing the reason I can be so cocky is that
a lot of the stuff we did still stands up. And you have
groups, like Oasis, copying it religiously. And trying
to get the sound, trying to use the same
instruments, same chords. In fact, a lot of people
are going back, including myself, to our old
equipment.

concept and a tedious listen. Poor them. What is

amazing, though, is how volumes 1 and 2 of this
ephemera have sold 13 million copies. Is there an
entire generation of Beatle listeners who first heard
Penny Lane with lame cor anglais instead of
soaring piccolo trumpet? Or who will first hear Get
Back with dropped beats and missed bass drum?
Or who are getting used to hearing Beatlemusic
featuring giggling, bad playing and larkabout
singing? With six million back catalogue sales on
top, it appears to have all been taken care of. What
an astonishing re-marketing triumph.

I'm re-doing my studio with a lot of old equipment.

It's just much better. For guitar sounds and things
like that, it's very much better. It understands
guitars, whereas the new stuff doesn't. It's too
young to understand. The old stuff has got the
warmth, and you could squash the sound. We never
used to understand what was going on but they
used to overall compress some of our songs. And
we used to say it makes it "stick" to the record. We
had our own terms for these things. There was this
thing we used to...they'd finish our records off and
we used to just think, Wow, God, it suddenly sounds
like a record. I'd say people don't do that now, but
actually people are getting back into doing that.
That final little thing: you stick a compressor over it
and suddenly it's like "Crunch!" Everything suddenly
falls into place, it's like magic.

So what have we got this time? The Chez Harrison

acoustic demos for the White Album contain some
"shit wrong chord" stuff from Lennon and fluffed
lyrics from McCartney. Neither man seems
especially interested in a committed performance at
this stage and its a tribute to the bands
perseverance, and George Martins ears and
instinct, that anything came of the addled noodle of
a fragment of Happiness Is A Warm Gun or the
half-hearted half-song Polythene Pam. Nothing
Beatlewise did come of the arch McCartneyism
Junk, but he doesnt exactly sell it here.
In powerful contrast is the focussed demo work of
George Harrison. Fighting harder for album space
consideration, the spirit on his demos throughout
this period is wonderful, the songs shining vividly
through. The stripped-down, beautifully sung Old
Brown Shoe, Something and All Things Must
Pass (acquiring weighty resonance in this context)
nearly steal the show with their simplicity and
confidence. The sound of a man quietly getting into
his stride. And theres nothing as pleasantly
disarming as hearing a good, unfamiliar lyric to a
song you know intimately; the previously unheard
couplet in the delicate acoustic incarnation of While
My Guitar Gently Weeps is one of the highlights of
Anthology 3.

Mat Snow, 1996

The Beatles: Anthology 3
Chris Ingham, Mojo, November 1996
"WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ALL THAT?"
ENQUIRES PAUL McCartney after half a dozen
silly-voice choruses of Why Dont We Do It In The
Road. "Do you think I could do it better?" Yes Paul,
you could, and you did. But once again, for the last
time, we listened entranced as you do it worse than
you did it a few tries later. Ive become so used to
the six-monthly rush I get from Unheard And
Unkempt Beatles, what am I doing to do now? Its
the aural rockumentary experience of all time. The
fact that most of this can be filed under Not As
Good As The Master is hardly relevant. The point
lies in hearing this stuff at all particularly for the
peculiarly magical first time. Settle yourself down
and make the first listen a good one; these tracks
are not growers.

The interest of these pre-overdub takes mainly lies

in the ensemble rhythm section work and the
exposed vocal. Generally, the group isnt as tight as
the Pepper/Mystery Tour sessions; a growing "rock"
aesthetic and wandering attention results in some
relatively sloppy early rehearsals (compare My
Kite on 2 with Dig A Pony or Im So Tired here).
Happily, however, the album boasts many moments
of superlative Beatle singing. Lennons note choices
and timing on a spooky Cry Baby Cry and a
raucous reading of Come Together reaffirm that,
when in the mood, he was formidably powerful and
inventive vocalist. McCartneys resourceful quasisoul melismas on She Came In Through The
Bathroom Window and a top-of-his-creamy-form
Blackbird both contain terrific throwaway ideas that
didnt make it as far as the released record. Even

If you clocked the birth of genius and parallel

universe effect of Anthology 2, much of this will
have you hypnotised, with ears wide open, sensitive
to the finest nuances. Of course, there are those
who find the skilful targetting of bootleg-standard
material at the masses an offensively cynical

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Ringo, accompanied only by piano, delivers a

beautifully judged Good Night. Toppermost,
though, is a heart-stoppingly gorgeous a cappella
Because, bathed in a sea of luminous echo.

They returned, weaved a little magic, and theyve

gone again. There is no more.
Thank you boys, we love you. Can we get on with
our lives now?

In the Different From The Record department there

is a slinky, slower version of Sexy Sadie which, not
far from being useable, sounds like a better idea
than the one they went with. Theres an intriguing
heavy-groove take on a half-written Helter Skelter
("Hell for leather...") and a surprisingly enjoyable
Maxwells Silver Hammer minus the bloody anvil,
featuring some charmingly reckless Nilssonesque
scat from McCartney.

Chris Ingham, 1996

Derek Taylor: Obituary
Richard Williams, Mojo, November 1997
IN 1963, WHEN BRIAN EPSTEIN INVITED HIM TO
HANDLE the Beatles' PR, Derek Taylor was a 31year-old national newspaper reporter with a suit and
tie. The new world he entered was to liberate his
fine intelligence, turning him into one of its bestloved figures.

It occurs occasionally, listening the nearly-there

tracks, how many correct decisions were eventually
made. I Will is too slow at this speed, those stop
chords in the bridge of Two Of Us are pedantic,
pick it up after a couple, and that guitar intro sounds
better syncopated. No harmony needed on the
verge of Oh! Darling but could sound good on
Come Together. All sorted in time.

His tenure as the Beatles' press officer continued,

on and off, in official and emeritus capacities, until
his death after a long illness on September 7. He
was a man of wit and imagination whose occasional
failures during detours into other areas of the music
business did nothing to diminish the respect in
which he was held by all who came into contact
with him during a wonderfully hectic era when the
term "marketing" had yet to be coined.

You also notice how close to some gems they get.

On Anthology 2 the light and hip Im Looking
Through You was such a moment, here the most
obvious near miss is when a delightful Latin version
of McCartneys underrated Step Inside Love
disintegrates into more moderately amusing joker
Los Paranoias. The legendary, unreleased Whats
The New Mary Jane is chaotic nonsense (Lennon
wanted this as a single?), though the random
soundscape into the fade has a certain much
heavier and angrier than this acoustic solo version
11 years on.

Born in Liverpool on May 7, 1932, Derek had

graduated from a local paper to the Manchester
office of the Daily Express, for whom he posted a
George Harrison column. In the 18 months after he
accepted Epstein's offer, he watched the
phenomenon of Beatlemania reach its peak before
leaving the organisation and, after a brief stint with
the Daily Mirror, emigrating to Los Angeles with his
family. Such was the reflected Moptop glory, he
immediately acquired his own official fan club.

The Let It Be sessions sound even worse than in

the film. Blue Suede Shoes and Rip It Up are
shockingly inept, Teddy Boy virtually sabotaged;
its obvious no-ones heart was in it, their minds
elsewhere. After a particularly gruesome runthrough of Oh! Darling (with Lennon searching in
vain for a harmony, he and McCartney apparently
trying to out-casual each other); John announces
that Yokos divorce had come through that morning
before extemporising a verse about lawyers. Come
on chaps, concentrate. Only The Long And
Winding Road, free of Spectors heavenly angels,
is really worth a second listen, the other outtakes
too laden with palpable bad spirit for comfort.

Revelling in the new Sunset Strip Scene, Derek

exerted considerable influence as press officer for
the Byrds, the Beach Boys, the Mamas And The
Papas, the Doors, Buffalo Springfield, and Captain
Beefheart's Magic Band. In 1967 he took acid for
the first time, and played a leading role in setting up
the Monterey Pop Festival.
Apple moved to its offices at 3 Savile Row in mid1968. From his fan-backed colonial cane chair,
Derek presided over a press office that mixed oldfashioned efficiency with hippie generosity as it tried
to promote the careers of, among others, Mary
Hopkin, Jackie Lomax and Badfinger, as well as
those of the four proprietors. It was all terrific fun,
particularly if one of the Fabs as Derek always
referred to them was in the building.

Anthology 3 closes majestically with, among other

delights, a convincing, all-present Come Together,
a minus-John I Me Mine and finally a hard-swallow,
spine-chilling, rocking guitar-heavy, full-on orchestra
mix of The End. While youre recovering, the Day
In The Life piano chord creeps in backwards,
sounds, then fades achingly away.

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Derek made it look easy, which it can't have been.

Read this, from As Time Goes By, the first of his
two autobiographies, recording a single day in
1968: "The word is out that the press are going to
massacre Apple, which is a big deal. Ray Coleman
who edits Disc & Music Echo, tells me 'the knives
are out', which is another big deal. Jeremy Pascall
from Rave and Nineteen magazine tells me he only
wants the truth. Don Short from the Daily Mirror
says Dougie Marlborough of the Daily Mail really
has it in for Apple, for the Beatles and for me.
Lucinda Franks promises me that UPI will carry a
more favourable story than AR. Alan Hall of The
Sun says that George Harrison is not the man he
used to be. Five reporters from the Daily Express
conclude that Apple has gone sour and quote the
company's leading competitor in support of their
conclusion. Ho ho. The Evening News says the
Rolling Stones have a greater sense of
responsibility than the Beatles. The People has
secured an exclusive interview with Brian Epstein,
through a medium in West Hampstead. Anne
Nightingale from the Daily Sketch wishes she hadn't
been in Tunisia when the anti-Beatle storm broke.
She would have written something nice about them.
The Liverpool Daily Post hopes the Beatles haven't
forgotten their humble origins. The Sunday Mirror
believes John Lennon to be in Austria. The Evening
Standard wants some facts. Stella from the Daily
Telegraph doesn't know 'anything about pop music',
'What's Donovan's first name?' she asks. Phillip
Palmer of Record Retailer wants to share the
Beatles' financial secrets. Bill Harry of Liverpool
wants them to play the Cavern again. Bill Marshall
of the Daily Mirror doesn't want Derek Taylor to
change. Tony Barrow of Nems doesn't want to
comment. I don't want to die. The BBC doesn't want
to know. The Melody Maker just needs something
for the front page."

the Sgt Pepper 20th anniversary project, the

Anthology series, and several lavish books with
George Harrison occupied the final phase of his
life, earning him the gratitude of further generations
of Beatles fans.
Richard Williams, 1997
Timeless Illustrious Past: Why The Beatles Are
Still Big Business
Steve Turner, Wiener Zeitung, June 1999
Although the Beatles disbanded almost thirty years
ago, public interest in the group has never waned.
Beatles records still sell in their millions worldwide
(six million back-catalogue albums in 1996 alone),
Beatles books pour from publishing houses and
stories about John, Paul, George and Ringo
continue to make headlines.
A recent survey carried out by the British Market
Research Bureau found that the Beatles were still
the most popular recording artists with Britons over
fifteen.
Time magazine, in a June 1998 issue devoted to
the 100 most influential artists and entertainers of
the century, named them as number one in the rock
music category.
Younger groups such as Oasis, whose recently
released album The Masterplan contains a version
of I Am The Walrus, are not embarrassed to cite
the Beatles as a major influence.
It is an indication of the groups enduring fascination
that The Beatles Monthly, a 48-page glossy fan
magazine published in London, carries at least 12
pages of Beatles news in every issue. This can
range from the current activities of the former
Beatles (Ringos new album, Georges High Court
case against a record company) and information
about Beatles events (A Hard Days Night to be
given a cinema re-release in 1999) to details of
websites, fanzines and auctions. Since the
Liverpool boys went their separate ways, the career
of The Beatles has been endlessly replayed,
analysed and celebrated.

The advent of Allen Klein's management

techniques, and the consequent emphasis on
efficiency, destroyed the warm, chaotic soul of
Apple, and in 1970 Derek moved to the London
office of Warner Bros. The cane chair went with
him, and so did some of the ambience. As director
of special projects he created a new career for
George Melly and was allowed the freedom to
produce a Harry Nilsson album for RCA. A
subsequent period as managing director was less
successful; nor did he settle as the US company's
"director of creative services" when he briefly
returned to Los Angeles in the mid-'70s.

There are now dozens of tribute bands who play

nothing but Beatles music. Among the best known
from around the world are Det Betales from Norway,
Clube Big Beatles from Brazil, Lenny Pane from
Sweden, Museum from Kazakhstan, Backwards
from Slovakia, Liverpool from the United States,
and The Bootleg Beatles from England. There is

By 1977 he was back in England, solving a drink

problem, settling his wife and six children into an
old Suffolk mill house, and returning gradually to a
re-engagement with the legacy of his former
employers. This work in its various forms notably

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even a George Harrison tribute band called Hare

Georgeson.

The most highly prized items are handwritten lyrics.

A notebook containing the words of Let It Be in
Pauls handwriting recently sold for 111,500 pounds
sterling. A corduroy jacket worn by John on The
Beatles final tour fetched 8,000 pounds sterling.
Christies of London was offering a 25-minute tape
of a 1963 Beatles concert recorded by a theatre
technician. Bidding started at 30,000 pounds
sterling. A rare collection of signatures featuring the
groups 1961 line-up of John, Paul, George, Stuart
Sutcliffe and Pete Best should fetch at least 6,000
pounds sterling.

Many of them have now played more concerts than

The Beatles. The Bootleg Beatles, for example,
formed in 1980, now play more than 100 shows a
year. Three years ago they sold out the 10,000-seat
Budokan venue in Japan.
Important showcases for these bands are found in
the various Beatles conventions that take place
around the world. At these weekend events the
days are devoted to guest speakers, videos,
quizzes and sales of memorabilia while concerts of
Beatles music take up the evenings.

"Ten years ago we saw handwritten lyrics sell for

15,000 pounds sterling", said Christies pop expert
Carey Wallace. "Now you would be talking about at
least four times that amount, more if it was a
working copy with notes and crossings out".

Popular guests at these events include relatives of

the Beatles (Pauls stepmother Angie McCartney,
Johns uncle Charlie Lennon), former business
associates (Alistair Taylor and Tony Bramwell from
Apple) and authors of Beatles books.

Books about The Beatles continue to be more

specialised. One title, The Day John Met Paul, by
Jim ODonnell, is a detailed account of 6 July 1957,
the day that Lennon and McCartney first set eyes
on each other at a church fete.

For the Third Annual Beatles Convention in

Havana, Cuba, the special guests billed included
The Quarry Men, the Liverpool skiffle group that
once numbered John, Paul and George among its
members.

Drummed Out! by Spencer Leigh is devoted to the

events surrounding the dismissal of Pete Best, The
Beatles original drummer.

The first Beatles convention, BeatleFest, was

started by Mark Lapidos in 1974.

Drugs, Divorce and A Slipping Image by United

States authors Doug Sulpy and Ray Schweighardt
meticulously reconstructs the recording sessions
that produced the album and film Let It Be.

It now takes place annually in New York, Chicago

and Los Angeles and attracts more than 20,000
fans. In 1999 Orlando, Florida, will be added to the
list of venues. When Lapidos first had the idea he
tracked down John Lennon who was staying in a
New York hotel and asked him what he thought.
"John told me that he was all for it," remembers
Lapidos. "He said to me: Im a Beatles fan too!"

The Beatles themselves continue to remain

remarkably detached from the exploitation of their
name. They do not endorse products, attend
conventions or pass comment on tribute bands.
They rarely appear on talk shows and if they do it is
usually with the proviso that "Beatle talk" is kept to
a minimum.

Many of the fans at these conventions will be

collectors either of memorabilia or of Beatles
merchandise. Best-selling items in this years
BeatleFest catalogue include Beatles telephones, a
Yellow Submarine shirt, candles and calendars. At
the Beatles Convention in Liverpool this summer,
original fan-club flexidiscs were selling for 40
pounds sterling each and a brick from the now
demolished Cavern for 115 pounds sterling.

Their back catalogue is jealously guarded to avoid it

becoming devalued. It is for this reason that few
Beatles tracks ever appear on compilation albums
or film soundtracks or are repackaged in cheap
editions for mail order.
Of all the former Beatles, Paul McCartney seems
the happiest with the legacy. His strong support was
given to the ambitious Anthology project which saw
the release of three double compact-disc albums
and six hours of television documentary to "put the
record straight" in 1995 and 1996.

Serious collectors who are willing to pay anything

from 700 pounds sterling for autographs to 160,000
pounds sterling for lyrics (the price paid for a copy
of Shes Leaving Home) attend the pop sales
organised by auction houses such as Sothebys
and Christies where over 30 per cent of the lots are
normally Beatle-related.

The Anthology CDs sold 13 million copies

worldwide. They contained a combination of mostly
unreleased tracks, live recordings, radio and

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television sessions and some of The Beatles own

private tapes. George and Ringo are notorious for
not wanting to elaborate on their illustrious past.

narrative of this most pivotal decade. A story, in

other words.
So compiling this album should have been a
straightforward retelling of that story: just take the
tunes and slap 'em down, in order, from 'Love Me
Do' in '62 to 'Let It Be' in 1970. I could have done
the job in 20 minutes. So could everybody else who
writes for this magazine. So, probably, could you.
And it is unlikely that very many of us would have
chosen to omit 'Please Please Me', the early '63
smash hit which transformed the Beatles from a
mildly promising baby band whose first single, 'Love
Me Do', had reached Number 17 in the autumn of
1962, to the absolute epicenter of UK pop and
thence to the collective hearts of the world. I always
thought it was a Number 1 record. So did all my
mates at school. So do all my mates now. So,
according to the Anthology book, did the Beatles,
and Brian Epstein, and George Martin. Apparently it
wasn't, or so says the Record Retailer chart.
Unfortunately, I wasn't reading Record Retailer at
the time. 'Please Please Me' was Number 1 on
BBC, and in the NME, and that was good enough
for me and, as far as I could tell, for everybody else
in the country.

"Ive never written my autobiography because the

publishers only want to know what happened in The
Beatles," said Ringo recently. "Im not interested
any of that. I was born very young and had a good
life. End of story."
But the public appetite for The Beatles refuses to go
and makes the music of the past live as an active
force on the contemporary scene. Since June 1967,
Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band has been in
the charts several times, most recently reaching the
top thirty in the UK.
Aaron Copland was quoted to have said: "To relive
the Sixties, play Beatles music." But the late Derek
Taylor, formerly The Beatles press officer,
expressed the view in the mid-90s that "Its clear
that the music is timeless, fresh, alive and still
kicking its way into the charts. It is not nostalgia."
Steve Turner, 1999
The Beatles: 1

Which brings us to the premise upon which this

collection is based. They're not doing 'important';
they're doing 'popular'. The criterion selected for
assessing popularity (and, thereby, presumed
customers' Title Recognition Factor) is that every
track, to qualify for entry, has to have been a
Number 1 (hence the title cute, huh?) in either the
UK or US charts, using the Record Retailer (UK)
and Billboard (US) lists as a reference, and the
result is compilation by computer. What should,
even in our market-driven cultural landscape, be
aesthetic decisions are arrived at via bureaucratic
number-crunching, deemed the most effective
manner of pleasing most of the people, most the
time. Which means that the album goes straight
from 'Love Me Do' (which meets the stringent
qualifications for inclusion because, despite flopping
in the US on initial release, it made Number 1
during the first wave of American Beatlemania) to
'From Me To You'.

Charles Shaar Murray, Mojo, December 2000

Does The Fabs' 'Best Of' Add Up? Packed 27track single-disc summary of pop's best-loved
repertoire, but no Please Please Me? Strawberry
Fields Forever? Hello-o-o-o-o?
Heard the one about the compilers who managed to
screw up a Beatles 'Greatest Hits' album?
Yeah, me neither until now. It shouldn't have been
possible, really. After all, the Beatles were central to
'60s pop in the same way that Elvis was central to
'50s pop; and, despite the best efforts of
propagandists working on behalf of Michael
Jackson, Bruce Springsteen, Madonna and U2, no
one has succeeded in occupying an equivalent
position since. For my generation broadly
speaking, anyone currently within five years either
way of the Big Five-O every stage of the '60s was
marked out, at approximately three monthly
intervals, by Beatles singles. Even those who
worshipped at other shrines those of the Stones
or the Who, or Jimi and Eric, or Marvin and Otis
gave it up for the Beatles: they The Man! As
m'learned friend Ian MacDonald so devastatingly
demonstrated in Revolution In The Head, the
Beatles' music provides, in addition to its myriad
musical pleasures, a coherent and evocative

It's the US input which seems most jarring to Brit

ears. 1 includes three tracks which were never
released as UK singles: 'Eight Days A ' (cool but
hardly to-die-for track lifted from the Beatles For
Sale album), 'Yesterday' (happily conceded as a
repertoire cornerstone despite its lack of UK single
status, so no problem there) and 'The Long And
Winding Road'. I could quite happily live without
ever hearing the gloopy Maccaballad ever again
(especially in its Spectroised form, complete with
bathetic orchestral bombast), though I freely

212

concede that thousands if not millions may feel

differently. The inclusion of 'Winding Road' is,
however, absolutely no compensation for 1's other
key omission: that of 'Strawberry Fields Forever'.

of spirit and soul ends up being marketed with such

blinkered cynicism. Still, them's the breaks: this is,
after all, pop's central paradox, right up there with
the idea that though 'the beauties were brief', they
can also be eternal. As is almost everything on
here. Grumbles aside, you'd have to travel far and
wide to find more Great Moments on a single CD by
a single act.

Now, it's well known that the 'Penny

Lane'/'Strawberry Fields Forever' double A-side was
held off the UK Number 1 slot in early '67 by
Engelbert Humperdinck's 'Release Me'. This is an
interesting cultural-anomaly footnote, to be sure,
not to mention an ever-reliable pub quiz question,
but culturally and historically it makes no damn
different whatsoever to the single's huge impact and
enormous influence. One of the strangest and most
beautiful pop hits ever, 'Strawberry Fields Forever'
marks a turning point in the Beatles' studio
methodology and production range, in John
Lennon's songwriting and, indeed, in the entire
notion of the creative potential of the pop single.
Thanks to Engelfluff, it's not here. 'Penny Lane'
scrapes in thanks to our American cousins, though
Billboard's decidedly idiosyncratic chart compilation
method, tabulating airplay as well as sales, meant
that both sides of the single occupied separate
chart positions rather than travelling, as they did in
the UK, as a team.

Edmund Burke once wrote that, "It is the nature of

all greatness not to be exact." The compilers of 1
honour this principle in the breach: it is precisely
their commitment to a spurious 'exactness', rather
than the structural integrity of the story the music
tells, which renders the whole of this album slightly
less than the sum of its magnificent parts. Coming
soon: the Beatles' Number 2s.
Charles Shaar Murray, 2000
The Man Who Killed Paul McCartney
Jim Yoakum, unpublished, 2001
The incredible, never-before-revealed true-life
event that sparked the greatest rock n roll
rumor of all time.

Maybe this is just caviling or nitpicking. After all,

we've never had so many Beatles hits on a single
CD before, let alone a sensibly priced one. For
many purchasers from the post-Gallagher
generation, this will be their only Beatles CD, and it
does indeed contain riches in abundance. And each
time through, you notice new stuff: like how it's
Ringo's drums, exuberant cymbal washes and
patented lolloping 'Ringo fills' which most
profoundly echo the surging optimism and energy of
Lennon and McCartney's voices and most crucial
the collective Lennon-McCartney voice they
generated when they sang harmony. I mean, Jeez,
those guys were literally born to sing together, just
as the Everly Brothers were, or Sam And Dave. Or
the continued evolution of Macca's bass playing,
best exemplified by the astonishing fluency and
assurance of his four-string performances on
'Paperback Writer' and 'Something' (the only track
here strictly not a UK or UK Number 1). And, most
of all, the expansion of their musical, emotional and
intellectual range: their assumption, conscious or
not, of their role as advance scouts for the
generation's sensibility.

THE SET-UP.....
In the February, 1967 (#43) issue of The Beatles
Monthly, the Beatles official fan club magazine, the
following blurb appeared in the "Beatle News"
section, entitled "FALSE RUMOUR":
"Stories about the Beatles are always flying around
Fleet Street. The 7th of January was very icy, with
dangerous conditions on the M1 motorway, linking
London with the Midlands, and towards the end of
the day, a rumour swept London that Paul
McCartney had been killed in a car crash on the
M1. But, of course, there was absolutely no truth in
it at all, as the Beatles' Press Officer found out
when he telephoned Paul's St. John's Wood home
and was answered by Paul himself who had been
at home all day with his black Mini Cooper safely
locked up in the garage."

And, in the end: the Beatles were the band who told
us in the '60s that all we needed was love, that
money couldn't buy it, and that the love you take is
equal to the love you make. By sacrificing story to
statistics, the compilers of this album tell us the
exact opposite: that music powered by, and so
perfectly expressive of, an overwhelming generosity

The story goes...

On October 12th, 1969, Detroit disc jockey Russ
Gibb of WKNR-FM received a bizarre late-night
phone call from a listener. This Deep Throat told
him that, if he played several tracks off of the

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Beatles "White Album" backwards, hed hear some

rather interesting things. Curious, Gibb decided "to
hell" with his stylus and turntable, and spent the
next several hours shredding his copy of the White
Album. What Gibb heard was amazing. He
discovered that, when played backwards, a formerly
indecipherable mumbling from John Lennon at the
end of 'Im So Tired' could now clearly be made out
as the Literary Beatle moaning "Paul is a dead man,
miss him, miss him, miss him." Also, the oft-intoned
words "number nine, number nine" from Lennons
music concrte opus, 'Revolution #9', miraculously
transformed into the eerie phrase "turn me on dead
man" when spun counterclockwise.

changed and he spun out of control, ending up

smashing into a light pole at full speed, thus
decapitating him (in other words, he "blew his mind
out in a car"). He was later pronounced "Officially
Pronounced Dead" on the scene, in the early hours
of Wednesday the 9th ("number nine, number
nine...). Paul was then carried in secret to the
morgue (note the "O.P.D" patch on McCartneys left
sleeve on the inside gatefold of "Sgt. Peppers".)
Faced with the prospect of losing revenue due to
the untimely death of the most popular member of
the band, (the story goes) the three "surviving
Beatles" hired one William Campbell, a man who
had supposedly once won a Paul look-alike contest,
to fill in for the dead Beatle. The "clues" then
became the Fabs way of subtly and gently breaking
the tragic news to the fans. (The entire crash
scenario is supposed to be played out in full if you
play 'Revolution #9' backwards.)

Clearly, Gibb thought, something was up. So certain

was he that he was on to something big, Gibb
started digging deeper. He soon discovered various
other "clues" relating to the supposed demise of the
Cute Beatle sprinkled on various other Beatle songs
and album covers, going as far back as their
Yesterday....And Today LP, released a full three
years earlier! Soon after Gibb began enlightening
his Motor City listeners to The Great Cover-up, disc
jockeys from competing stations in New York City
and beyond picked up this shaggy dog tale, and it
wasnt too very long before the news that "Paul
McCartney was dead" began to spread around the
world. Within weeks the sale of new and old Beatle
albums soared as both the distraught fan and the
merely curious bought clean copies just to play
them backwards. (The rumors helped the sales of
the just-released Abbey Road, Sgt. Pepper's Lonely
Hearts Club Band, Magical Mystery Tour, and The
Beatles. Both Sgt. Pepper's and Magical Mystery
Tour, which were released in 1967, reentered
Billboards Top 200 charts in November of 1969.
Both LPs stayed in the Top 200 until Spring, 1970.)

Anyway, thats the story of the Paul Is Dead rumor.

But theres another story thats never been told until now. The story of an incredible true-life event
that accidentally sparked the greatest rock n roll
rumor of all time.

*
First some background....
If an era can be said to have a father, then Londons
Swinging '60s was the bastard child of Robert Hugh
Fraser. Fraser was the son of a wealthy Scots
banker, and a man who appeared to have
everything going for him: looks, class, youth and
money. Yet for all of his privileges, Fraser was a
frustrated artist at heart who sublimated his creative
longings into running one of the best art galleries in
London. By 1964, the Robert Fraser Gallery at 69
Duke Street was recognized around the world as
being the sharpest, hippest gallery, exhibiting the
latest and most important artists of the period.
Fraser was also accumulating friends more
accustomed to the pop charts than Pop Art.
Musicians like Mick Jagger and Keith Richards,
Paul McCartney, John Lennon, Brian Jones and
others were regular fixtures at both Frasers gallery,
and at his Mount Street apartment. To the still
scruffy rockers, Fraser represented all that swung
about the Swinging '60s: the money, the sex and
(especially) the drugs. Fraser was where all of the
razz-ma-tazz of the era sprang from. Without him
smoking dope was just getting high.

Faced with this preponderance of "evidence", and

coupled with the Beatles own real lack of comment,
the public decided that the story must be true.
"Okay then," the public said, "weve come not to
bury Paul (besides, Lennon had already admitted to
doing just that at the end of 'Strawberry Fields
Forever'), but to ask if Paul is dead, then how did it
happen?"
Although there were often as many tales as there
were tellers in this story, by 1970 a fairly conclusive
and mutually agreed-upon scenario began to
develop regarding exactly how Paul had come to
meet his maker. As the story goes, on an evening in
November, 1966 (probably the 8th, a "stupid bloody
Tuesday"), there was an argument between Paul
and the other Beatles at Abbey Road Studios. A
livid Paul then stormed out of the building, hopped
into his Aston Martin, and sped off into the night. In
his anger, he failed to notice as the traffic light

Mohammed Chtaibi first met Robert Hugh Fraser in

the early 1960s. He was a young Moroccan
student, the ward of Mark Gilbey, the
multimillionaire heir to the Gilbey liquor fortune, and

214

it wasnt long before Mohammed Chtaibi (then

known as Mohammed Hadjij) and Robert Fraser
became fast friends. Soon after he opened his
gallery, Fraser asked Mohammed to be his personal
assistant and to move into the adjoining penthouse
on Mount Street which Fraser watched for an
ageing movie star who no longer bothered to drop
by. Officially, Mohammeds job was to pick up and
deliver painters and paintings to the gallery, but he
soon realized that his real job was to baby-sit the
gallery while Fraser ran off with his famous friends.
But sometimes Fraser would invite Mohammed
along with him (usually to cook, drive or carry the
dope), and this is what he did on the first Saturday
of January in the Winter of 1967. They were going
to Paul McCartneys house to have a party.

After a few hours of fun, and with darkness falling,

the group decide to "make a weekender out of it."
Plans are made to all drive to Redlands, Richards
secluded thatched-roofed country mansion in West
Wittering, Sussex, after a brief stop first at Micks
place in Hertfordshire. Laughing and joking, they
spill out of McCartneys door and shamble toward
the cars. Even though there are three vehicles
parked in McCartneys drive (Pauls Aston Martin,
Jaggers Mini Cooper and Pauls black Mini
Cooper), they all decide for some reason to try and
cram into Jaggers small car.
Crushed underneath the weight of Richards and
Gibbs, Mohammed suggests that they take a
second car. Paul agrees, and tells Mohammed to
get out and follow them in his Mini. (Unlike Jaggers
Mini Cooper, Pauls was specially designed for him
as an almost toy version of a Rolls-Royce complete
with arm chairs, a wet bar, smoke-tinted glass, a
racing-style steering wheel about 12-inches big,
and oversized tires. The car was only one of its kind
in Great Britain and was easily-recognized as being
McCartneys car.) As a special precaution against
possible nosy cops, Paul hands Mohammed the
book - the heart of the party - and says "meet you
there.". Moments later the front gates fly open and
the crowd of girls let out a collective shriek of
"Paullll!!" as the two cars speed past them, bound
for the privacy of the home counties.

Fraser and Mohammeds taxi pulled up to the gate

at 7 Cavendish Avenue, Pauls London home
located in the swank St. Johns Wood area, late in
the afternoon. There were already 20 or so fans,
mostly girls, camped outside hoping to get a
glimpse of the elusive Beatle. When the slight, darkhaired Chtaibi gets out of the cab the girls all
scream, thinking at first glance that hes Paul, but
McCartney is already shuttered inside the threestory detached house, playing rock n roll records.
Fraser goes to the gate and presses the intercom
button several times. Its many full minutes before
McCartney (thinking its the girls playing pranks
again) answers with a laconic "Yeah?" After a brief
exchange, the gate swings opens just enough for
Fraser and Mohammed to squeeze through, and
then clicks closed again.

Although Mohammed has driven Pauls Mini many

times, its mainly been over short distances, usually
local hash runs, and hes a little uneasy with the
cars tight steering. He curses to himself as he
realizes that his suggestion has put him in the
dangerous position of driving the car at night, down
unfamiliar roads, with no clear idea of his ultimate
destination. Hes also quite stoned and is having to
concentrate very hard just to keep the little car
between the lines. Within minutes the two Mini
Coopers are well past the bright city lights of
London, heading up the M1 into the country dark of
Britains outer regions. Before long theyre traveling
at speeds upwards to 70 M.P.H., dangerous indeed
on such narrow black roads better suited for
bicycles than automobiles. Mohammeds having to
push the Mini faster than hes comfortable with
doing in order to keep Jaggers taillights in sight.

Once safely ensconced inside the house, the trio

retire to Pauls cluttered back-room lounge to relax.
After a few minutes of chat, McCartney exits, but
quickly returns with a large book which he then
places on a table. Mohammed watches as Paul
opens up the book. Hes surprised to learn that its
actually hollowed out in the middle, making the
book a secret box, and the box is filled with all
manner of hard and soft drugs, from hashish to
cocaine, heroin and acid. This is the stash, the
heart of the party. Paul takes out a bag of hash and
assigns Mohammed the task of rolling the "Benson
& Hashish B-52 Bombers", joints made from a
mixture of dope and tobacco, while he and Fraser
chat. A few Bombers later, the intercom buzzes
again. Within moments Mick Jagger, Keith
Richards, Brian Jones and mutual hipster friend
Christopher Gibbs (the nephew of a former British
Governor of Rhodesia) are standing in the middle of
the room. Now the party starts to get serious, and
the Bombers are augmented by some of the harder
drugs.

At about the half-way point in the journey,

something crucial happens: Mohammed runs out of
cigarettes. Giving the car the gas, he succeeds in
pulling McCartneys Mini up beside Jaggers car
and motions to Fraser to toss him some ciggies.
Amazingly, considering their speed, Fraser
manages to land a few butts inside the car. Jagger
and Company then pull ahead and out of sight.

215

At this point it should be mention that in his hurry to

get into the Mini outside McCartneys house,
Mohammed accidentally left about a 12-inch section
of the cars seat belt dragging on the ground. As
Mohammed slows down to light his fag, another car
comes up from behind him and begins to pass. As it
does, the cars tires run over the dangling seat belt.
Unaware of the passing car, Mohammed
immediately feels the Mini being tugged to the right.
He compensates by instinctively pulling the steering
wheel in the opposite direction. Its at this exact
moment that the passing car drives off of the belt.
The next thing Mohammed knows, the Mini is
leaving the asphalt and is flying through the air at
incredible speed towards a large metal streetlight
sitting atop a massive concrete pylon. As the Mini
smashes headlong into the pole, the jagged metal
of the light shaves the car straight up the middle like
a tin can, breaking the engine in two, and leaving
Mohammed unconscious and bleeding and hugging
the monstrous lamp between his legs.

Fraser tells Mohammed that Paul and the others

were plenty pissed off that he never bothered to
show up with the drugs, accusing him of giving
them the slip and making his own party. Chtaibi tells
Fraser the story of what happened and asks Fraser
to ask McCartney if his insurance can cover his
injuries. Fraser says that hell relay the tale to Paul.
On Monday, Mohammed is somewhat surprised by
an unusual visit from McCartney. But far from being
please by - or even acknowledging - Mohammeds
super-human efforts to get rid of the stash, Paul
lashes into the Moroccan for wrecking his prized
car. Mohammed pleads with McCartney for help,
saying that he doesnt have enough money to go to
hospital and thatd hed like to collect on the
insurance. Paul is adamant. No. "That cars only
insured for me, my chauffeur, Jane (Asher, his
fiancee at the time) and Janes mum," he says.
Mohammed later complains to Fraser about Pauls
lack of sympathy. Fraser tells Chtaibi to not worry
about it, that things would be fixed. They never
were.

He doesnt know how long hes been unconscious.

Perhaps for just a few minutes, maybe longer,
maybe less. But its not too very long after the crash
that Mohammed starts to awaken. The first thought
that occurs to him is not the state of the car, or of
his bloodied head and body - its of the box. The
heart of the party. Realizing the dire implications
should the police find a box full of drugs in Paul
McCartneys car, Mohammed manages to pull
himself out of the wreckage, locate the box, hobble
across the dark highway (scaling a high barrier
fence and a traffic island in the process), throw the
box as far down a ravine as he can, and still make it
back to the accident site before the police arrive.

So... the question is: was Mohammed Chtaibis

unfortunate encounter with Paul McCartneys Mini
Cooper the inspiration behind the ensuing Paul Is
Dead rumors? While there is no definitive proof that
it was, there are an awful lot of coincidences
between what did happen and what was rumored.
To start, although it didnt take place in late Fall of
1966 (as went the rumor), there really was a car
crash involving Paul McCartneys Mini Cooper on
Saturday, January 7th, 1967 on the M1. While it did
not involve Paul, the car was driven by a man who
resembled him enough to start tongues wagging
and stories flying.

Hot on the heels of the police, come the spectators.

They immediately recognize the Mini Cooper as
belonging to McCartney, and an audible buzz goes
up after they see a slight, dark-haired man being
pulled from the car and placed into an ambulance.
Putting two and two together and coming up with
three, the word quickly spreads that Paul
McCartneys been in a car accident.

After Chtaibis accident, the Beatles suddenly

incorporated an inordinate number of references to
car crashes and accidents into their lyrics. Rather
odd topics for rock songs, and ones previously
neglected by the Fabs. To wit: "He blew his mind
out in a car" ('A Day In The Life', recorded February,
1967). "You were in a car crash and you lost your
hair" ('Dont Pass Me By', recorded June, 1968).
And these rather bizarre excerpts from 'Revolution
#9', a song which acts almost as a recreation of a
car accident, encompassing screams, crashes,
flames, and comments from spectators, including:
"People ride, people ride. Ride, ride, ride, ride,
ride... He hit a pole... He'd better go to see a
surgeon... In my broken chair, my wings are broken
and so is my hair... Its a fine chemical imbalance...
Mustve got it between his shoulder blades..."
('Revolution #9', recorded June, 1968).

Mohammed is taken to a nearby hospital where he

is treated for multiple cuts, bruises and other
injuries. After the doctors remove all of the glass
from his face and body, Mohammed (still bolstered
from the drugs at Pauls) decides that hes okay,
checks himself out and goes home. Once back at
Mount Street he spends a few anxious hours
waiting for the phone to ring. "Surely theyre going
to call," he thinks. "If only to know what happened
to the drugs." But, surprisingly, the phone never
rings. He decides to go to a party instead. The next
morning, hurting and hung-over, he gets a call from
Robert Fraser demanding to know what happened.

216

And for no apparent reason, theres a toy car sitting

in a dolls lap on the cover of Sgt. Peppers. The
doll wears a sweater reading "Welcome, The
Rolling Stones." The group that evening included
Paul and three of the Stones, and they were
headed to Keiths home. Also, for no apparent
reason, theres a picture of two cars meeting on a
darkened road on page 14 of the Magical Mystery
Tour booklet. If these arent references to
Mohammeds accident, or to "Pauls death" (as
denied by the Beatles), then what do they mean
and why are they there?

When Mohammed Chtaibi first told me his tale

nearly 12 years ago, I asked whether or not he
believed McCartney and the other Beatles had
been involved in the subsequent Paul Is Dead
rumor. Mohammed smiled and, placing tonguefirmly-in-cheek, sarcastically replied: "I hear if you
play 'Silly Love Songs' (McCartneys mid-70s hit)
backwards, you can hear him say I wish I was
dead!"
Touch, Mohammed. And happy motoring.
Jim Yoakum, 2001

So... did the Beatles use Mohammeds accident as

the inspiration for the hoax and, if so, why? Again,
theres no definitive proof that the Beatles had a
direct hand in the Paul Is Dead rumor. They have
always denied culpability, but the sheer
overwhelming abundance of "coincidences" and
"clues" sprinkled across four or five albums does
cast some shadow on their story. Clearly something
was up. As to why they would even entertain doing
such a bizarre thing, its important to remember the
times in which this all took place. Less than a year
earlier the band had become fed-up with screaming
Beatlemania and decided to stop touring in order to
concentrate on their music. This was a risky move.
No pop band had ever attempted to go from Teen
Idol to Serious Artist. Would the kids relate to their
new mature style? Would the sophisticos that they
were hoping to reach embrace the former Mop
Tops?

Ian MacDonald: Revolution In the Head - The

Beatles' Records And The Sixties (1994, revised
1995, Pimlico)
Phil Sutcliffe, Q, April 2001
IAN MACDONALD, now 52, was enraptured by The
Beatles as a teenager, then generally disappointed
by pop music from 1980 onwards. His attempt "to
bring the music alive for people in a new way and
inspire the musicians of the early 1990s with a
sense of generational continuity", Revolution In The
Head both musicologically analysed and told the
biographical story of every track The Beatles
recorded.
The magnificent outcome spanned both hefty
societal critique and minute insights into key
moments of creativity - viz. Lennon and McCartney
("a classic clash between truth and beauty") sharing
a piano stool to write I Want To Hold Your Hand;
McCartney found the chord which made the whole
song work, "a plunge from the home key of G minor
on to an unstable B minor", and Lennon, like
Archimedes in his bath, yelled "That's it! Do that
again!" Despite some technical language, through
MacDonald the millions who have The Beatles'
music in their pulse-beat can hear that revolution
note by note in their own heads.

Before Sgt. Peppers was released, neither

scenario looked very likely. In fact, the British press
had taken to calling the Beatles "washed-up" and
"out of ideas." It was a tense time with a lot riding
on their next move. Is it really such a stretch to think
that four clever men like the Beatles might want to
take out a little insurance against the possible
failure of Pepper by cooking up a fantastical
scheme as bizarre as the Paul Is Dead Rumor?
After all, arent these the same guys who had
previously played with our brains by putting
backwards singing on 'Rain', who sang "tit, tit, tit" on
the choruses of 'Girl' and who managed to slip the
phrase "Pauls a queer" into the ultimate kiddies
song, 'Yellow Submarine'? The thinking could have
been, should Sgt. Peppers belly-up, the band could
slowly reveal the "clues as to Pauls demise" some
months, or even years, later in order to spur
sagging album sales. Embarrassment at the
premature discovery of the scheme could easily
account for their later adamant denials. Its a
brilliant idea. In fact, the whole thing has "John
Lennon" written all over it. Assuming they had been
involved, of course.

*
Was the book an act of love? Or something
else?
Part of it was about reinterpreting recent history. But
love was the main thing, yeah. Love and peace.
You praise The Beatles for maintaining their
musical innocence by refusing to study the
technical side of music, but then you analyse
them in technical terms. Why?

217

Don't get me wrong - they were very sussed in their

way. As for the details, I wanted to get people to
listen closely, not just to The Beatles, but to modern
stuff too. Originality often comes from attention to
detail.

Chris Welch, The Guardian, 1 December 2001

George Harrison, singer, guitarist, composer
and film
producer: born Liverpool 25 February 1943;
MBE 1965; married
1966 Pattie Boyd (marriage dissolved 1977),
1978 Olivia
Arias (one son); died Los Angeles 29 November
2001

Did you write anything that loads of readers

have hated you for?
No hate, but several objected to the entries on
Across The Universe ("this plaintively babyish
incantation") and Helter Skelter ("embarrassing",
"clumsy", "drunken mess"). Otherwise, everyone
seems to like it - but that's more down to The
Beatles than me.

GEORGE HARRISON played lead guitar and sang

in the most
famous pop group of all time. Of the four members
of the
Beatles - Harrison, John Lennon, Paul McCartney
and Ringo
Starr - he was perceived as the quiet one, and
sometimes
seemed ill at ease with fame; as the youngest, too,
he felt
overshadowed by the dazzling talents and
personalities of
John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Yet, despite the
success of
the Lennon/McCartney songwriting partnership, it
was
Harrison, with his enquiring mind, who helped push
the
Beatles into new musical dimensions and
philosophical paths.
He readily embraced the ideas of the guru
Maharishi Mahesh
Yogi and the Indian classical music of the sitar
virtuoso
Ravi Shankar, and in so doing he encouraged the
progressive
spirit that led a once-raucous Merseybeat group to
become
one of the key forces shaping 20th-century music.

Paul McCartney recently said on Radio 4 that,

although he likes the book, it includes
"terrifying mistakes" because "[MacDonald]
couldn't know what I was feeling at any
particular moment". Does that trouble you?
He may disagree with some interpretations, but his
views in hindsight, like Lennon's, don't always add
up. He exaggerates - but he's naturally possessive
about what he sees as the truth about The Beatles.
Critics have rarely been fair to him.
What do you think of The Beatles being Number
1 for weeks again?
Extraordinary, seeing as it's over 30 years after the
original events. It's as if Glenn Miller's greatest hits
had come out in 1975 and sold more than every
other LP released that year. Good album title, too.
Over time, have they become more of a
stultifying burden to modern music than an
inspiration?

It was to Harrison's credit that, in the midst of this

extraordinarily talented and competitive group, he
became
established as a fine composer, singer and guitarist
in his
own right. His Taxman, one of the outstanding
numbers on
the 1966 Beatles album Revolver, was pointed,
bitter and
witty. At the height of the Harold Wilson years
Harrison
offered a polemic, regarded with some amusement
at the time,
which may actually have spurred the long march
towards lower
taxation in Britain:

To some, yes, of course. To others, definitely not. I

saw the Lennon tribute with Noel Gallagher and
Paul Weller and was moved to see how much that
sense of history means to them. Weller nearly blew
the roof off with Instant Karma. How can you knock
that? Very little that's any good today isn't
connected back to The Beatles or the '60s. It's the
foundations ... I sometimes wonder if the book
played a small part in Britpop. I'd be pleased if it
did.

Phil Sutcliffe, 2001

George Harrison 1943-2001

218

Let me tell you how it will be, there's one for you, 19
for
me. . . Should 5 per cent appear too small, be
thankful I
don't take it all.

artists he admired, particularly Carl Perkins, Bob

Dylan and
fellow guitarists Eric Clapton and Alvin Lee; and he
idolised the great British humorists - the Goons, the
Bonzos, Monty Python's Flying Circus and the
Rutles.

Within a year, however, his writing tone had

softened as he
became more spiritual and less concerned with
earthly needs.
Within You, Without You, his song for Sgt Pepper's
Lonely
Hearts Club Band (1967), on which he sings "With
our love
we could save the world . . . / life flows on within
you and
without you", has a sensitivity that belies his cheeky
scouse image. Harrison was conscious that,
compared with
Lennon and McCartney's, his output seemed
limited. He once
explained: "I began to write more songs when I had
more
time, especially when we began to stop touring.
Having
Indian things so much in my head, it was bound to
come out."

The son of a bus driver and raised in a council

house,
George Harrison was born at 12 Arnold Grove,
Wavertree,
Liverpool, in 1943. He was the youngest of four
children
born to Harold and Louise Harrison, and had two
older
brothers, Harold junior and Peter, and a sister,
Louise.
George started school at Dovedale Primary School
(also
attended by John Lennon) and in 1954 began
attending the
Liverpool Institute, the local grammar school where
Paul
McCartney was also a pupil. Harrison found it
difficult to
study or relate to his teachers and, despite parental
protests, insisted on wearing tight jeans and long
hair.
When the skiffle craze started, George and his
brother Peter
formed a group of their own, and their mother
bought George
a guitar for lbs3. The group earned 10 shillings for
their
debut gig at the British Legion Club in Speke.

In the wake of the Beatles' break-up in 1970

Harrison became
a solo artist of some distinction, but it was not a
smooth
ride. He was suspicious of a media that didn't
always take
him seriously. Harrison was never accorded the
hero status
of Lennon; he was considered less lovable than
Ringo Starr
and could never achieve the immense output of the
all-rounder McCartney. But as he grew older and
more mature,
and as the pressures of fame gradually receded
and the
competitive spirit of the times abated, so Harrison
revealed
himself to be a warmer, less combative person. It
became
clear that he was blessed with a sense of humour
which had
been submerged in his less attractive,
moustachioed guru
period.

On leaving school George Harrison thought of

becoming an
apprentice engineer; instead music became his
ruling passion
and he played in several groups before meeting the
Quarrymen
in 1958. The group included Lennon, Harrison's
new mate
McCartney, whom he had met on the bus to school,
and
Lennon's friend from art college Stuart Sutcliffe.
At first Harrison was deemed too young to join but,
after
filling in when their regular guitarist Eric Griffiths
failed to show up, he was accepted as a full
member. Even
so, he had to convince the much older Lennon.
Lennon said:

Indeed the quiet and serious George was only one

facet of a
personality enriched with impish charm, a sharp
tongue and
sharper mind. He had an almost boyish enthusiasm
for those

Paul introduced me to George and I had to make

the decision
whether to let George in. I listened to George play

219

and
said, "Play 'Raunchy'." Then I said, "OK, you can
come in."
I couldn't be bothered with him when he first came
around.
He used to follow me around like a bloody kid,
hanging
around all the time. He was a kid who played guitar
and he
was a friend of Paul's which made it easier. It took
me
years to come around to him, to start considering
him as an
equal.

George". But
word reached the Hamburg police that the "lovely
child" was
under 18 and so not allowed to work in night-clubs.
He was
immediately deported back to Liverpool, followed
shortly
afterwards by both Pete Best, the group's drummer,
and Paul
McCartney, who had been accused of setting fire to
their
accommodation. However, the Beatles returned to
Hamburg in
April 1961 when Harrison was old enough to gain a
work
permit, with Sutcliffe deciding to leave the band and
remain
in Hamburg (where he died the following year after
a brain
haemorrhage).

The young band changed its name to Johnny and

the Moondogs
and later became the Silver Beetles. From the start
Harrison's role was defined as a vocalist as well as
lead
guitarist and he also began writing songs, even if
they
weren't always accepted for recording. His first
effort was
called Don't Bother Me.

In June the group made their first professional

recordings,
backing the Polydor recording artist Tony Sheridan
under the
aegis of the producer Bert Kaempfert. The Beatles
backed
Sheridan on five numbers, including My Bonnie, an
up-tempo
version of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.
Harrison played
the opening guitar sequence. Kaempfert assigned
the tapes to
Polydor and, after the Beatles returned to Liverpool
and a
regular slot at the Cavern Club, the label released
My
Bonnie as a single, which got to No 5 in the
German charts.
The song was also released in England in January
1962, by
which time a Liverpool businessman, Brian Epstein,
had
discovered the group and became their manager.
As a result
of his efforts the Beatles were signed to EMI's
Parlophone
label and assigned to the producer George Martin.
A new
drummer, Ringo Starr, replaced Pete Best and the
final
line-up of the Beatles was complete.

Liverpool had given birth to the group, but it was

another
famous seaport that provided the work and
exposure that
knocked them into shape. The Silver Beetles
arrived in
Hamburg in August 1960 on the first of several
visits to
Germany. Still a teenager, Harrison was expected to
adapt
quickly to a tough and often sleazy way of life, far
from
the comforts of home. Life on the Reeperbahn, the
red-light
district where most of the clubs were situated,
proved an
eye-opener. Harrison said later: "Everybody around
the
district were homosexuals, transvestites, pimps and
hookers
and I was in the middle of that, aged 17."
During a second year in Germany the Silver Beetles
became
the Beatles, and they built up a passionate local
following.
The fresh-faced Harrison became a particular
favourite: when
he sang solo numbers like Carl Perkins's Your True
Love,
he was greeted by cries of "Das liebchen Kind" from
German
girls who held up banners proclaiming "We love

At the Beatles' first recording session, George

Martin tried
to relax the band in the studio. "Let me know if
there's
anything you don't like," he said. "Well, for a start,"
said

220

Harrison, "I don't like your tie." When the group

released
Love Me Do, the song from this session which
became their
first UK hit that October, it was the start of a pop
revolution which spread around the world. As the
sound of
Please Please Me, She Loves You and I Want to
Hold Your
Hand dominated the charts during 1964, the first
wave of
"Beatlemania" was unleashed.

back, as Lennon sent his a few years later, but the

strain
of Beatlemania affected him. He became noticeably
dour and
looked increasingly unhappy on stage. He got tired
of heavy
US touring and said later of the hectic life, "I was
fed up.
I couldn't take it any more." After the band's last
concert,
at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, on 29 August
1966,
Harrison said, "Well that's it - I'm not a Beatle any
more."
In fact the group continued as a recording unit for a
further four years.

Harrison learnt to deal with a daily barrage of media

scrutiny and the extraordinary life of a rich and
famous pop
star. He handled it all with a twinkling smile, as the
group
was mobbed, feted and idolised. Harrison was not a
great
rock guitarist compared with contemporaries like
Eric
Clapton and Jeff Beck, but their kind of virtuoso
playing
wasn't required in a pop band. Whether concocted
by George,
Paul or John (and there is still debate about who
played
what), the Beatles' guitar licks always seemed apt
and
logical.

Harrison was eager to find a deeper meaning to life.

He
found it in Indian music and philosophy which he
embraced
with great sincerity. His first wife, the model Pattie
Boyd,
had introduced him to the meditation techniques of
the
Indian mystic the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Harrison
had met
Boyd while the Beatles were filming A Hard Day's
Night, and
they were married in 1966.
The couple visited the Maharishi during a trip to
Bangor in
Wales in August 1967, the same month that Brian
Epstein died
in London. They also travelled to Rishikesh, in
India, in
February 1968 with the rest of the Beatles. Harrison
remained loyal to the Maharishi even when Lennon
and the
rest of the group began to distance themselves.
Harrison
also befriended and funded the Radha Krishna
Temple, whose
popular Hare Krishna Mantra became a surprise
Top Twenty
hit in 1969.

In 1965 Harrison began playing the 12-string guitar

and
introduced the sitar to Lennon's haunting
Norwegian Wood
(1966), an exotic instrument that had rarely been
used in
pop music before. He had picked up the instrument
when he
found one lying around on the set for the group's
1965 film
Help! Harrison said:
After "Norwegian Wood" I met Ravi Shankar in
London for
dinner. He offered to give me instruction in the
basics of
the sitar. It was the first time I had ever really learnt
music with a bit of discipline. Then I listened to
Indian
music for the next two years and hardly touched the
guitar
except for recording.

The Beatles' belief that "all you need is love" could

bring
them strange bedfellows. These included some
Californian
Hell's Angels who came to London in December
1968 to visit
the headquarters of the Beatles' Apple Corps.
Harrison sent
a rather chilling note to "Everybody at Apple":

The Beatles became a national institution and were

all
appointed MBE in 1965. Harrison never sent his
insignia

221

"Hell's Angels will be in London within the next

week, on the
way to straighten out Czechoslovakia. There will be
12 in
number, complete with black leather jackets and
motor
cycles. They will undoubtedly arrive at Apple. They
may look
as though they are going to do you in but are very
straight
and do good things, so don't fear them or up-tight
them. Try
to assist them."

commented: "When
we actually split up it was just a relief. We should
have
done it years before." The break-up certainly gave
him
greater creative freedom.
He was still drawn to esoteric religious and quasipolitical
movements, like the Natural Law Party, but the
gnome-like
figure who appeared on the cover of the 1970
album All
Things Must Pass became markedly less uptight
with the
passing years. He could settle down and find peace
at his
new home, a 120-room mansion set in 40 acres, at
Friar Park,
Henley-on-Thames, which he bought in January
1970. He
devoted the following 20 years to restoring the
house and
its magnificent gardens.

In the last few years of the Beatles, Harrison

continued to
make important contributions to their albums. His
song Blue
Jay Way took up a whole side of the Magical
Mystery Tour
double EP (1967) and his movie soundtrack album
Wonderwall
(1968) was the first release on the Beatles' own
Apple
label.

During the early 70s he produced a succession of

fine
albums, including the US No 1 All Things Must
Pass, which
contained some of Harrison's most successful
apres-Beatles
work. Produced by Phil Spector, the boxed set of
three LPs
included the soulful My Sweet Lord, which became
a
chart-topping million-seller. It was unfortunate and
embarrassing that Harrison later stood accused of
plagiarism
when the song was compared to the 1963 hit He's
So Fine
recorded by the vocal group the Chiffons. He lost a
court
action in 1976 brought by the publishers of He's So
Fine,
which demoralised Harrison to the extent that he
contemplated giving up songwriting.

Harrison's ballad Something was one of the

highlights of
the band's 1969 album Abbey Road. Harrison gave
pop one of
its most stately and poignant opening lines when he
sang
"Something in the way she moves - attracts me like
no other
lover" accompanied by an achingly simple guitar
melody.
Something was inspired by his love for Pattie Boyd
and was
one of the last great Beatle hits. It reached No 3 in
the US
Billboard chart in 1969 and No 4 in the UK, and was
covered
by many celebrated artists, including Frank Sinatra,
who
described it as "the greatest love song of the past
50
years". Abbey Road was also graced by another of
Harrison's
charming ditties, Here Comes the Sun. His direct
and
simple messages provided a pleasing contrast to
the more
surreal work of John Lennon and the classically
structured
McCartney songs.

Despite his reservations about touring and live

performance,
Harrison helped organise a concert to raise money
to
alleviate suffering in Bangladesh, one of the first
charity
super-shows. It was held at Madison Square
Garden, New York,
on 1 August 1971 and Harrison was joined on stage
by Ravi
Shankar, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston,
Ringo Starr

After the Beatles' partnership broke down amidst

the
acrimony of the Let It Be period Harrison

222

and Leon Russell. It resulted in the "live" triplealbum

boxed set The Concert for Bangla Desh. One of the
highlights
was a performance by Harrison with his pal Clapton
on
Harrison's While My Guitar Gently Weeps. Bob
Dylan
performed six songs and Harrison sang Something
and
Bangla Desh. The latter was also a hit single in
1971.
Millions were raised from the proceeds of the album
and film
of the concert, although the money was frozen for
some years
and much was siphoned off in taxes and expenses,
to
Harrison's chagrin.

About It (1975), which was followed by Thirty Three

and a
Third (1976). Subsequent Dark Horse output
included George
Harrison (1979) and Somewhere in England (1981).
In 1981 he also enjoyed his biggest hit in years
when All Those Years
Ago got to No 2 in the US chart. The song was
about the
death of John Lennon, who was shot dead in New
York in 1980.
The two of them had not spoken for some years
before his
murder, but Harrison said: "After all we went
through
together, I had great love and respect for John."
Harrison lived in seclusion after Lennon's death and
had no
great desire to risk live performances or maintain
his
status as a pop star. He was happier with other
interests
including films, motor racing and gardening. He
wrote an
autobiography, I, Me, Mine, published in 1980 in a
special
limited edition, and also remained involved in
environmental
concerns. He also campaigned to save the Regal
Cinema in his
adopted home town of Henley.

After this great effort it seemed that Harrison had

lost
some of his impetus and motivation. Critics damned
as
"lacklustre" albums like Living in the Material World
(1973)
and the lyrics on Dark Horse (1974) were said to be
"full of
sickening self-righteousness". It was a dark time for
Harrison. As well as a poor response to his records
he had
to endure the pain of losing his wife Pattie to his
best
friend Eric Clapton. George and Pattie were
eventually
divorced in June 1977. George Harrison later
married Olivia
Arias, who had been his assistant at A&M Records.

Realising the public's perception of him as being

over-serious, he included in his 1982 album Gone
Troppo a
song called Mystical One on which he sang, "They
say I'm
not what I used to be, all the same I'm happier than
a
willow tree." The album, produced by Elton John's
percussionist Ray Cooper, had a lighter, more
cheerful tone,
emphasised by a cover design by the ex-Bonzo
Dog dancer
Larry Smith. After a muted response to this album
Harrison
began to concentrate more on his work with the
film-production company he co-founded with Denis
O'Brien,
HandMade Films - responsible for such groundbreaking
British movies as Monty Python's Life of Brian
(1979), The
Long Good Friday (1980), Time Bandits (1981) and
Withnail and I (1987). Shanghai Surprise (1986),
starring Madonna, was less successful. After
problems filming, Harrison said
wryly of Madonna: "She doesn't have a sense of

In 1974 Harrison had launched his own label, Dark

Horse, and
signed his friend Ravi Shankar to the roster of acts.
The
same year he toured the United States on a show
with Shankar
and Billy Preston. But the trip was fraught with
problems,
including the loss of Harrison's voice, which led to
poor
reviews and the unsympathetic headline "Dark
Hoarse". He
even had a backstage row with John Lennon, who
had declined
an invitation to guest on one of the shows. Harrison
then
avoided touring for nearly 20 years.
However, he released a new album, Extra Texture Read All

223

humour, which
is unfortunate, because it was a comedy."

In 1997 a Live in Japan album appeared featuring

Harrison
with the Eric Clapton band and the same year My
Sweet Lord
and Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) was
reissued as
a single. Harrison continued his association with
Ravi
Shankar and the same year produced Shankar's
album Chants of
India. He travelled to Melbourne to watch the grand
prix
motor racing and even contemplated living in
Australia. It
was during 1997 that doctors discovered that
Harrison was
suffering from throat cancer and he subsequently
underwent
radiotherapy and surgery.

By the end of the decade Harrison, who had

vociferously
criticised modern pop, including rap and "horrible
computerised music", decided he would give
recording
another shot. He staged a remarkable comeback
and gained his
first US No 1 since Give Me Love (Give Me Peace
on Earth)
in 1973 with Got My Mind Set on You from his
1987 album
Cloud Nine. The song was a cover of a 1963 hit by
James Ray
that Harrison had long cherished. By 1988 Harrison
seemed at
last to have come to terms with his past, a mood
expressed
on the cheerful When We Was Fab, another Top
Forty hit. In
January that year he joined Ringo Starr and Yoko
Ono at a
dinner in New York when the Beatles were inducted
into the
Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame.

Despite his low profile and relatively conventional

later
lifestyle, Harrison became the victim of overzealous fans
and stalkers in the wake of John Lennon's murder.
During the
night of 30 December 1999, a mentally unstable
heroin
addict, Michael Abram, broke into Harrison's house
and
attacked Harrison and his wife with a knife. It was a
traumatic ordeal in which Harrison escaped death
by inches,
but afterwards he joked that he could see that the
man was
"definitely not auditioning for the Traveling
Wilburys".

Although he was still nervous of performing in

public, in
1988 Harrison teamed up with some old friends to
form a
relaxed new group, the Traveling Wilburys. The lineup
included Jeff Lynne, Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison and
Tom Petty
and they released a well-received debut album,
Traveling
Wilburys: Volume One. Harrison was billed as
"Nelson
Wilbury" and said later, "It was one of the most
enjoyable
things I've done. I don't have a desire to be a solo
artist.
It's much more fun being in the Wilburys."

Interest in the Beatles did not diminish over the

years, and
from 1995 the public fascination was fuelled by the
release
of The Beatles Anthology CD set, which contained
previously
unreleased material, with an accompanying
television
documentary and book. In November 2000 a
compendium of the
group's No 1 hits, The Beatles 1, became the
fastestselling album of the year. George Harrison,
however,
remained essentially a modest, unassuming family
man, whose
feelings and needs were perhaps best expressed in
one of his
simplest songs Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on
Earth).

When Harrison played at the Royal Albert Hall in

1992 in a
fund-raising show for the Natural Law Party, it was
his
first London appearance for 23 years. Ringo Starr
joined
Harrison's band, on drums, for a rousing Roll Over
Beethoven. Harrison seemed moved and even
astonished by the
warmth of the reception. "Sometimes you think
people hate
you," he said in a telling aside.

224

 Chris Welch, 2001

Jay Way, which gave Harrison an idea for the tune

of the same name. He'd helped promote, and
attended, a concert by Ravi Shankar, the Indian
composer and sitar player, in Hollywood.

George Harrison: Harrison in the Haight

Ben Fong-Torres, San Francisco Chronicle, 2
December 2001

LEADING A CROWD IN THE HAIGHT

Now, in San Francisco, he told reporters that he
was simply curious about the hippie phenomenon.
George, then 24, Patti, and Beatles press agent
Derek Taylor drove into the area in the early
evening and strolled, unnoticed, along Haight
Street. They reached the sector of Golden Gate
Park then known as "Hippie Hill," where they found
a young man performing before a gathering of
about 20 longhaired youths. After a few minutes,
Harrison asked to borrow the musician's guitar, and
proceeded to play. A few more minutes later, one
young woman finally recognized him.

IT WOULD BE a stretch to say that George

Harrison ever left his heart in San Francisco.
But the last time he was in the Bay Area, on a tour I
covered for Rolling Stone magazine, he left a lot of
much-needed money and single-handedly kept a
major part of the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic afloat.
Harrison played in the Bay Area three times as a
Beatle and once by himself.
When the Beatles first performed in the city (or just
across a border, in Daly City, at the Cow Palace) in
August 1964, their appearance marked the first of
the Fab Four's first full tour of the United States and
Canada.

"Hey," she shouted. "That's George Harrison. That's

George Harrison!"
David Swanston, a Chronicle reporter on the scene,
noted what happened next:

A year later, again in August, again at the Cow

Palace, they performed the last show of a brief,
two-week tour, begun just after the release of their
second film Help!

"As the cry echoed through the park, hippies

clambered down hills, dropped from trees and
sprang from behind bushes. A sizable crowd
formed.

And then, on Aug. 29, 1966, they played

Candlestick Park, not knowing that they were
performing their last paid concert. (Their rooftop
romp at Abbey Road Studios in London in 1969 was
a freebie, filmed for the documentary that would be
titled Let It Be. )

"Harrison played for about 10 more minutes and

then shouted, 'Let's go for a walk.'
" 'Yeah,' shouted the hippies, 'let's go.'
"And off they went. Harrison strumming the guitar,
the hippies following along. As the crowd left the
park and moved down Haight, it grew. And grew.

KNOWING HOW TO STAND OUT

Although I was a certifiable Beatlemaniac -- even
had every song on Rubber Soul memorized -- I
didn't see the band live until that summer evening at
Candlestick Park. I vividly remember Harrison as
the man in white. Socks, that is. I remember the
sonic blur of their music -- they played, as Paul
McCartney once told me, at double-speed and
couldn't hear themselves above the teenaged din. I
recall telephoning a college buddy at home, so that
he could at least hear some of the din. But most of
all, I remember George's white socks. He may have
been the "quiet Beatle," but he knew how to stand
out.

"As Harrison strolled and strummed, hippies

bubbled up beside him and posed questions:
" 'How does it feel to have the family all together?'
one asked.
" 'It's gettin' better all the time,' Harrison responded.
" 'What do ya think of the Haight-Ashbury?' another
queried.
" 'Wow, if it's all like this, it's too much,' Harrison
answered."

As shy and reclusive as he was said to be, he stood

out again when he came back to San Francisco on
Aug. 8, 1967, and visited the Haight. He and his
wife, Patti Boyd, had traveled from England to Los
Angeles the week before, renting a house on Blue

'HIDEOUS, SPOTTY' TEENS

225

But that's not what he told others. In Dark Horse, a

Harrison biography, author Geoffrey Giuliano
quotes him saying that he'd thought the Haight
"would be something like King's Road (in London),
only more. Somehow I expected them to all own
their own little shops. I expected them all to be nice
and clean and friendly and happy."

And as he spoke, he broke into one of his songs,

The Lord Loves the One.
On his tour, which began in Vancouver and Seattle,
then headed into San Francisco and Oakland, he
pointedly disavowed his Beatle past at the risk of
upsetting his fans. He wanted his fans to listen to
Shankar's music, and gave a large portion of the
concert over to Shankar's Indian orchestra. When
he deigned to perform Beatles songs or hits of his
own, he changed lyrics, so that it was "In my life, I
love God more," and his guitar no longer gently
wept, but smiled. He sang those lyrics in a voice
strained by overuse during rehearsals. As it turned
out, the protests came not only from newspaper
critics, but from his inner circle, and from some fans
as well.

Instead, he said, he found the hippies "hideous,

spotty little teenagers." (Giuliano also described
Harrison as being too stoned to play, offending the
crowd by returning the guitar without singing, and
being chased back to his limo by a "wild band of
jeering hippies.")
But Harrison didn't forget the Haight.
In 1971, riding high on his triumphant debut solo
effort, the three-record All Things Must Pass, which
included the No. 1 hit, My Sweet Lord, he helped
stage and hosted an all-star rock benefit to raise
money for starving children in Bangladesh. Harrison
was now a devotee of Indian music and Eastern
spiritualism.

I covered the beginning of the tour for Rolling

Stone, and after the Bay Area shows, we met
between concerts at the Forum in Los Angeles,
where, backed by Olivia and several others, he
stoutly and stubbornly held his ground against the
criticism. I asked what he had to say to those fans
who'd paid $9.50 -- then a top price for a concert
ticket -- and wanted at least a taste of Beatle
George.

MUTED RECEPTION IN '74

Before his 1974 tour, he had decided that several
concerts would be benefits, and he had heard about
the plight of the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic. The
Free Clinic opened in 1967, the year of Harrison's
first visit, and had survived the district's postSummer-of-Love speed/rip-off/deterioration phase.
The clinic had grown but had lost federal revenuesharing money marked for 1975. It was set to shut
down part of its medical sector, which, the previous
year, spent $67,500 to treat 10,000 patients.
Harrison donated net profits from his first Bay Area
concert to the clinic -- a total of $66,000.

Harrison leaned forward: "Well, why do they want to

see if there is a Beatle George? I don't say I'm
Beatle George."
"Well, one of the things you don't control . . ."
"I do control . . ."
". . . is how the audience feels about you. The
conceptions . . ."
"OK, but I certainly am going to control my own
concept of me. Gandhi says create and preserve
the image of your choice. The image of my choice
is not Beatle George. If they want to do that they
can go and see Wings."

The day after that first concert, Harrison, future wife

Olivia Arias, who was at that time working for his
record label, Dark Horse, and several others visited
the clinic. This time, he was no pied piper leading
an adoring mass. Patients at the clinic recognized
him. But, as founder Dr. David E. Smith said,
"Nobody gaped; nobody mobbed him or kissed his
ass."
Harrison toured the clinic and chatted with several
staff members.

MAKING POINTS WITH HUMOR

At a pretour press conference. Harrison had
opened with an odd statement: "I really didn't want
to do this for a living. I've always wanted to be a
lumberjack." When I asked what he meant by that, I
got a dose of the humor that, like his musicianship,
was noted all too little.

"He said he hoped to start a ripple with other

musicians doing the same kind of things," writer
Amie Hill, a clinic volunteer, reported. "The doctors
gave him a plaque, and someone told me he said,
'Don't thank me. It's not me, it's something else over
us that acts through people like me. I'm just an
instrument.' "

"What I mean," he said, "is like Billy Preston says, 'I

ain't tryin' to be your hero.' But I'm just a
lumberjack." Softly, Harrison began to sing Monty

226

Python and His Flying Circus' ludicrous and lusty

anthem about the joys of being a lumberjack. But as
the laughter in the room subsided, it was clear that
Harrison had a serious point to make.

an epic, widescreen: Beatles, Angels, the Dead and

General Motors.
Gimme a Gregg Toland deep-focus shot of Haight
Street in the Summer of Love. Because that's
where this story begins (by this time, of course, a lot
more things were ending than beginning on that
storied street). Mid-summer 1967 is an absolutely
'orrible moment to visit Haight Street. If you'd come,
say, three months earlier even, it was heaven on
earth. (Okay, I'll concede it's not that easy to
measure cosmic stuff while on cosmic stuff.) But in
the twinkling of an eye, a couple of months tops, the
place had fallen flat as a souffl interrupted midbake. It'd gone from being the hippest, coolest,
profoundest place on earth to a sort of psychedelic
skid row. By the Summer of Love, our little
Hobbittown was bustling and hustling and crawling
with tourists, runaways, TV crews and narks. Cover
of Time and Newsweek. Presto, you're a Twinkie!

"I'd rather try and uphold something that I believe in

than destroy something I don't believe in. Because
it's a waste of time."
In the end, he said, "My life belongs to me." He
quickly corrected himself. "It actually doesn't. It
belongs to him. My life belongs to the Lord Krishna,
and there's me dog collar to prove it. I'm just a dog
and I'm led around by me collar by Krishna. . . . I'm
the servant of the servant of the servant of the
servant of the servant of Krishna. I'm just a
groveling lumberjack lucky to be a grain of dirt in
creation. That's how I feel. Never been so humble in
all my life, and I feel great."
I believe that he truly did. No matter how he
sounded, and no matter the poor reception he had
received. And no matter that the article I wrote
about the tour drew the most negative mail in my
dozen years at Rolling Stone. He was a happy grain
of dirt, and I was happy for his happiness.

Rock royalty showing up daily. Neil Young, Paul

Simon, Jimi Hendrix, David Crosby. And who's this,
then? It's a bloody Beatle sauntering down Haight
Street, smoking a big fat joint. Sir George Harrison
puffing like a Chinese chimney. He can't believe his
eyes all these people openly rolling joints on
Haight Street, kids throwing joints at him. Brits were
always boggled by the whole pot scene in
Hippietown. George loves the fact that he can walk
down Haight Street more or less without hassle.
People just hand him joints, maybe walk along for a
block or so to chat, and then let him go his own
way. Charles II and retinue strolling amongst his
loyal subjects.

We had both come a long way since I saw him at

Candlestick and found myself so taken by his white
socks.

Ben Fong-Torres, 2001

The Day the Angels Spent Christmas with the
Beatles

He's fascinated by it all. For George, the Haight is

the new model City on the Hill, a sort of community
whose constitution is based on rock 'n' roll, on
Beatles even. Curious George wants to know: "How
did it all start? How long has it been going on? How
does it all work? How do you do the shows in the
park?"

David Dalton, Gadfly, 12 December 2001

WELL, NO, IT'S NOT that kind of story, exactly,
although given the fairytale element in the legend of
the Fab Four you might, circa 1964, have got away
with a tableau like this angels descending from on
high in a Beatles Xmas pageant.

On Divisidero he runs into a couple of Hell's Angels,

Tumbleweed and Pete. Wow! Real sweaty, hairy,
savage Hell's Angels. The terror of the West. He's
impressed, all right. They're impressed, too.

But that would have been many years ago, when it

was still possible to imagine a flock of
tatterdemalion angels fluttering down to mingle with
the throngs in the Great Hall of Beatledom and sing
carols by a great roaring tinsel-paper fire. The thing
is, the Angels in this story are not that kind of angel,
either. Now, if some of this is starting to sound
familiar to you it's because you may already have
seen the trailer to this movie in last week's column
("My Walk-on in the Life of George"). But here we're
going to give it the full cinematic treatment. Hey, it's

"Fuckin' George Harrison, man!" In the heat of the

moment George invites them to come and stay with
him "whenever you're in London, man." You know,
at George's house! Now in England, this sort of
invitation is taken for what it is: perfunctory
politeness. Besides, he must have thought, when
are two Hell's Angels ever going to show up at
Saville Row? But this is California, baby! The West
where a man's word is a man's word....

227

"Well, Jesus, George, that's real decent of you.

Real decent. We've been planning a trip to check
out swingin' London, haven't we, Pete?" Pete is
equally enthusiastic.

is a gift in order that you should never forget that we

never fucking forget!" And, boom, the Angel'd slap
down a .357 or a .44 shell. They are all there, lined
up in a row. It's a big joke until the Angels decide it
isn't a joke. And just to show you it ain't all bluff, the
Angels hang Bill Graham out of the two-story
window by his leg at the Fillmore East when he tries
to stop them from wearing their colors into the
building.

"Fuck, yeah! Hell, we'll just bring the Harleys, it'll be

a hell of a time." Whereupon George proceeds to
hand them... his card. A bit formal, methinks, but the
boys fall on it as if it were a fresh kilo of dope. They
hand it around to sniff, I presume but on closer
examination it turns out to be an Apple Records
card. Oh well, he's not actually going to give them
his telephone number at Strawberry fucking Fields,
now is he? I mean what if these guys actually do
show up?

Peter the Monk picks up four shells and tells

Graham that the bullets are gonna cost him two
hundred and fifty dollars each. "In other words, Bill,
we need a thousand dollars."
"What the hell for?"

Kids are lying on the sidewalk, dogs in kerchiefs are

running up and down the street, people are
panhandling. It's so crowded in spots it's hard to
walk. George suddenly seems alarmed.

"Well, to fly a couple of motorcycles to London for

one thing."
Bill is ranting and raving. "Christ almighty, what in
the hell makes you think, rrraa, ra, ra."

A cloud passes over George a dark horse that

one. "Where will it all end?" he mumbles. Wot a
question! We will disappear into the blackness of
the space from which we came, destroyed as we
began, in a burst of gas and fire. C'mon, George,
didn't you see Rebel Without a Cause?

"Because we're taking these bullets off of your

desk, and that'll take a load off of your mind, won't
it? Four less bikers out for your sorry ass."
"I don't know why I'm doing this, but okay. Just one
thing." He inserts a clause at the end of the "loan"
note.

The Yuletide season rolls around and certain hairy

people start remembering that George Harrison has
invited a bunch of them to his palace for Christmas.
It's not clear exactly who George invited by name,
but, hey, who's counting it's the Beatles, innit?
What possible difference is one or two more going
to make?

"Since you're going to be guests of George

Harrison, here's what I want you to do: I want you to
tell the Beatles that I'll promote them any way I can;
I'll promote them for free. I'll promote them in
Golden Gate Park, I'll promote them in Central
Park, I'll promote them anywhere, free! On the
fuckin' moon if they so want."

Ken Kesey at Saville Row

Let's see... there's Ken Kesey, Peter Coyote from
the Mime Troupe, the Pleasure Crew, Slade and
Spider, the two Hell's Angels George met walking
down Haight Street (and their mamas), the two
original Deadheads, Connie and Sue Swanson,
Danny Rifkin, Peter the Monk and, uh, someone....
Thirteen people in all, a good round number. A
magic number! Who could object to that?

Peter the Monk's going, "Uh huh, sure. You'll

promote this in a hat, you'll promote them with a
cat! Come on, give me a break. Bill Graham
presents the Beatles for free?! Is that what you
mean, Bill?"
"Exactamente, that's it! Really, it is."

But they're about a thousand bucks short. "Jeez,

we're gonna need at least five hundred bucks just to
transport the Harleys there and back in steerage."
High finance. So Peter the Monk goes to Bill
Graham's dingy little office in the back of the
Fillmore. If you were to go up there in the old days,
you'd find all the bullets that various Hell's Angels
had given him over those early years proudly
displayed on Bill's desk. Like when Tiny or Sonny
Barger would come in his office and say: "Okay,
Graham, we're letting you pass on this one but here

"But you get the t-shirt concession, the Port-o-San

concession, the hot dog and soda...."
"Get outta here, you bums! Who do you think you
are?"
Now they've got the bread and they get on one of
those cheapo Air India flights. There aren't many
passengers aside from them, so they take over the
middle of the plane and put all the seatbacks down

228

and cover them with their coats and blankets and

sleeping bags and sit around cross-legged in a
giant circle and sing camp songs. Kesey tells
Eskimo stories and Northwest Indian tales. To
complete the picture, Peter Coyote's injecting
himself in the stomach with Vitamin B12 and
methamphetamine. He's got hepatitis and Doctor
Feelgood, the famous New York City doctor who did
such wonders for Kennedy's back problems and
Brian Jones's head problems, has given Peter his
own secret remedy, a walking cure for hepatitis. I
just saw Peter doing a car commercial, saying, I
swear, "We here at General Motors believe in the
promise of freedom.... and zero percent financing..."
Long way from the Diggers' Free Store, man, but
what the hell, things change.

that, regretfully,.... If only George had known you

were coming, well, you see.
Derek Taylor breaks it to them gently: "Look fellahs,
George sends his apologies. He means well, he
really does want to accommodate you all, but he
just didn't expect quite this many people. It is
Christmas, after all, and he does have a full
compliment of guests at Strawberry Fields already."
George's forty-room mansion is quite booked up.
Jeez, the place is a bloody castle. Who does he
have staying with him, the Bolivian soccer team?
They've just arrived California style and now they
have to scoot all around town and try to find places
to crash. George sends the Angels, their mamas
and their bikes over to Ladbroke Grove, where
Richard Dilello, Stanley Mouse, and I share a house
by the railroad tracks.

Someone plays harmonica; they get a little jam

session going and boogie all the way to London.
Boy, are they a mess when they get to Heathrow
airport. They get to customs and everybody (except
for Peter) goes into the nothing-to-declare line.
Peter with his brown paper bag full of syringes,
weird bottles, and labels that look like they're from a
Wild West chemist goes to the red zone. Waiting
forever for him to go through customs, and then for
the Angels to get their bikes out of some
godforsaken excise warehouse.

Which is how these Hell's Angels came to be

staying with us. They were exemplary house
guests. They brought food and beer and gifts
among them a signed copy of Freewheelin' Frank's
book, but they also were overweight, balding and
oddly conservative. They also held wildly differing
opinions on topics dear to our hippie hearts:
napalm, Jimi Hendrix, brown rice. So we all smoked
hash, drank beer, and played old Chuck Berry and
Jerry Lee Lewis albums until we passed out.

They head straight for the Beatles headquarters,

Apple, in a procession of motorcycles, taxicabs,
Landrovers and whatever else they sent out for us.
The bottle-green liveried footmen at Apple
practically faint when they see them Egad! The
barbarians are at the gates!

It all comes to a head at Christmas dinner, brought

on by a clash of cultures. A sort of tableau vivant of
Louis XIV and the Visigoths. The prissy little
functionaries at Apple and the rowdy, uncouth
California dudes and never the twain shall meet.
Due to some protocol of their own, the Apple elves
are not letting the ravenous California dudes eat
any of the mouth-watering food laid out on great
groaning boards. It's just like the Food Hall at
Harrods! Trays of pheasant and aspics and pates
and crackers and on and on parading past them all
day long, all day long. This incredible stuff from the
finest restaurants, and, believe me, they're starved.
They're out of money and haven't had a decent
meal in days. There's free-flowing champagne
everywhere so everybody's getting well soused on
champagne, and still no food. Finally (what do they
fucking expect?) there's a palace revolution. The
Hell's Angels insist that they be fed. Right now. Pete
Knell takes a huge carving fork and picks the whole
bird up. Sweet William tears off a leg. Turkey
anyone?

"But, hey dudes, we're friends of George's!"

"I don't doubt that you are, sir, but would you mind
waiting in the foyer. Mr. Harrison, you see, isn't
available at the present."
"That's okay, we'll wait."
It's still very early in the morning and they end up in
George's office with the tea ladies from Apple
buzzing around, bringing cups of tea and crumpets.
By the time Derek Taylor (the Beatles press agent)
shows up our motley crew is all crashed and
sleeping on the couches and in the waiting rooms
and the hallways and in George's office.
Around noon George shows up ("Mr. Harrison is in
the building!") but he can't see them just yet (or
ever!) and as to the invitation to stay at Strawberry
fucking Fields, well, a representative will be out
momentarily to speak with you. After a great deal of
huddled whispering, the Hell's Angels & Co. are told

Later on a few pimply South London bikers show

up. English Hells Angels very young, gawky guys
with their club names written in chalk on the backs
of their jackets and bearing as much resemblance
to the Frisco chapter of the Hell's Angels as Wiley

229

E. Coyote does to Attila the Hun. Pete Knell has just

founded the Marin County chapter of the Angels so
he's feeling expansive tomorrow the world! and
the thought of starting a London chapter begins to
cross his mind. Fuck, man, why not? I hear him
telling these wide-eyed kids: "You could take over
this town." Sure, Pete, tell it to Napoleon.

beginning of the British pop revolution and went on

to become one of the most influential and
successful record producers in the world. He holds
the record for producing the most UK Number One
singles (30) including the biggest-single of all time,
Elton Johns Candle in The Wind '97 .
During his 50 year career he produced Jos
Carreras, Shirley Bassey, Tom Jones, Peter Sellers,
Spike Milligan, America, Jeff Beck and Australia's
Bee Gees and Little River Band plus many, many
more. He is also an accomplished composer,
arranger and conductor, the winner of five Grammy
Awards and a towering figure in the music business.

Cut! We can't end a Beatles movie like this. Let's go

back to the other ending when all through the
house not a creature was stirring, not even Stanley
Mouse. The assembled dudes and demigods had
just sat down to a giant repast when up on the roof
top reindeer paws.... Santa and his elves! Taking a
break (reindeer pause?) from their Euro-route. In
the old days they used to stop at Buckingham
Palace for Ovaltine and digestive biscuits but the
Royals weren't so royal anymore, and we all knew
that the true kings of the kingdom were the Mop
Tops.

Playback is Sir George Martins memoir of his life

and work. Beautifully illustrated, hand bound in
leather, only 2,000 individually numbered copies
have been produced, with each personally
autographed by Sir George. Master printed in Italy
and housed in a special handcrafted box, Playback
also comes with a CD produced by Sir George
especially for this Limited Edition.

Next, in the stillness of the night, came a fluttering

of wings like chopper blades and there did descend
a flock of angels from on high, all resembling Peter
Frampton. There's a knock at the great front door of
Apple. It's Mick and Marianne, Keith and Anita! All
bearing shopping bags filled with extravagantly
wrapped presents (they must think they're starring
in some forties Christmas movie). The Who run in
with mad grins, Janis brings the libations, and Jimi
Hendrix arrives finely dressed as Saint Nick from
Saturn. Every Beatle fan that ever was is there at
the feast, including Tiny Tim with his ukulele. And
the happiness and camaraderie that day was such
that the old building on Saville Row did almost
levitate with joy. And from that moment forth there
was peace on earth and good will towards men
(and women), 'All You Need Is Love' became the
anthem of every land, and Beatle lunchboxes were
given to every boy and girl. And up over the Old
Smoke rose a rousing anthem sung by all the
raucous voices who had ever blessed vinyl, singing:

At the world wide launch of his book last month

here in Melbourne, Joe Matera sat down for an
exclusive and rare chat with Sir George to discuss
his views on producing, the current state of the
music business and Noel Gallagher.
Joe Matera: Youve been quoted as saying that
you have a lot of respect for Oasis Noel
Gallagher?
George Martin: I did a television series on music
and I ended up talking to Noel as part of the series
because I think he has written some very good
songs, and is a very good songwriter and in that
respect, yes I do hold him in high regard. And I wish
there were more people who gave a lot more
thought to songwriting as he does. He has used our
studios but Ive never actually worked with him in
the studio. Ive only met him through that TV series I
did.

God rest you merry gentlemen, may nothing you

dismay...

JM: In past interviews that Noel has done hes

admitted to having an enormous love of the
Beatles and even muscially ripping them off.

And all of us heard as Santa flew outtasight,

"Merry Christmas to all, it's been a hard day's
night!"

GM: Well hes kind of dedicated himself to being a

post-Beatle and he obviously worships McCartney,
and quite rightly, and I suppose thats the
connection.

David Dalton, 2001

Arise, Sir George: The Man Behind the Beatles
Joe Matera, Mixdown, 2002

JM: Youve worked with so many, many people

that the list is endless. One of youre favorite
moments has been when you worked with Jeff
Beck.

BEST KNOWN as the man who produced The

Beatles, Sir George Martin was there at the

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GM: Jeff Beck is probably our greatest rock guitar

player ever! He uses his guitar as a voice and
makes it sing. He actually does his performance like
Mick Jagger does, but through his instrument. Hes
a hell of a talent. Ive only made two albums with
him though [Blow By Blow (1975), Wired (1976)].
Weve always promised each other that we would
make another one, but we never did, but he did do
a track for me on my last album In My Life [1998]
where he did A Day In A Life.

thing I think is that the audience has changed an

awful lot, its no longer the one we used to have ten
or twenty years ago. The audience now is
indoctrinated by computer screens and by television
screens and by even hand held screens in your little
texting machines. Everything is visual and kids now
listen with their eyes not with their ears anymore.
So the artists they pick are those that are good
looking chicks or guys who move well. It dosent
matter about the voice or song, but as long as they
look good. Thats a drawback to start with. Im not
saying that everybody cant sing, but Im saying that
the accent is on the wrong thing. The other thing is,
with the prevalence of technology, which I do
welcome and think its great, it does mean that
there is wide spread ability for people to use music
without having to pay for it. Which is lovely, except
that it then becomes a point where young people
now expect to have music for nothing. So if that is
so, then you might as well say, Well I expect my
bread and my wine, my milk and my house for
nothing!. Why not, Its the same logical principle?
And if that continues to go on, then the guys who
actually contribute and make the stuff go broke and
nothing happens and everything just goes down.
The record companies have a lot to answer for.
There have been a lot of fat cats that have taken a
lot of money out of the business and they havent
really developed their minds in to thinking how
theyre going to create a future for the record
industry. Theyve been recycling the past all the
time and it makes me very angry. Theres so many
problems that Im quite glad that Im not in the
business anymore. What gets to me is that Im sure
theres a lot of talent somewhere which is not taken
noticed of and I think thats a crime. I think that the
record industry ought to be developing new talent,
and not through committees which is what they now
do. When I was running the Parlophone label, it
was my job to find somebody and if I saw
somebody and thought they were great I would sign
them. I didnt have to go ask someone else, I just
did it. Thats what I did with the Beatles.

JM: Whats your view on the continuous debate

on whether to use Digital or Analog technology
for recording?
GM: It depends on what you want really. Obviously
Im of the old school where I believe that the use of
a live sound in an acoustic environment is beautiful.
I made an album of Gershwin stuff [The Glory Of
Gershwin - 1994] which featured such artists as
Elton John, Sting, Jon Bon Jovi.....17 stars in all
plus Larry Adler, and where ever possible, I used
live musicians and live ambience for the vocals. In
fact in many cases I would have the artist singing
with the band. For example Elton was out there with
a microphone in front of an orchestra and he loved
it. In fact when Cher came along, I had the
orchestra in the studio and she said to me what are
they doing there? and I replied theyre your
accompaniment. And she said Ok, Ill wait till
theyre finished and I answered No you dont, you
sing with them!. What! she gasped. She had never
done that before. So I told her that she should do it
because its worthwhile and because if you dont
like what you hear, you can change it. So she
ended up doing it and loved it.
JM: The emphasis on todays music is no longer
about the music, instead it is all about image.
GM: Theres a lot of kids growing up today that
dont know what its like to record sounds as all they
deal with is discrete sounds coming through digital
stuff like Pro Tools where theyre balancing and
putting on reverb and all sorts of things. Theyre
dealing with unanimous sounds, almost like virtual
reality. But put them into a room with a sax section
and a rhythm section, and they wouldnt know what
to do. I think a good producer should be able to do
anything. And I can handle Pro Tools and I can
handle an orchestra.

JM: What do you think are the important

qualities that go in making a successful
producer?
GM: I think maybe bands that produce themselves
is a mistake, because I think a detached view is
what you need. One of the things about a producer
is that he must look at the whole picture, where as
most artists look at the detail. Thats absolutely vital
and you have to learn to step back. Another thing is
different producers have different techniques they
use, like some are bullies, some shout and rant,
and some feed drugs to their artists or whatever.
The way I produce is I like to lead, I like to coax
people along and say this is the way to do it and

JM: Where do you think the state of the music

industry is heading to?
GM: Its heading towards perdition at the moment.
Theres a tremendous amount of problems
besetting the record business at the moment. One

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youre going to have fun with it. Then they do have

fun and they sparkle and then let themselves go
and totally forget that theres a microphone in front
of them and a big screen. So they then start
performing.

calling The Long And Winding Road "an

extravaganza of oppressive mush".
2003
Three decades after badgering my dad to buy me
Let It Be as an early 10th birthday present ("Three
quid?! Have they gold-plated it or something?"), Im
being shown into Abbey Roads studio three to hear
it once again - this time, supposedly, as nature
intended.

Joe Matera, 2002

Get It Better: The Story of Let It Be Naked
Jim Irvin, Mojo, 2003

Fellow writer Gavin Martin and I are the entire

audience for this first press unveiling of Let It
Be ...Naked (awful title, which isnt mentioned to us
at the time). In the room is Paul McCartneys press
agent Geoff Baker and two of the three-man team
who worked for several months on this revisited
version of the album, Allan Rouse and Paul Hicks
(son of The Hollies Tony Hicks), both of whom were
involved in the Anthology series and the excellent
Yellow Submarine Songtrack (the first time Beatles
masters had been rebuilt in this way).

Is it getting back to 'Get Back'? Is it Let It Be

exorcised of Spector? Is it the record it always
should have been? Jim Irvin investigates the
making of Let It Be...Naked and discovers it is
all that and more...and less.
1970
"This is a new phase Beatles album..." declared the
blurb on the glossy black box which carried Let It
Be. The record inside was nothing of the sort,
unless by new phase you mean overdressed and
undercooked, cobbled together or last gasp.

They are understandably nervous. Not because

Gavin and I are sensation-hungry marauders of the
Fifth Estate, but because were Beatles fans, just
the kind of people who might object to the
disturbance of hallowed ground.

Let It Be was completed - both half-heartedly and

cynically, it seemed - after its creators had fallen
apart. It was presented as the soundtrack to a film.
And the film was presented as a documentary of
the albums making. Neither were either. Instead of
being an insight into the worlds most fascinating
pop group, the Let It Be project provided a
depressing glimpse of people who could no longer
communicate making some under-par music; there
was something futile about it, like building a vehicle
whose only function was to carry its own spare
wheel.

Actually, in principle Im all for it. Ive always

considered Let It Be rather drab, the hollow sound
of a great group running on fumes - even before I
knew the facts behind its creation. Aged 9_, I
enjoyed the nonsense between tracks: "I Dig A
Pygmy by Charles Hawtrey and the Deaf Aids...",
but the songs themselves just werent as
engrossing or as sunny as previous Beatles
records. Something was missing inside this music.
If I have a concern today its that what were about
to hear may be merely a display of skilful
undertaking, an exercise in making a corpse appear
healthy. Can Let It Be really be brought to life?

This was what remained of a bold idea to strip back

the elaborate, luxurious recordings The Beatles had
become associated with and remind the public of
how good they could sound unadorned. But instead
of the raw, no-frills LP theyd envisaged, the king of
over-egging, Phil Spector, had been invited to make
merry with the tapes, presenting something that
was neither exquisitely polished nor boldly ragged.
The record came with a glossy book, an attractive
but unedifying combination of stills by photographer
Ethan Russell and snatches of transcribed dialogue
from Michael Lindsay-Hoggs gloomy film. With
everything encased in black, there was something
unmistakably final about this heavy package - yours
on May 8, 1970 for a whopping 59s 11d. (2.99) nearly twice the price of other albums. The NME
immediately called it "a cardboard tombstone."
Rolling Stone rubbished Phil Spectors contribution,

By crikey, it can! The music that rolls out of these

speakers is rich and vivid and full of the spirit of
your favourite Beatles performances. The work that
Rouse, Hicks and colleague Guy Massey have
done sounds subtle but is, in fact, remarkable. What
we hear, for the first time, is a satisfying account of
those sessions, succinct but with plenty to enjoy,
and in their new context these songs shine brighter
than they ever have. Some are, for the first time,
beautiful.
Im quite moved by it, actually. So much so, that I
just smile inanely when its over. Paul and Allan wait
for our reactions. Gavin and I are upbeat but not

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effusive, weve clicked into reporter mode and

started asking questions about the "demixing"
process. Finally, when Allan leaves the room to take
a phone call, Paul Hicks leans in and asks sweetly.
"Did you enjoy it?"

Pass, Let It Down, Isnt It a Pity George was

confident that this supposed new approach to
recording could be fruitful. But trying to define a
new creative method in the cold cavern of
Twickenham Studios, while being constantly filmed
and recorded, with John appearing only as
JohnnYoko (both on heroin) and knowing there
were only a few weeks before youd be appearing
live on stage and TV for the first time in years
well, none of it was conducive to relaxation.

1968
"They came up with an idea, which I thought was
well worth working on," says George Martin looking
back to the time when talk turned to following-up
the exhausting White Album. "They wanted to write
and rehearse a complete album and then perform it
in front of an audience. Most people who did a live
album would be rehashing old stuff, but they
thought 'Let's have a completely new album that
nobody has ever heard'. It was a great idea, except
that you couldn't have an open-air concert in
England in February."

"We suddenly realised there were these tensions

and being under the glare of the camera, there was
no way you could keep it out," says Paul today. "It
was painful for us and I think it did contribute to the
break-up."
"There was a lot of emotional turmoil going on
amongst us," says Ringo, "but the music always
surpassed any bullshit we were going through. I've
always felt that once the count-in happened, we
turned back into those brothers and musicians."

In fact, the concept was to film three live shows at

Londons Roundhouse and compile an album from
the performances. While the venue was being
negotiated, an Apple press release in November
1968 announced that The Beatles would play live a
few days before Christmas, supported by Mary
Hopkin and Jackie Lomax. Though the venue still
wasnt finalised, tickets were given away to fan club
members.

"There was a lot of emotion, a lot of love going

between us all," agrees Paul, "but it was in a new
way, quite an intense way - which wasn't the worst
thing for the music. It's actually very good for art, it
adds an edge that you don't necessarily get when
you're happy."
What exactly prompted Harrison to quit The
Beatles, nine days into the sessions on January 10,
is still unclear; suffice to say that having been
treated respectfully in Woodstock, George felt
under-appreciated in his own band, that his new
material was being either ignored by John and Paul
or handled in ways he disliked, and he suddenly
realised that he didnt have to suffer the miserable
working conditions at Twickenham any longer. (On
January 7, hed sung to himself a snatch of Dylans
I Shall Be Released, from The Bands Music From
Big Pink, during rehearsals. On January 9 he
played I Threw It All Away.)

A month later, nothing had been confirmed. Derek

Taylor then informed the press that The Beatles
were looking for somewhere to play on January 18,
the new plan being to broadcast two hour-long TV
specials - one depicting rehearsals for this show of
new material and one the performance itself, with
an album to follow. American director Michael
Lindsay-Hogg (famed for Ready Steady Go! and
fresh from the Rolling Stones Rock And Roll Circus
which wrapped mid-December and was shelved
for 30 years) was invited in to discuss these
broadcasts.
George Harrison was staying with Bob Dylan and
the Band in Woodstock for Christmas, Ringo was
committed to start filming The Magic Christian in
February 1969, therefore, whatever form the event
took, it had to happen before the end of January,
and rehearsals couldnt begin until after the holiday,
on January 2.

Though the altercation between Paul and George

which appears in the Let It Be film is often recalled
as the reason he stormed out, that had taken place
four days earlier. It seems that communications
between George and John were the real cause.
Georges frustration at Johns tired,
uncommunicative stance (most likely because
Lennon was coming down off smack much of the
time) and his deferment to Yoko, worsened as the
rehearsals progressed - as is audible in the many
hours of logging tapes recorded by the film crew.
But it appears to have been an unrecorded spat
between the two Beatles during the lunch break on
January 10 which finally prompted George to depart

1969
George Harrison felt refreshed after his Woodstock
break, witnessing first-hand a creative community
spirit among Dylan and the Band (though, Lord
knows, that was a precarious alliance too). Armed
with some strong new material All Things Must

233

the unpleasant atmosphere around the group for

good.

into a film about the making of a new LP. But with

the performance abandoned, any film would lack a
climax, so the decision was made simply go to
upstairs and play on Apples roof on January 30,
two days before Ringo was due on The Magic
Christian.

"See you around the clubs," he said as he left.

Shortly afterwards, John broke into a version of The
Whos A Quick One While Hes Away. Michael
Lindsay-Hogg wondered what would happen next.

"It was great, very good to do; it was an open-air

concert and it was very freeing," says McCartney.
"We'd been working on this music and knew it
needed some kind of pay-off. We just got up there,
sang all the songs as we'd rehearsed them and
then the word just filtered through 'The police have
told us to stop it'. And we said 'Well, it's too bad;
we've started, we're not hurting anyone. We're only
going to be here an hour or so Let them catch us'."

"We split Georges instruments," joked Lennon,

adding more seriously, "If George doesnt come
back by Monday or Tuesday we ask Eric Clapton to
play."
A band meeting was called two days later to sort
things out. Yoko and Linda Eastman were also
present, and George walked out once more when
Yoko spoke on Johns behalf. But George had to
attend an Apple board meeting scheduled for
January 15, where, after a long discussion, he was
persuaded to return. Realising he now held the
balance of power, George insisted that the
rehearsals be moved from Twickenham (they
decided on Apples studios in Savile Row) and that
the live show - which he had always expressed
qualms about - be cancelled.

"It was the closest we got to a live show in many

years and for me the most thrilling part," says
Ringo. "Someone was complaining and the police
came up and I just thought 'We're on film; drag me
off the drums, or something'. But instead it was
'Well, I'm afraid you've got to turn it down' and the
plug was pulled. It could have been incredible; The
Beatles carted off by the police. That would have
been great."
The rooftop footage was used to promote the Get
Back single a few months later. Perhaps everything
else should have been consigned to the archive;
but pressure was being exerted by United Artists for
a third live-action Beatles film to fulfill their contract,
presumably because Yellow Submarine had
flopped. This probably didnt disappoint new
manager Allen Klein, who made full commission
only on projects instigated after his appointment in
February 1969 and doubtless welcomed a
potentially lucrative movie and soundtrack album.

The day before he was due back in the studio,

George saw Billy Preston appearing with Ray
Charles at the Royal Festival Hall. Preston the child
prodigy had become friendly with The Beatles in
Hamburg, but had not seen them since. George
invited him along to the sessions because the
others were "acting all strange".
The presence of Preston kept everyone on their
best behaviour. The pressure to prepare for a live
show had abated. Glyn Johns remembers this last
fortnight in Apple as being very upbeat and positive,
with John Lennon being hilarious, and asserts that
the eventual film concentrated too much on the
months gloomier moments. But Lennon himself
always referred to the whole time as "weeks of
misery" and a "dreadful, dreadful feeling".

The easy option was to ready the documentary

footage for cinematic release and Lindsay-Hogg
began editing with this in mind, and the Get Back
film and album were announced for June. But
editing of the film was slow and production of the
book held up the record. Abbey Road, recorded in
July and August, was released in September 1969.
Get Backs new November release date came and
went, though The Beatles approved a cut of the
movie in October and acetates of the LP circulated
in America. The title was changed in 1970 as it
became clear that this would be a posthumous
release and The Beatles would not be getting back
anywhere. In March 1970, Allen Klein asked Phil
Spector to edit and polish the tapes. Let It Be was
released in May and sold impressively, two million
copies in two weeks in America (a sales record at
the time), staying on the chart there for 54 weeks.
In Britain, it lasted only ten.

"We had some great times too," says McCartney

today. "But it's like the opposite of a holiday, where
you forget the rain and remember the great bits you
had. In this scenario I think we all just remembered
the bad times because they were caught on
camera."
Lindsay-Hoggs crew had been filming rehearsals
for a supposed show. On January 7 there was a
discussion about what theyd do with the footage if
the live show didnt happen. Paul noted that they
could simply shelve it. George worried about the
cost. John pointed out that they could simply turn it

234

Another important decision was to eliminate the

albums soundtrack aspect, taking out all the banter,
dialogue and jams - including Dig It and Maggie
Mae which were on all the earlier versions - and the
run-throughs of oldies that would be familiar to
anyone whos heard a bootleg from these sessions
(However, an extra disc comprising 20 minutes of
studio chat and further musical snippets will be
included with initial copies of the album). Neither
have they added new compositions that were
addressed during the sessions, such as Teddy Boy
and All Things Must Pass, figuring that anything
interesting is either available on Anthology 3 or
better known as solo recordings. They have,
however, reinstated Dont Let Me Down, the b-side
of Get Back, which, though prominent in the film
and included on the Glyn Johns versions, didnt
make it onto the 1970 Let It Be.

2003
About 18 months ago, Paul McCartney bumped into
Michael Lindsay-Hogg, who enquired if there were
any plans to release Let It Be on DVD, as people
kept asking him about it. Paul discussed it with Neil
Aspinall. "The more I thought about it I realised that
the music in the film is unadorned, or naked, as I
was calling it," says McCartney. "I had been
listening to the original mixes without any of the
overdubs, thinking 'Wow! These are almost scary,
it's so bare'. I really liked it. I've always had a secret
lingering love for those tapes. So, thinking if we
were to do the DVD, then the soundtrack from that
could be the original tapes. Neil ran with it, did all
the work as usual, and the results are really fine.
What I like about it is that it's pure. It's the energy
that was in that studio and the great thing about the
remixed version is that with today's technology it
sounds better than ever."

Finally, they selected a totally new sequence for the

songs. It now runs: Get Back, I Dig A Pony, For
You Blue, The Long and Winding Road, Two Of
Us, Ive Got A Feeling, One After 909, Dont Let
Me Down, I Me Mine, Across The Universe and
Let It Be. It is 35 minutes long.

So, what is Let It Be...Naked?

Well, it isnt Get Back - Glyn Johns May 1969
compilation of performances from the January
sessions, the one sent briefly to American radio
stations. Neither is it his second crack at the album
from January 1970, which added I Me Mine and
Across The Universe. Nor is it simply Let It Be
without the overdubs overseen by George Martin or
Phil Spector. This is something else entirely.

One could argue that this is not the record The

Beatles always intended to release, because it
doesnt have that raw, eavesdropping quality
implicit in the original concept. These performances
have not been simply undressed, theyve been
carefully groomed. The rationale from the team
involved is the opposite to that pursued during
Anthology. On those records they strove to give
sonic integrity to the outtakes by using only
technology contemporary with the recordings Here,
the idea was to make a record that stood up to
todays audio standards. Allan Rouse notes that
when they were compiling the 1 album they realised
how quaint some of it sounded. "If you take the
early Beatles recordings, a lot of people think it's a
great novelty to have a vocal coming out of the left
speaker and the drums coming out of the right. But
kids today don't understand it. Peoples way of
listening has changed. This is fuller, warmer, more
acceptable to modern ears. [The Beatles] didnt
have the time and resources to complete the album
as we did. If Pro-Tools had been around in 1969
they would have used it. Its a brilliant editing tool.
But thats all. Sonically, everything is still analogue."

Massey, Hicks and Rouse mixed this album from

scratch, listening back to all the original multi-tracks
(about 32 reels) to choose the best takes. As it
turned out, several of their selections coincided with
Glyn Johns, and theyve retained Phil Spectors
edit lengthening I Me Mine, but, generally, they
didnt refer to any of the earlier mixes or attempt to
match them. Indeed, they picked a later take of The
Long And Winding Road and in other songs have
restored moments that were mixed out of the
versions we know.
Using Pro-Tools - the ubiquitous, but extremely
powerful music-manipulation program employed on
so many modern recordings - they were able to
clean each track of unwanted noise (hisses, hums
and the clatter that came from the presence of a
film crew in the studio), repair mistakes in the
playing and even fly-in performances from other
takes to construct a new master version of each
song. Then they mixed it; ignoring any of the
orchestral or choral embellishments that had been
directed by Spector and Martin, but keeping
anything including overdubs like the "ooh"s on
Let It Be itself that was performed by a Beatle or
Billy Preston.

"One of our main aims was clarity," says Paul Hicks.

"When we were listening through the tracks, there
were so many elements - some amazing playing
from Billy Preston, John's guitar, Pauls vocals
and we wanted people to hear everything and
create some space. In a lot of ways this version is
dryer - not so much reverb - and a lot tighter."

235

Cynical Beatlemaniacs will inevitably grumble that

this whole exercise smacks of Paul McCartney
trying to rewrite history. The de-mix team refute this
utterly, pointing out that they were left entirely alone
throughout the process.

Get Back
May 1969 compilation
Side 1: One After 909, Rocker, Save The Last
Dance For Me/Dont Let Me Down, Dig A Pony, I
Got A Feeling, Get Back.
Sude 2: For You Blue, Teddy Boy, Two Of Us,
Maggie Mae, Dig It, Let It Be, The Long And
Winding Road, Get Back (reprise).

"It was a great honour," says Guy Massey. "To do

something like this with a free rein."

Recording engineer Glyn Johns was a young

master at capturing a rock group playing together,
famed for the rich, tough sound he achieved with
The Small Faces and The Rolling Stones. Keen to
try new things on their first recordings since The
White Album, The Beatles requested his services at
the sessions, the plan being that he oversee the
rehearsal period leaving George Martin to take
charge of the planned concert and live album. With
the concert aborted, the music would have to be
drawn entirely from the rehearsals, so Johns was
the natural choice to sift through the 32 multi-track
tapes to compile an album. The film was to take a
cinma verit approach. Johns concept for the
album was to deliver its audio cousin, to eavesdrop
on the group rehearsing.

"There's always that worrying moment when you

send a CD out," says Allan Rouse, "and, in this
case, you know that two of the biggest musicians in
the world are going to [pass judgment]. The least
you expect is, 'Well, yeah, it's good, but I wonder if
perhaps you could just do a bit more vocal on this'
or 'maybe the bass wasn't quite as good on this as
it was on that'. But we've actually not changed a
thing since the first CD was sent out to them. We
hoped that we were satisfying them and it appears
that we have. And that is a huge kick. "
Paul McCartney: "That's the essential thing about
this album. You get a very clear picture of how the
band were singing and playing at that point in time."
Ringo Starr: "Between the four of us it was
telepathy. When we were working in the studio
sometimes it was just indescribable, really. Although
there were four of us, there was one of us; all of our
hearts were beating at the same time."

He delivered a record unlike anything released to

that point by a major act, (excepting, maybe, The
Beach Boys Party), the worlds greatest group warts
and all - warts mostly - stumbling through new
material, jamming on some oldies, having a laugh.
The songs run together, connected by bits of
dialogue and sounds of preparation - "Alright
Glynnis, were off again..." - very few of them
achieve a complete run-through, almost all betray
how new they are to the players. For example, he
used the take of I Got A Feeling familiar to listeners
of Anthology 3, where John stops the song saying "I
cocked it up trying to get loud".

Yoko Ono: "Ringo's performance is incredible. Many

drummers are sort of copying him now, but I don't
know how they can ever be Ringo; he was
somehow holding them up and making sure that
Let It Be is alright. The Beatles were incredible; they
didn't need any help and I think this version
especially shows that. This record is showing how it
was and also how it can be. [It] is really beautiful."

Johns was pleased with this unusual document

and, indeed, the result is fairly fascinating to hear
once - rather like the Anthology albums would be 25
years on as a kind of glimpse into the Fab Fours
inner sanctum, but its probably not an experience
youd want to repeat often, and is certainly the
antithesis of the polished recordings the public had
come to expect from The Beatles. Its unfair to
judge from the available bootlegs, but the sound,
though warm, seems foggy and oddly dominated by
Ringos cymbals. The bands lack of creative
stamina seems high in the mix too, the
performances plod, a sense of dynamics is absent,
everything feels tethered to muddy ground. Its no
wonder they thought twice about releasing it..

Ringo Starr: "I went to Abbey Road to hear it; it was

just incredible, really uplifting. The songs still hold
up, they are incredibly melodic. And that band was
great."
Paul McCartney: "The making of Let It Be and the
tensions involved around then will always be a bit of
a sour memory. I don't think there's any route
around that. The joy was the music, those were the
good moments. But between the music was a group
breaking up it was my favourite group in the world
breaking up and I can't say that was easy to deal
with or that it's a great memory. But what is great is
the music we made."
What Glyn Johns did

January 1970 compilation

Side 1: One After 909, Rocker, Save The Last
Dance For Me/Dont Let Me Down, Dig A Pony, I

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Got A Feeling, Get Back.

Side 2: Let It Be, For You Blue, Two Of Us, Maggie
Mae, Dig It, The Long And Winding Road, I Me
Mine, Across the Universe, Get Back (reprise).

day Paul McCartney (also working in secrecy)

completed his first solo album there. He began by
mixing Ive Got A Feeling, Dig A Pony and One
After 909. Next day he tackled Two Of Us, For
You Blue and Teddy Boy (though Paul had just rerecorded that one for McCartney). He rejected the
snatches of old rocknroll songs Glyn Johns had
included, and selected new dialogue, before
abandoning a plan to edit several bits of
conversation over a loop of music from Harrisons
For You Blue. On April 1, he oversaw the
orchestral overdubs to I Me Mine and Long And
Winding Road (arranged and conducted by Richard
Hewson) and Across the Universe (arranged and
conducted by Brian Rogers - this had been sped up
in its original incarnation on the World Wildlife Fund
album, Spector returned it to concert pitch.).Ringo
added extra drums on this day, too. Spector mixed
the results the following day and chose the
sequence. His album ran:

As the months of editing on the film drew to an end,

Johns was asked to amend his album to bring it in
line with the music actually heard in the movie,
which included snippets of I Me Mine and Across
The Universe but not Teddy Boy. He made some
further edits and elected to open Side 2 with Let It
Be, which was the current single and possible new
title for the film. Otherwise, this is much the same
as his earlier version.
What Phil Spector Did
Having announced his departure from The Beatles
to the inner circle in September 1969, John Lennon
was looking for someone to help him cut a second
Plastic Ono Band single, Instant Karma. Allen
Klein suggested Phil Spector. Through his
connections with the Stones, Spector was
suspicious of Klein at the time (though,
subsequently, his catalogue of hits would be
reissued on CD by Kleins ABKCO company), but
couldnt turn down a Lennon gig. He did a superb
job producing Instant Karma. John and George
Harrison (who played on the single) were both
impressed and agreed Phil should have a crack at
polishing the Get Back tapes.

Side One: Two Of Us, Dig A Pony, Across The

Universe, I Me Mine, Dig It, Let It Be, Maggie Mae.
Side Two: Ive Got A Feeling;, One After 909, The
Long And Winding Road, For You Blue, Get Back
"They (the Beatles) didnt care," Spector told
Williams. Each Beatle, including Paul, sent him
telegrams approving the results. "They did have the
right to say, We dont want it out, but they didnt
say that."

"I'm not sure that anybody said, 'It's got to be what a

four or five piece band could do, Phil; no
overdubbing and orchestras'," says Neil Aspinall.
"They just gave the tapes to him and he did what
Phil Spector does. In a sense he did a really good
job, it's a great album, but it wasn't what the
concept was in the first place."

It was only when the album was being pressed that

McCartney asked for Long And Winding Road to
be restored to its original mix. Klein said it was too
late.

"It was no favour to me to give me George Martins

job because I didnt consider [him] in [my]
league...Hes an arranger, thats all." Spector told
journalist Richard Williams shortly after the
sessions. "[Martin] had left [Let It Be] in a
deplorable condition and they didnt want it out as it
was. So John said, Let Phil do it and I said Fine.
Then I said, Would anybody like to get involved in
it, work with me/ No." (Actually, George Martin had
hardly touched the tapes himself. Hed overseen
the Get Back single the previous year and the Let
It Be overdubs in January, polishing the song for
use as a single, but that was all.)

Jim Irvin, 2003

Let It Be won a Grammy for Best Original Score of

1970. It was Paul who accepted the award.

Paul McCartney: Back In The World, Earls Court,

London April 21st
Richard English, Rock's Backpages, April 2003
ALL MY LIFE Id wanted to see the Beatles. My
sister saw them at Hammersmith in the 60s and
screamed. This was my chance. I sang and cried
throughout.
Macca was on stage for 2.75 hours, beginning the
first electric set with 'Hello, Goodbye'. Solo
acoustic, band acoustic, and second electric sets
followed. Throughout, he switched from rocker to
sentimentalist and back, playing his Hofner violin
bass; playing acoustic and electric guitars with

Spector started work on March 23, 1970 - a

fortnight after the Let It Be singles release and only
six weeks before the albums eventual release arriving at Abbey Road (amid great secrecy) on the

237

searing solos on the 'Foxy Lady' finale to 'Let Me

Roll It' and the encore, 'The End'; and playing grand
and upright pianos, the work on these being his
finest achievement.

The finale consisted of five Beatles Songs spread

over tw0 encores: 'The Long And Winding Road',
'Lady Madonna', 'I Saw Her Standing There'; and
'Yesterday' and 'Sgt. Peppers'/'The End'.

His voice, which was sometimes croaky when he

spoke still suffering the effects of the cold he
caught in Sheffield was crisp, clear, and beautiful
throughout.

This was Paul at his powerful best. The impression

was not that of an intellectual or pop plutocrat, but
that of a humble genius. I wasnt taken back to the
Beatle era so much as reawakened to emotional
meaning.

Paul wore a red jacket with a Nehru collar and cloth

buttons, and a red T-shirt and jeans. His puppy-dog
looks showed little sign of his sixty years, and he
displayed the vigour and enthusiasm of the boyish
Beatle who first hopped onto the stage 40 yrs ago.

Richard English, 2003

The Beatles: Gary Pig Gold Presents A Fab
Forty

His working-class origins permeated his persona

and lyrics, especially in three Beatles songs not
played live on tour before: 'Shes Leaving Home',
'Getting Better', and 'Eleanor Rigby'. '60s workingclass Liverpudlian social realism was dipped in
pathos, delivered from a mind inside the heart.
Tear-jerking sentimentality. Mournful, haunting.

Gary Pig Gold, fufkin.com, February 2004

HAS IT REALLY been four decades already since
television's greatest-ever talent scout took a chance
on a brash young musical novelty act from far-off
Britain? Yes, even to those who weren't extremely
tuned into the 2/9/64 Ed Sullivan Show, the look,
spunk, and above all sound of J, P, G & R continues
to ring within eyes and ears this whole world over.
But nobody needs me to tell them that.

The black spots of the gig were the add-ons. Prior

to the bands appearance, Cirque du Soleil
performers in 18th century garb mooched aimlessly
around the stage in front of a backdrop of the
Acropolis. During the sets the psychedelic imagery
projected from backstage and the special effects,
particularly the pyrotechnics at the end of 'Live And
Let Die', were corny and didnt work. Even Macca
held his head in despair at the explosion of
fireworks going off so near to him. The add-ons
added nothing.

So instead, I thought I'd pick a mere forty of my

favorite Beatle tunes of the moment, and tell you all
why I think they're so, well, Fab. Of course, your
mileage not to mention choices will differ, but
that's half the fun of listening and listing, isn't it?
Allow me then to kick straight off with the
Beatlesong I still find myself humming, playing, and
yes, writing about most often than not.....

But Paul didnt need stagecraft. His performance,

as such, was his gawkishness, his boyishness.
Pauls authenticity shone through his anecdotes
about massages on tour in New Orleans and Tokyo,
and stories about his Art School days with John. His
romantic nature expressed itself in dedications to
Heather in 'Your Loving Flame' and to Linda 'My
Love' (its already five years since her death). He
made further emotional tributes to John ('Here
Today') and George (a ukelele-accompanied
version of 'Something').

1) 'Please Please Me'

...and, with the supreme Beatle ballad 'Ask Me Why'
on its original flipside, perhaps the greatest one-two
career launcher in poppy-rock history.

Macca's relationship with the audience was one of

generous involvement through his chattiness and
the immediacy of his presence. He encouraged and
honoured the audience during the community
singing at the end of 'Hey Jude' a high point of
feeling for me.

2) 'It Won't Be Long'

As you'll soon realize, John is my unapologetically
favorite Beatle, and he was positively on fire
throughout my fave Fab album, With The Beatles.
Elsewhere upon same, 'Not A Second Time' and 'All
I've Got To Do' were pure Smokey Robinson-worthy
young Lennon gems, while Paul's 'All My Loving'
not to mention George's first-ever (!!) ditty 'Don't
Bother Me' also helped make the band's second
album an end-to-end unbeatable beat group
classic.

The band played flawlessly: Paul Wix Wickens

keyboards; Abe Laboriel Jnr drums; Rusty
Anderson bass, guitar; Brian Ray guitar, bass.

3) 'Strawberry Fields Forever'

Arguably the very pinnacle of the band's studio
concoctions ... before they started getting altogether

238

too magically mysterious for their own good, that is.

And still the greatest fade-out(s) ever committed to
vinyl to boot.

would so aptly characterize it, "a potboiler." Why,

even the other George's wholly-Hamburg-drenched
guitar solo lives up to Paul's proto-Dee Dee countin!

4) 'I Don't Want To Spoil The Party'

Both Everlys notwithstanding, The Beatles hear by
invent alt. country and, coupled with 'Eight Days A
Week', produce in the process their first of many
1965 North American chart-toppers.

13) 'I'll Be Back'

Add the lads' always-shimmering three-part
barbershop chorale atop John's loving tribute to the
late, very great Del Shannon's trademark
major/minor way with a song structure, and you
have the album-closer to end all albums. At least.

5) 'Tomorrow Never Knows'

If you hadn't already realized during its previous
thirteen songs, Revolver had just forever re-written
musical history right before your very ears.

14) 'I'm Down'

Meanwhile, Paul gamely wrestles Little Richard to
the studio floor ...whilst telling Jerry Lee the news.

6) 'A Hard Day's Night'

The undeniable State of the Art, 1964-model. Listen
closely for the driving bed of bongos, not to mention
that stellar George M. vs George H. piano-guitar
solo (...and not a bad li'l movie they stuck after it
either!)

15) 'Thank You Girl'

This raw diamond, which along with 'Misery'
Squeeze particularly built a whole vocal career
after, truthfully deserves much more notice after
four decades spent languishing upon the underside
of that original 'From Me To You' single.

7) 'Happiness Is A Warm Gun'

Lennon truly was pop's Picasso, compositionallyspeaking, and only The Beatles could've made it
successfully thru this dizzying mini-History of Rock
'n' Roll with the help of only three or four tape
splices.

16) 'Baby You're A Rich Man'

And on the subject of Great Lost Beatle B-sides,
this big-bass and Clavioline-driven sing-along has
aged so much better than its Summer of Love
topside, 'All You Need Is...' ...now what was that
word again??

8) 'Good Morning Good Morning'

Stripped of all its Pepper down to the rhythm track
alone, as the Anthology 2 version demonstrates, we
realize how great a tight little band The Beatles
really were ...even after a whole year off the road!

17) 'Come Together'

Wherein Lennon caps his Fab career with a slylysubtle slice of Liverpool funk. And, as always, Ringo
positively shines. So much for the rest of Abbey
Road ...

9) 'Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except

Me And My Monkey'
...and this totally Pepper-free hum-ringer must've
been even more fun to record than 'Birthday', 'Hey
Bulldog', or maybe Lennon's Ninth ('Revolution').

18) 'Love Me Do'

So frequently poo-poohed coz Brian Epstein could
only buy its way up to Number 17 on the hit parade.
Yet as no less an authority as Raymond Douglas
Davies has always attested, The Beatles' vinyl
debut nevertheless pricked up all the right ears all
over Britain during that otherwise uneventful winter
of '62.

10) 'I'll Be On My Way'

Along with 'Hello Little Girl', the nascent Lennon
and McCartney's keenest Buddy Holly re-write
ever ...though you must admit Billy J. Kramer, as
opposed to them Beatles, recorded the definitive
rendering.

19) 'It's All Too Much'

...and I guess it is , clocking in as the not-so-quiet
Beatle's long long longest Northern Song ever. Still,
I can so much more easily hear it closing Sgt.
Pepper rather than that other epic production 'A Day
In The Life', can't you? No?? oh, well...

11) 'I Feel Fine'

The first feedback on record, as John once
claimed? Link Wray might just have something to
say about that. But there certainly was nothing finer
to be heard over Christmastime 1964 ...and that's
the truth.

20) 'There's A Place'

Somehow telepathically (though monophonically)
linked since '63 with Brian Wilson's 'In My Room' as
two of the most deeply touching agoraphobic
studies of all time.

12) 'I Saw Her Standing There'

The album-opener to start all album openers ...or,
as producer-extraordinaire Sir Big George Martin

239

21) 'Should Have Known Better'

Here our heroes, lead again by John, toss off one of
the greatest deceptively-arcane musical
throwaways of the era with one harmonica holder
tied behind their backs. Plus George says it all with
the last twelve-strung note of his guitar solo, as
usual.

31) 'Ticket To Ride'

The first heavy metal song, as John once claimed?
Oh, boy...
32) 'You Know My Name (Look Up The Number)'
Until Apple Inc. gets around to compiling all of the
band's great goonish Christmas recordings on one
shiny disc, there's always this inspired chunk of
Brian Jones-saxed lunacy readily available on a
compilation and/or file-sharing trough near you.

22) 'I Want To Hold Your Hand'

The crowning jewel which, rightfully so, took
Beatlemania global ...and opened B. Dylan's ears
especially to a certain misheard phrase in the
bridge, just as importantly it turns out.

33) 'And Your Bird Can Sing'

The Beatles beat The Byrds!

23) 'Martha My Dear'

The most beloved song ever written to a sheep
dog? Irregardless, it is that most rare instance of a
McCartney composition which is perfectly, regally
understated in both arrangement and execution.
Hence its rare, pure, and
simple (got that, Paul?) charm.

34) 'Cry For A Shadow'

George was only... how old, when he helped create
this delightfully mock-Marvin (as in Hank of the
Shadows) Hamburg set-stretcher?!!
35) 'Things We Said Today'
Finally! The first McCartney effort to hold its own
against a Johnsong.

24) 'Day Tripper'

The boys gamely take on the twin late-'65 titans of
the Stones and Stax ...and, wouldn't you know it,
cross the line with flying colours.

36) 'Yes It Is'

Barely-in-tune British doo-wop ...and the greatest
Beatle backside since its first cousin 'This Boy'.

25) 'Across The Universe' (Spector version, btw!!)

So maybe its words do flow out endlessly, but what
a tune! (no doubt inspired by George's mostmelodious 'Inner Light' being completed that very
same week).

37) 'Hold Me Tight'

Similarly suspect in the vocal pitch dept., but it's
about as close to, yes, heavy metal as these four
comparative short-hairs ever got during the onceswinging Sixties.

26) 'Nowhere Man'

The Beatles meet The Byrds.

38) 'She Said She Said'

Metal doesn't even begin to describe the veritable
wall of Epiphones which took less than three
minutes to raise even Peter Fonda from the neardead.

27) 'Dear Prudence'

What happens when you take your guitar, and
Donovan, to India with you. And then one of your
playmates won't come outside. Superb drumming
as well ...by Paul this time though!

39) 'Help!'
Sure, the movie's a clinker, but the song is as
harrowingly autobiographical as anything on Pet
Sounds ... and you can frug to it!

28) 'No Reply'

Hey! A Beatle samba, with an actually complete
lyrical narrative along the way. Before John fell off
Dylan's deep-end altogether with 'You've Got To
Hide Your Love Away', mind you.

40) 'You Can't Do That'

When all is said and sung, however: Gotta have
cowbell...

29) 'Think For Yourself'

Can you think of any other song, Fab or otherwise,
that can employ a word like 'opaque' not to
mention a fuzz-toned bass and get away with it?

Gary Pig Gold, 2004

An Interview With The Blacklisted Journalist Al
Aronowitz

30) 'Getting Better'

Paul's ever-cute cleverness pretty near capsized
the Peppery proceedings in all too many places, but
for these two-minutes-forty-seven he's kept keenly
in check ('...can't get much worse').

Gary Pig Gold, www.inmusicwetrust.com, February

2005

240

Gary "Pig" Gold meets the Man Who Invented

the Sixties

"Bubblegum!" and in the process, to break the

trans-oceanic ice as it were, he decided to
introduce his fabulous new pals to the hitherto nonrockin' accoutrement known as, yep, Marijuana.

"I have a dream that one day every valley shall be

exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low,
the rough places will be made plain, and the
crooked places will be made straight."
(Martin Luther King, Jr., Washington D.C., August
28, 1963)

Following introductions quickly if not exactly politely

proffered between America's greatest living
songwriter and the World's most Fabulous Band,
Ringo (designated "Royal taster" for his comrades)
went first and, oblivious to the proper pot-etiquette,
proceeded to inhale the entire inaugural joint
himself. Watching with sheer wonder as their
drummist slowly melted onto the carpet in fits of
laughter, John and manager Brian excitedly lit
themselves up next, only to be followed by Paul and
George who, interestingly enough, proceeded to
follow one another throughout their maze of
Beatlesuites for the remainder of this most historic
of evenings. That is, until a typically profound
McCartney suddenly called forth for pen and paper
as he announced to all left standing around him, "I
have discovered the Meaning of Life!" Something to
do with the Universe, it seems, and Seven Levels...

"From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official

President Kennedy died at 1:00 p.m. Central
standard time, 2 p.m. Eastern standard time, some
thirty-eight minutes ago."
(Walter Cronkite, CBS Television, November 22,
1963)
"Houston, this is Tranquility Base. The Eagle has
landed."
(Neil A. Armstrong, Apollo 11, July 20, 1969)
"There are SEVEN LEVELS."
(Paul McCartney discovers "the Message of the
Universe," August 28, 1964)

Suffice to say it wasn't just the Cute Beatle's

consciousness which was forever altered that night,
but the very course of rock and roll, the music
business as a whole soon enough after, and as a
result just maybe Western Civilization Itself,
dammit! And it is in my wisened opinion that the
singular man we all have to thank for that, for
Rubber Soul, for "folk-rock" in the process and,
really, for loading Dylan into his station wagon and
dragging him towards the Delmonico to set all of
these historic balls into motion in the first place, is
none other than a dear, sweet man I've recently had
the pleasure to have known named Al Aronowitz.

NOW, IF VETERAN rabble-rousing, ubernetworking, visionary ("Blacklisted") journalist Al

Aronowitz's lifetime of achievements may be
remembered for but one solitary event, may I posit
it be for what he managed to pull off in the
immediate hours following The Beatles' concert
debut at Forest Hills Tennis Stadium, Queens, New
York, one dreamy midsummer 1964's night.
For it was within mere minutes after the final shrieks
of and around Long Tall Sally wafted skyward that
our story begins, with the Fab Four safely
ensconced back upon the sixth floor of Manhattan's
grande olde Hotel Delmonico as a greenroom full of
various folkies and followers (including the Kingston
Trio, Peter Paul and Mary, plus the ubiquitous
Murray the K) sat all but ignored down the hall.
Somehow though, into that inner sanctum high atop
the Beatle-manic corner of Park and 59th was
snuck none other than Bob Dylan, a bottle of cheap
wine, and a fateful envelope's worth of herbal
libation.

FACT: With all apologies due Ralph J. Gleason, Al

Aronowitz was the first widely-published man to
ever take what we now regrettably take for granted
as rock and roll "seriously." His Pop Scene columns
four decades ago in the New York Post, not to
mention a litany of legendary Village Voice and
Saturday Evening Post features, brought to
widespread attention such figures as the fledgling
Brill Building songsmiths, teen tycoon Phil Spector,
and of course Bob and those Beatles to boot (i.e.:
the best-selling Aronowitz Summer of 64 Saturday
Evening Post cover story of JPG&R I still fondly
recall as the first living-color magazine on the band
to ever penetrate my previously rock-free
household because the boys looked so
handsome in their top-hats and walking sticks on
the cover, I can still hear my mother swoon). Even
prior to that above-mentioned hot August night at
the Delmonico though, Al was busy forging crucial
artistic bridges between hitherto insurmountable
cliques and cultural divides. To cite but one

Ladies and gentlemen, life as we knew it was about

to abruptly cut from stark black and white to rich,
fully-dimensional stereophonic day-glo from that
momentous moment hence.
You see it seems Bob, misreading a certain I Want
To Hold Your Hand refrain as "I get high" as
opposed to "I can't hide," had been convinced to
confront those four lyrical Liverpudlians he'd
previously dismissed with that cruelest of epithets

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cataclysmic example, it is SO plain to see how Al's

introducing Allen Ginsberg to a fresh-fromMinnesota Dylan eventually helped Beat meet
Beatles, as it were, and in all the most ingeniously
genre-busting of ways.

But why? "I was driven crazy by my unjust firing

from the Post when my column was one of the most
popular features in the paper," Aronowitz recalls,
"by the treachery of the American Newspaper Guild
and by my colleagues whom I had helped so
much." The death of his wife and subsequent
plunge into the clutches of non-recreational drug
use followed and, he says today, "so began a long
period of time when editors stopped taking me
seriously, a fact that continues until this day. In
other words, my writing got a little crazy and even
when it wasn't, editors still refused to print me.
Why? Ask THEM!"

Aronowitz was also right there on hand at the postpremiere party for A Hard Day's Night in London, as
a wickedly soused Lennon motioned a very young,
green Keith Richard(s) and Brian Jones over to his
table only to conspiratorially sneer that "there's
something wrong with yez, isn't there? There's one
of ya in the group that isn't as good as the others.
Who is it? Find out, tell yourselves, and get rid uv
'im." Keith glanced uneasily over at Brian. John, as
it turns out, was as right not to mention prescient
as ever.

Then, thank God or Al Gore or whomsoever, along

came the Internet at just about the same time Our
Al was getting his life, not to mention his
voluminous-and-then-some archives, back in order.
Duly invigorated and in no small part inspired by the
liberating autonomy of the www, Aronowitz was
promptly reborn as The Blacklisted Journalist and,
domain name duly secured, began posting his vast
wealth of work in monthly installments right up there
at www.bigmagic.com/pages/blackj. "It was only
when I could do an end run around the blacklisting
that editors had imposed on me by putting my
material on the Internet that I discovered I could get
readers, something all writers crave," the man
proudly relates. "It was my achievement of a
reading audience that brought me back to sanity."

And you bet, Al captured it all. For unsuspecting

Saturday Evening Post readers the world over.
Yet long after the Stones, not to mention the Sixties,
began burning themselves inside out, Aronowitz
continued to prowl the sidewalks of Greenwich
Village, keeping eyes and especially ears wide
open as he hung and howled amongst the veterans
(Johnny Cash), the recently established (John B.
Sebastian), the new kids down the block (a young
Richard X. Heyman, who Al once commissioned to
assemble an opening act for Sly and the Family
Stone) and of course all the contritely contrary-asever who were shamelessly being ignored by the
Rolling Stone's I'm speaking Jann as opposed to
Jagger of the day (I refer most notably to that
once-promising Vanguard recording artist Patrick
Sky, who Aronowitz bravely helped find a home for
that still-incendiary 1973 Songs That Made America
Famous album, one of your humble columnist's
favorite American recordings EVER). Al also
somehow found time to keep his Beatle bonds alive
as well, taking our sweet George bowling on
Broadway late one night, then conveniently
stepping into fresh doggie-do just before crossing
the threshold into John and Yoko's West Village
walk-up for the very first time (John responded by
taking an utterly appropriate Polaroid doubleexposure of Al as he apologetically stunk up the
room. "Look at this," cried the photogenic ex-Beatle
Chief. "The two different faces of Al Aronowitz!")

Today, after a decade spent defiantly republishing

his gems on the web, when he was afraid his good
words would otherwise languish unread or, worse
still, disappear altogether (it was through a tiny
backpage ad in the New York Press circa 1996 that
I first became reacquainted with that entity
henceforth known as The Blacklisted Journalist), Al
has now compiled his Greatest Hits, so to speak,
across the 615 history-packed pages of Bob Dylan
and The Beatles: Volume One of The Best of the
Blacklisted Journalist. The result is, without a
solitary doubt, Required Reading for anyone and
everyone who considers themselves fans,
followers, students, or those just plain curious of the
Golden Age of Popular Music, and how the players
Dylan and the Fabs especially met, influenced,
and eventually actually interacted with one another
during those halcyon-indeed daze. Thanks in no
small part whatsoever to the Herculean efforts of
the man who, in his very own only slightly jocular
words, may try to pass it all off by claiming "I was
just a proud and happy shadchen, a Jewish
matchmaker, dancing at the princely wedding I
arranged."

Then suddenly our hero seemed to vanish

altogether off the very face of the Earth not to
mention the pages of rock's hepper periodicals as
"folk" sorrowfully gave way to "singer/songwriter,"
Nixon rued the airwaves, Patrick Sky accepted a
grant from the Irish government to become an
Aeolian pipe maker and, perhaps not so
coincidentally, Al's old pal Bob dissolved altogether
into the bit parts of big-budget Peckinpah westerns.

"I recognized Dylan and The Beatles as immortals,

and I wanted to cop some immortality for myself,"
Aronowitz now admits. "I knew that bringing Dylan

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and The Beatles together would have exactly the

result that it had. The result is that contemporary
popular music changed for the better. Otherwise,
every generation creates its own heroes."

hassles, no ego problems, and a bunch of music

which surpassed all imaginings.
Unhappily, the release of the triple-LP set, which
records the sound of that great evening for
posterity, has not been accompanied by such an
atmosphere of sweetness and light. Between them,
Capitol and CBS have proved that, when it comes
to awareness and enlightenment, the business is
still several years behind the musicians. Most of the
business people involved have acted like pure
breadheads, and the saga of the album has been
unedifying, to say the least.

"Whether subsequent heroes will enjoy the same

immortality that Bob and The Beatles attained, I am
unqualified to predict. All I know is that Bob Dylan
and The Beatles are hard acts to follow."
Oh, and by the way, if the gala Bowery Poetry Club
launch party for Volume One of The Best of the
Blacklisted Journalist is any indication whatsoever,
the master shadchen's talents are alive and very
very well: Entertainment was provided by a band
comprised of David Amram's wholly Kerouac-worthy
"spontaneous bop prose" backed by Hayes
Greenfield's Coltrane'd sax and, to top it all with that
classic decorum-be-darned Aronowitz touch,
Babukishan Das, the Bengali Baul who's become
one bonafide Indian pop star. The ears truly
boggled!

The recording was supposed to come out a matter

of days or, at most, a very few weeks after the
concert to assist the Bangla Desh refugees who
were then streaming across the border into Indian
transit camps. Since then, of course, theres been a
war but a lot of people are still starving.
The Concert For Bangla Desh, finally released in
America a few days before Christmas, is one of the
loveliest packages Ive ever seen. The three
records have a special label, whose design is
duplicated on the cover of the cardboard box that
contains the records and the 64-page book, packed
with tremendous colour photographs of the
concerts.

So then, for your own numbered and signed edition

of Al Aronowitz's book including, right there on
page 395, that priceless Lennon double-exposure
of the author himself simply send a United States
Postal Money Order for $17 plus $3 shipping and
handling to:
THE BLACKLISTED JOURNALIST, BOX 964,
ELIZABETH, N.J. 07208

George opens the proceedings by explaining the

reason behind the concert, and introduces Ravi
Shankar, who makes a plea for the audience to be
patient and to try and concentrate on the Indian
music. Ravis accompanied by the sarod of Ali
Akbar Khan, the tabla of Alla Rakha, and the
tamboura of Kamala Chakravarty, and together they
play a piece based on an old Bengali folk-tune,
called 'Bangla Dhun'.

Or, if you want the book shipped to you via Priority

Mail, send a money order for $25. Remember: No
checks accepted!
and tell 'em Gary the Pig sentcha, ok?
Gary Pig Gold, 2005

The high-point is the dueting between Shankars

sinuous slippery sitar and the equally inventive
sarod of Ali Akbar, which also provides a strong
tonal contrast. Its like hearing Charlie Parker
trading licks with Johnny Hodges, and makes a
marvellous opening.

The Concert For Bangla Desh

Richard Williams, Melody Maker, 1 January 1972
If you buy only one LP in 1972, make it this one

The rock and roll begins on Side Two, with three

numbers from Georges All Things Must Pass: 'Wah
Wah', 'My Sweet Lord', and 'Awaiting On You All'.
Unbelievably, theyre as good as the originals, and
insome ways even better, because they combine
the power of the arrangements for horns and
rhythm with a sense of joy that comes only in live
performance.

EVERYTHING that was good and famous and

beautiful in rock and roll during the '60s came
together in a glorious flaring of emotion at Madison
Square Gardens, New York, on the night of August
1, 1971.
The whole project was undertaken and executed
with maximum integrity, and George Harrisons
reward was that it worked perfectly. No amplification

The two drummers (Ringo and Jim Keltner) are just

breathtaking on 'Awaiting', and its obvious that

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George had taken a lot of trouble to rehearse the

musicians. This is no friendly jamming album: its
right, structured, controlled yet free and flowing
as well.

"Oh where have you been, my blue-eyed son, and

what have you done, my darling young one?"
Bob Dylan brings it all back home, and he
remembers the words. Theres no vocal incongruity,
he doesnt rush the song like he does when hes
bored, and he gives it all full value. Its just great,
and the tension is fantastic.

George introduces the musicians, and then pulls

the spotlight over onto Billy Preston, who whips the
band into a feverishly exciting 'Thats The Way God
Planned It'. Towards the end, as Billy dances across
the stage the band speeds up and the audience
goes absolutely wild. Can this all be happening?

After the cheers, they relax into a rolling 'It Takes A

Lot To Laugh' which comes over so intimate.
George and Leon play with perfect reticence and
sympathy, buttressing the genius and staying out of
his way. 'Blowin' In The Wind' is marginally less
certain (its the thought that counts), but the
introduction of 'Mr. Tambourine Man' forces a
unison roar from 20,000 throats which has to be
heard to be believed. Youll shout with joy
yourselves, when you hear it.

It can, and at the beginning of Side Three, Ringo

takes over for a funky 'It Dont Come Easy'. There
mustve been plenty of girls in the audience who
last saw him at Shea Stadium in 65 and hes given
a great welcome.
George returns for 'Beware Of Darkness', with
Preston lashing the organ behind him, and there
are gasps from the crowd when Leon Russell
emerges from the shadows to sing the middle
verse. The horn section, led by Californias Jim
Horn really comes into its own here, surging and
lifting with a marvellous feeling.

But the masterpiece is yet to come. Dylan can

rarely have sung better than he does on 'Just Like A
Woman', suggesting a whole vista of emotions
which werent even hinted at in the original, on
Blonde On Blonde.

'While My Guitar Gently Weeps' brings up Eric

Clapton to duet with George, and although the
guitar passages dont match the original recording,
the sheer drive of the rhythm section carries all
before it in triumph. George is singing well, too, with
little trace of the nerves he must surely have felt.

Harrison and Russell Iean over to the centre mike

for a little harmony on the refrain, and its so fine
that the audience applauds after each of the
choruses, with utter uncontrollable delight.
Dylans set has to end, though, and it must have
been the hardest act anyones ever tried to follow.
George pulls it off, though, with a strong but gentle
'Something', and finally, as an encore, heres
'Bangla Desh', which roars and rages to a stunning
close.

Side Four mostly features Leon, who adds new

dimensions to a Beatle-dominated concert by
singing a medley of the Stones 'Jumpin Jack
Flash', which hums and drives like a great railway
engine, and the Coasters' old hit 'Young Blood', on
which hes joined by the voice of Don Preston for a
very funny performance. When he comes out of it,
and back into 'Jumpin Jack Flash', the moment is
electrifying.

Between them, Harrison and Phil Spector have

managed to transfer all the astonishing emotion of
the event onto vinyl. The sound is crystal-clear
throughout, and theyve left just the right amount of
applause in, so that the listener is dragged right into
the event. Its hard, in places, to keep a dry eye.

George is joined by Badfingers Pete Ham for an

acoustic treatment of 'Here Comes The Sun', during
which the back-up choir gives added strength to the
"Sunsunsunhere it comes" lines. Its a
lustrous, magical treatment.

If you only buy one album in 1972, for Gods sake

make it this one.
Richard Williams, 1972

And what can you say about Side Five? "Id like to
bring on a friend of all of usMr. Bob Dylan."
Theres a roar of sheer disbelief as the denim-clad
poet appears from the wings. George and his white
Stratocaster take the left mike, Dylans in the
middle, Russell picks up the bass on the right, and
Ringos holding a tambourine.

George Harrison: The Zoned-Out Beatle Turns

33 1/3
Michael Gross, Swank, 1977
IN NOVEMBER 1974, George Harrison's tour of
America ended with a party at the chic New York

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disco/restaurant, Hippopotamus. It was a sweaty,

crowded affair like most rock and roll parties, made,
depending on how you feel about it, more or less
bearable by the presence of Harrison's star-studded
band, and one John Ono Lennon, former Beatle,
former rhythm to Harrison's weeping lead guitar.

Ostin, and then himself introduced three video clips

(promotional films made for his new single), and
two tracks from the new album. The clips, he
hoped, would air on NBC's Saturday Night show
with Paul Simon. Speaking at the luncheons,
Harrison gave the impression of a man who knew
exactly what he was doing.

Late in the party, a group gathered around Harrison.

It included record company executives, musicians,
friends and Lennon. A bottle of pharmaceutical
cocaine travelled around the table. Harrison, who
earlier that evening had lectured his Madison
Square Garden crowd about the evils of drugs, did
not seem to notice. He smiled beatletifically and
humbly gathered the kudos of his fans.

Two of the shorts were directed by Monty Python's

Eric Idle; one was directed by Harrison according to
instructions from Idle. They revealed the sense of
humor Harrison had first betrayed around the time
of his Dark Horse Lp, when his liner photos
included veiled references to recent British
humorists, and his concerts opened with Monty
Python's 'Lumberjack Song'. (In fact, Harrison
registered in New York's Carlyle Hotel under the
name Jack Lumber.)

Almost two years later, when Lennon described

Harrison for an interview with Rock Magazine, he
free-associated the word "George" with the word
"lost." For a Beatle fan, this was heresy of the worst
sort, especially considering its source. Yet in the
next few weeks, Georgie Beatle lost a suit for
copyright infringement to Bright Songs, the
publishers of 'He's So Fine', which was judged the
same tune as Harrison's 'My Sweet Lord'. He found
himself at the wrong end of a ten million-dollar suit
involving his own label, Dark Horse Records, his
distributor, A&M Records, and Warners, the
distributor to whom Harrison was rumored to have
offered his new, fifth solo Lp, 33 1/3. Further rumor
had it that he was in England recovering from a
bout with hepatitis. It certainly looked like George
was decidedly not found.

The first film, for a song called 'True Love', was

introduced as having been written originally by Cole
Porter for Grace Kelly and Bing Crosby. The
second, a tribute to George Grief, manager of Lord
Buckley, the late hip comic, was called 'Crackerbox
Palace'. Harrison had met Grief at a MIDEM
conference in Cannes. He discovered that Grief had
managed Buckley for 18 years and that the great
comic had lived in an L.A. shack dubbed the
Crackerbox Palace. "Well," Harrison quipped later,
"you know how I like to pick up things!" So he wrote
it on a cigarette packet, and later "it made a nice
song." The film showed Harrison and an assorted
crew of zanies running amok on the grounds of his
incredibly lush estate in England.

Harrison was the Beatle least evident in 1976. His

last album, Extra Texture, was judged forgettable by
the critics. His '74 tour was overshadowed by Paul
McCartney's bicentennial Wings jaunt across
America and John Lennon's green card. Ringo
remained Ringo, releasing Rotogravure for a new
label. That album included a Harrison song, but
George was the only Beatle who didn't play on the
disc. Where John, Paul and Ringo's simple
existence seemed to hint at the possibility of a
Beatle Reunion, George remained the vig on the
side of those betting against it. He was, after all, the
Beatle who was freed as a songwriting talent only
with the end of the band.

The third film was a direct response to the 'He's So

Fine' battle. 'This Song', Harrison's new single and
one of his best tunes of late, has, Harrison
explained, nothing Bright about it. "It was the worst
experience of my life," he said, "taking my guitar to
court, trying to explain how I write a song," and
though his remarks were veiled with humor, the
truth was evident in the strain that shows on his
Beatle visage. "If I were a lawyer or an accountant,"
Harrison said, "I coulda been down about it, but a
musician is what I'm supposed to be, so I decided
to be up about it." And up he was with the best of
the trio of films, a courtroom drama featuring a
bewigged and befuddled judge, a piano-playing
court secretary who looked like every kid's
nightmare first grade teacher, a guitar-playing bailiff,
and a jury that included Ron Wood (the newest
Rolling Stone) in full drag, screeching at an
appropriate moment in the song, "Sounds like
Sugarpie Honeybunch!!" When the films ended, the
usually restrained crowd of music biz heavies rose
to give George a standing ovation. And within
several weeks, consumers would, too, as a pair of
Harrison albums hit the market. The first was a

Harrison made it through all the shit, though. Before

leaving for India to rest, he made a whistle-stop
luncheon tour of the music business to show his
new friends at Warner Brothers Records, the press,
and local dj's that the legal maneuvering had left
him like a fighter after losing his first title bout,
salivating for another shot. At each luncheon he
shook hands with old and new friends, chatted up
the local Warners salesmen, sat through lunch,
heard himself introduced by Warner prexy Mo

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"Best Of" collection from Capitol; the second, the

long-awaited Harrison debut on Dark Horse, the
Beatle-begun label that now seemed to have a
future with a real Beatle recording on it.

main thing that I felt from the '60s thing that

happened the LSD experiences early on and the
meditation that followed was the realization that
all the goodness and all the strength that can
support life is all coming out of love. And it's not just
as simple as one guy saying to a chick, 'I love you,'
an emotional sort of thing.

The "Best Of" album was just a slick marketing ploy,

but hits packages flooded the market in 1976, so it's
hard to blame Capitol for joining the rush. In fact,
Paul McCartney is now the only solo Beatle without
such an album to his credit. The only reason is that
he's the one Beatle still signed to Capitol, and thus
still in charge of what they do and don't release.

"So often we say 'I love you if...,' 'I love you when...,'
'I love you but...,' and that's not real love. Real love
is, 'I love you even if you kick me in the head and
stab me in the back, I love you.' Or just, 'I love you
unconditionally,' and that goes beyond
everything...It's like saying, 'Okay, I'm a singer now
and I want to be the greatest singer in the world.'
And then you start thinking, 'Well, how good am I?
How many notes can I hit? What are my
limitations?' And you realize how limited you really
are.

Harrison's album is unique in that it includes a

whole side of Beatle songs. Only one, 'Something'
from Abbey Road, rates as a hit. But the inclusion
of 'For You Blue', which had only been available
previously as the B-side of 'The Long And Winding
Road' adds to the intrigue of the "Best" appellation.
Certainly the rest of The Beatles' songs included
are great, but they've all been around, and the only
excuse for Side Two is that it liberates 'Give Me
Love' from Harrison's second solo lp, 'Dark Horse'
from his second, and 'You' from his third. The final
treat is the original single of 'Bangla Desh', never
before available on an album except for the live
track on The Concert For Bangla Desh. And that
record contains so much applause a listener has to
go mining to find the music!

"There's a holy man in India who said to somebody

I know, 'Develop love, not lust.' Sometimes we say,
'I love you; but what we really mean is, 'I lust for
you.' Sometimes you can love and lust after
someone at the same time. But to love somebody
with a real love, lust doesn't come into it really. To
misrepresent love when you are really lustful is not
the same thing."
So 33 1/3, like most of Harrison's music, represents
his state of mind today. If you believe his remarks to
the press, it finds him "very positive, very up." He's
named the album after the speed at which a record
revolves and his age at the time of its recording.
He seems to be saying again, as he has since his
solo career began, that all things must pass.

Again, both albums illustrate Harrison's divided

personality, half the post-acidic karmic prophet, half
the boy from Liverpool's streets, aching for the
chance to trip an old lady and stare up her skirts. "I
find myself torn between those two extremes," he
admitted. "It must have something to do with being
a Pisces. They draw a Pisces as two fish swimming
in opposite directions, and I do have those two
sides. I'm very, very serious about things which I
personally feel are serious. But most worldly things
I'm very unserious about I take it all with a pinch
of salt. I like craziness. I had to, in order to be in
The Beatles.

"I thought," he explained, "that somebody must

have used that before, but apparently they haven't.
When The Beatles were still together we used to
travel along on tour in the car when we had a new
album and just think of album titles for hours and
hours. I remember specifically on the Revolver
album we were happy with the title, because it
suggested the record going 'round and 'round. It's
almost surprising we never came up with 33 1/3
then. Maybe somewhere down the line we thought
of it. Everytime we'd have a new album we must
have gone through thousands of titles, some of
them were ridiculous and some of them had
potential. We'd just keep throwing out titles until one
of them would stick."

"I loved the way 'Crackerbox Palace' sounded. I

loved the whole idea of it. So I wrote the song and
turned it from that shack into a phrase for the
physical world. 'I was so young when I was born/my
eyes could not yet see/And by the time of my first
dawn/somebody holding me...they said/We
welcome you to Crackerbox Palace/we've been
expecting you.' I wrote those lyrics because, again,
the world is very serious and at times a very sad
place. But at the same time it's such a joke. It's all a
Crackerbox Palace."

And just as the title stuck, Harrison seems with 33

1/3 to have come unstuck just enough to make
his music palatable again. He seems to know that
audiences would rather hear his philosophy hidden
in the words to songs like 'Crackerbox Palace' than
being expounded in dirges or speeches from

How did Harrison come to his realization of the

duality of the universe? One might find an answer in
his comments on the love songs on 33 1/3. "The

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Madison Square Garden's stage. If the new record

company, new girlfriend (his wife, Patti Boyd
Harrison, is still paired off with guitarist Eric
Clapton) Olivia Arias, and new disc have put him in
a more secure place in the material world, he could
well recapture his spot as the Beatle to watch.

particular idea. The old antagonisms attending the

breakup of the Beatles in 1970, and the protracted
legal wrangles that went on for years afterward,
have long been mended, but a musical realignment
is as unlikely as Richard Nixon regaining the
presidency.

The story he chose to illustrate the meaning of 'See

Yourself', a track on the new album, seems to sum
up Harrison's current attitude toward his audiences
and his very vocal critics:

Of all the former Beatles, it is Harrison whose

interests have proved to be the most for ranging
over the past ten years, from organizing the
Concert for Bangla Desh to aiding and abetting
Monty Python's Flying Circus. His own musical
career has encompassed eight solo albums and
just one tour of America in 1974. Since the
release of his last album, 33 1/3 more than two
years ago, Harrison had endeavored to maintain as
low a public profile as possible. He married Olivia
Arias, his girlfriend of some four years standing, in
September 1978, and they have a baby son, Dhani.
When he's not at his English country home (the
author of 'Taxman' brazens out England's punitive
taxation rate for the sake of "the countryside and
the seasons"), Harrison is often travelling on the
international Grand Prix circuit, where he indulges a
passion for watching car racing he has held since
his childhood days in Liverpool.

"Everyone who remembers back to the '60s will

know that there was a big story in the press where
somehow they'd heard Paul had taken the dreaded
LSD. They hounded him, saying, 'Okay, have you
taken LSD?' And he said, 'Well, look, whatever I
say, I'm going to tell the truth and it's you the
media who are going to spread it around.' And
they said, 'Did you take it?' and he said, 'Yeah.' And
they took it and they put it in all the papers. Then
other reporters came around, asking, 'Did you take
it?' and we said 'Sure, we had it years ago.'
"But then there was an outcry from people who
said, 'You should have said you didn't take it.' The
effect of that was, 'You should have told a lie.' They
had put the responsibility on Paul, saying he was
going to influence other people to take it. And he'd
already said out front, 'It's going to be your
responsibility.' So I put in, 'See Yourself' that: 'It's
easier to tell a lie than it is to tell the truth/It's easier
to criticize somebody else/than to see yourself.'

Harrison has long been reluctant to give interview,

acquiescing on this occasion only in the interests of
discussing his new album, George Harrison. But
despite his professed disinterest in dialogue with
the media, he proved to be a genial and goodhumored subject happy to discuss his music, his
personal and professional tribulations of the past
few years, the Beatles and more. The interview took
place one afternoon in late February, over French
cigarettes and cups of tea, in London office of
Warner/Elektra/Asylum Records. We broke off our
conversation at one point to watch the early
evening TV news broadcast of an interview
Harrison had taped earlier that day. In the clip,
Harrison was shown pulling up outside the TV
studio in his black Porsche and clambering out for
an abbreviated discussion about the new album
and his reactions to the Sgt. Pepper's Lonely
Hearts Club Band film, which had opened in
London that week. The new item concluded not with
a musical extract from the George Harrison album
but with vintage newsreel footage of the Beatles
receiving their Member of the Order of the British
Empire awards in June 1965, to the
accompaniment of 'Help!' Harrison heaved a deep
sigh of resignation. All things must pass, perhaps,
but after almost ten years George Harrison has
come to learn that some things take longer to pass
than others....

"Because people won't accept responsibility for

themselves and it's very often that we all myself
included point our fingers at people and criticize
or pass judgment on others when first what we
should do is see ourselves."
Michael Gross, 1977
An Interview with George Harrison
Mick Brown, Rolling Stone, 19 April 1979
UP FOR THE DAY FROM HIS HOME IN
OXFORDSHIRE, some 30 miles from London,
George Harrison had spent the morning in the
recording studio with Paul McCartney.
It was not, he hastened to explain, a meeting that
presaged any sort of Beatles reunion. ('Fab Four' is
the term Harrison prefers, used with an affectionate
irony, as if to reduce the implications of the name to
a manageable level.) Indeed, it is a sign of the
times that even the most stubborn Beatles fans no
longer hold it as an article of faith to entertain that

When did you actually start work on George

Harrison?

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I started working on it midway through April 1978

and finished it at the beginning of October. It's been
a bit late coming out because the artwork wasn't
ready; then it was a bit late to get it in for Christmas.
And then everybody and their aunties had one
coming out at Christmas, so we decided to take our
time over getting everything ready.

Were you getting bored with yourself, bored with

your inactivity?
I was getting embarrassed because I was going to
all these motor races, and everybody was talking to
me like George, the ex-Beatle, the musician, asking
me if I was making a record and whether I was
going to write some songs about racing, and yet
musical thoughts were just a million miles away
from my mind.

Has it been long in the gestation stage?

Well, all of 1977 I didn't write a song, I didn't do
anything; I was not working at all really, so I decided
I'd better start doing something. I'd just turned off
from the music business altogether. I am bit out of
touch with the other music. There're certain artists
that I always like to listen to, but I don't listen a
great deal to the radio. I just got out of it I was
"skiving", as the English say. Everybody else
doesn't notice, because if your past records still get
played on the radio, people don't notice that you're
not really there. But I just got sick of all that....

And then what really touched me was meeting Niki

Lauda. I have a great respect for him. After that
crash he went through in 1976, I felt really bad for
him and I was very happy when he didn't die. You
have to read about his life, his books and things, to
realize what he was put through people trying to
photograph him with his face all scarred, trying to
break into his hospital room, all that very
unpleasant reporting stuff. I could really relate to
that. Anyway, I talked to him once after he had won
the world championship again, 1977 at Watkins
Glen, and he was talking about all the bullshit in his
business the politics and the hassles and he
was saying how he just likes to go home and relax
and play some nice music. And I thought, "Shit, I'm
going to go and write some tunes, because these
people are all relating to me as a musician, and yet
I'm here just skiving; maybe I can write a song that
Niki on his day off may enjoy." So that was it.

Sick of all what?

Just sick of the whole thing. If you look at the trade
papers, everybody's changing companies, and this
artist has gone to that label and that artist to this
one, and everybody's doing this and that. [Sighing]
Having been in this business now for so long it
was 1961 when we first made a record, I think, so
it's eighteen years now the novelty's worn off.
Really, it comes down to ego. You have to have a
big ego in order to keep plodding on being in the
public eye. If you want to be popular and famous,
you can do it; it's dead easy if you have that ego
desire. But most of my ego desires as far as being
famous and successful were fulfilled a long time
ago.

The other side of it, too, is that my friends, at

Warner Bros., who I have a deal with, they never
ask, "Why aren't you doing anything?" They always
treat me very civil, but at the same time I was
thinking, "Well, it's been awhile...." They may start
to think, "What are we doin' with this fella?"
So was the album prompted more by other people's
expectations of you, a sense of obligation on your
part, rather than an inherent desire to make music
again?

I still enjoy writing a tune and enjoy in a way making

a record. But I hate that whole thing of when you
put it out, you become a part of the overall
framework of the business. And I was a bit bored
with that. If I write a tune and people think it's nice
then that's fine by me; but I hate having to compete
and promote the thing. I really don't like promotion.
In the Sixties we overdosed on that, and then I
consciously went out of my way at the end of the
Sixties, early Seventies, to try and be a bit more
obscure. What you kind is that you have a hit and
suddenly everybody's knocking on your door and
bugging you again. I enjoy being low profile and
having a peaceful sort of life.

Well, partly perhaps. But once you do write a tune, I

don't know why, but there is that desire to have it
made into a proper record. If I were to die, I'd rather
people find a good finished master of my songs that
a crummy old demo on a cassette. Maybe originally
it was other people's expectations that prompted
me, but once I got writing tunes I got my motor
ticking over again and it's fun you get in the
studio, you get going and you can enjoy it all over
again.

So anyway, to answer your original question, it got

to be the end of 1977 and I thought, "God, I'd better
do something".

The other thing is that I decided to get somebody to

help me produce this record. So I went to Warners
in Burbank and spoke to the three staff producers
there Ted Templeman, Lenny Waronker and

248

Russ Titelman. And I played them some demos of

the tunes I'd written and said, "Come on, you guys,
give me a clue. Tell me what songs you've liked in
the past, what songs you didn't like; give me a few
ideas of what you think." And they didn't know what
to say. Templeman said he had liked 'Deep Blue',
the B side of the 'Bangla Desh' single, which is a bit
obscure so I went home and wrote a song, with a
similar sort of chord structure to that, "Soft-Hearted
Hana." But in the end I decided I'd work with Russ
Titelman. He did the first Little Feat album and, with
Lenny Waronker, he's co-produced Randy
Newman, James Taylor and Ry Cooder he's Ry
Cooder's brother-in-law, in fact. And he's a nice,
easy person to get along with, which is more
important than the person's musical taste, because
you spend five months together you've got to like
each other a bit. He helped me decide what sort of
tunes to use, encouraged me to actually finish
certain songs, and helped actually lay the tracks
down. It's hard for an artist to be in the booth and in
the studio.

But most of the lawsuits are gone. Now we're

gearing up for the next batch.
There are more to come?
There's not much more we [the Beatles] can be
sued for, but we can sue a lot of other people.
Being split and diversified over the years has made
it difficult to consolidate certain Beatles interests.
For example, all those naughty Broadway show and
stupid movies that have been made about the
Beatles, using Beatles names and ideas, are all
illegal. But because we've been arguing among
ourselves all these years, people have had a freefor-all. Now we've gotten to the point where
everybody's agreed and we've allocated a company
to go out and sue them all. It's terrible, really.
People think we're giving all these producers and
people permission to do it and that we're making
money out of it, but we don't make a nickel. So it's
time that should be stopped.
Maybe we should go and do The Robert Stigwood
Story or something [Laughing], although I suppose
the Sgt. Pepper film is all right because they've paid
the copyright on the songs and make up their own
story line.

Did you feel that, in that period when you weren't

writing and recording, you might have lost a feel for
the public ear?
Yeah, I had that feeling because they'd told me
stories about Randy Newman, about how he can't
write songs and feels as though he's dried up, then
suddenly he's written an album that's successful
and now he's writing ten songs a day. So it's just
your own problem. When they mentioned that to
me, I did think, "Hey, maybe I could dry up."

Have you seen the film?

No. The reports on it were so bad that I didn't want
to see it. But maybe it's good. I'd don't know.
Do you see it as an insult to the memory?

How much has your inactivity, and your

disenchantment with the music business, had to do
with the various lawsuits you've had to fight over
the past years? For instance, the plagiarism lawsuit
over 'My Sweet Lord' and 'He's So Fine'.

No. I just feel sorry for Robert Stigwood, the Bee

Gees and Pete Frampton for doing it, because they
had established themselves in their own right as
decent artists and suddenly... it's like the classic
thing of greed. The more you make the more you
want to make, until you become so greedy that
ultimately you put a foot wrong. And even though
Sgt. Pepper is no doubt a financial success, I think
it's damaged their images, their careers, and they
didn't need to do that. It's just like the Beatles trying
to do the Rolling Stones. The Rolling Stones can do
it better.

Well, that has been going on for years. It's like a

running joke now. The guy who actually wrote 'He's
So Fine' had died years before, Ronnie Mack.
Bright Tunes Music, his publisher, was suing me.
So we went through the court case, and in the end
the judge said, yes, it is similar, but you're not guilty
of stealing the tune. We do think there's been a
copyright infringement, though, so get your lawyers
together and work out some sort of compensation.
But Bright Tunes wouldn't settle for that; they kept
trying to bring the case back into court. They even
tired to bring it back into court when I did "This
Song."

How does it feel to be an object of nostalgia

already?
We've been nostalgia since 1967. It's fine. There
was a time when I don't think any of us liked it
that 1968 to 1969 period. But now it's funny.
[Grinning] It's like being Charlie Chaplin or Laurel
and Hardy. But the music still stands up, still sounds
very good, a lot of it.

It's difficult to just start writing again after you've

been through that. Even now when I put the radio
on, every tune I hear sounds like something else.

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Apart from films and stage productions done

without the Beatles' permission are you happy with
the way the actual Beatles recordings have been
repackaged and promoted over the years?

it seemed like eternity. That was enough for me, I

don't have any desire to do all that. It might have
been fun for everybody else, but we never saw the
Beatles. We're the only four people who never got
to see us. [Laughing] Everybody got on a trip, you
see, that was the thing. We were just four relatively
sane people in the middle of madness. People used
us an excuse to trip out, and we were the victims of
that. That's why they want the Beatles to go on, so
they can all get silly again. But they don't have
consideration for our well-being when they say,
"Let's have the Fab Four again."

It doesn't bother me anymore. At first it was pretty

crummy. We always had complete artistic control
from the outset, and we took great care over
running orders, having the right songs in the right
places and good sleeves it was all done with a
bit of taste. But straightway they started screwing
that up in the States, holding back tracks from
albums so that, for every two albums released in
Britain, they could release three over three. But still,
everything we did continued to be in pretty good
taste until the contract expired, and then they
started shoving out all these repackages with
crummy sleeves and everything. It doesn't bother
me as long as they keep paying the royalties.

You wouldn't want to go through it again?

Never. Not in this life or any other life. I mean, a lot
of the time it was fantastic, but when it really got
into the mania it was a question of either stop or
end up dead. We almost got killed in a number of
situations planes catching on fire, people trying
to shoot the plane down and riots everywhere we
went. It was aging me.

Another sub-industry that's grown up in the Beatles'

wake is all that personal reminiscence about the
band. There seems to be an extraordinary number
of people who were either you manager, your road
manager, delivered the milk....

But we had a great time. I think fondly of it all,

especially as we've been through all the aftermath
of Apple. Everybody's sued each other to their
hearts' content, and now we're all good friends.

[Laughing] Yeah, and the fifth Beatle... there're

about 10 million fifth Beatles. No, really, that's
sickening. All those Beatlefests and things are a
terrible rip-off. These people "the man who gave
away the Beatles" none of them know what
they're talking about. It's like Britain has always
been hung up talking about the Second World War
even now you turn on the TV and they love to
talk about the war. It's like that. The Beatles were in
and out of these people's lives in a flash, and yet
they're still there fifteen years later talking about the
ten minutes we were in their lives, and robbing the
money of innocent kids while doing it. It's pathetic.
It's immoral; it shouldn't be allowed.

Do you see the others often?

Paul and Ringo I see from time to time. I haven't
seen John for a couple of years. I get post cards
from him it sounds like the Rutles [smiling], but
he keeps in touch with tapping on the table and
post cards.
Why is he so inactive?
He's probably not. Just because he's not Beatling
doesn't mean he's inactive. It's like, for me to do this
interview now people can see that I'm talking. But if
I'm not doing the interview I'm inactive. But I'm not
really I'm at home doing other things, or going
places doing various things....

But the fact that those people can prosper suggests

that people still don't want the memory of the
Beatles to diet. There's an incredible need people
still feel to have the Beatles.

But John is publicly inactive, not making records.

Well, they've got 'em. They've got the films

Help!, A Hard Day's Night, Let It Rot, Tragical
History Tour. They've got lots and lots of songs they
can play forever. But what do they want? Blood?
They want us all to die like Elvis Presley? Elvis got
stuck in a rut where the only thing he could do was
to keep on doing the same old thing, and in the end
his health suffered and that was it.

Well, I don't blame him. I've found if I take a twoweek holiday, by the end of those two weeks, I'm
just about ready to enjoy the holiday and I have to
get back to work. If you retire or knock off the work,
then there's a while of feeling, "Wow, I should be
doing something," until you slowly mellow out and
think, "Wow, this is good. I don't have to be mad all
my life. I don't have to live in the public eye." And
I'm sure that's all he's doing, enjoying his life.

The Beatles fortunately did that hit-and-run. But

every year we were Beatling was like twenty years;
so although it might only have been five or six years

250

Fans feel almost cheated when the performer stops

performing....

Do you miss not playing with a regular band and

going on the road?

I know, but that's their own concept. It's a selfish

concept to think, "Go out and kill yourself for me...."
But I myself would be interested to know whether
John still writes tunes and puts them on a cassette,
or does he just forget all about music and not touch
the guitar. Because that's what I did, all of 1977 I
never picked up a guitar, never even thought about
it. And I didn't miss it.

No. I don't like going on the road. Sometimes I feel

physically very frail. I can feel knackered, really
tired, just having to get up early to get an airplane
I can feel ill having to travel. On the road there're
all these medicines flying about to help you catch
the plane on time, all that sort of stuff. And I'm a
sucker for that. I could do myself in.
That was the problem in 1974, when I toured
America. I'd done three albums before I went on the
road, and I was still trying to finish my own album
as we were rehearsing, and also we'd done this
other tour in Europe with these classical Indian
musicians. By the time it came to going on the road
I was already exhausted. With the Beatles we used
to do thirty minutes onstage, and we could get it
down to twenty-five minutes if we did it fast. We
were on and off and "thank you," and back to the
hotel. Suddenly to have to be playing two and onehalf hours for forty-seven gigs, flying all round, I
was wasted.

Do you like the music Paul is making now?

I think it's inoffensive. I've always preferred Paul's
good melodies to his screaming rock & roll tunes.
The tune I thought was sensational on the London
Town album was 'I'm Carrying', but all the noisy,
beaty things I'm not into at all. But then that's not
only with Paul's music, that goes right across the
board. I'm not a fan of that sort of punky, heavy,
tinny stuff. I like a nice melody.
But the Beatles could turn out a fair rock'n'roll song
in their day.

But I had that choice of canceling the tour and

getting everybody uptight, or going through with it.
So I decided, "Sod it, it's probably better to do it."
But no, I don't miss it at all being in crummy
hotels, eating lousy food, always having to be
somewhere else.

Yeah, we used to do all that, but as far as listening

to it, I'd rather hear someone like Little Richard or
Larry Williams. I never liked all that stuff in the late
Sixties after Cream had broken up all those Les
Paul guitars screaming and distorting. I like more
subtlety like Ry Cooder and Eric Clapton. Eric is
fantastic. He could blow all those people off the
stage if he wanted to, but he's more subtle than
that. Sometimes it's not what you do, it's what you
don't do that counts. And personally I'd rather hear
three notes hit really sweet than to hear a whole lot
of notes from some guitar player whose ears are so
blown out he can't hear the difference between a
flat and a sharp.

There was a lot of flak about that tour. Did you think
the criticisms were justified?
The flak about the tour was terrible. [Exasperated]
There're always people who don't like something,
but on the average it wasn't a disaster. I wanted it
made clear that it was a tour with Ravi Shankar, but
Bill Graham wouldn't do that. They tried to make it
look like it was just me coming, that sort of trip. But
even in the Indian music section there was a part of
that, every place we played, where the audiences
were up on their feet screaming and shouting their
approval.

It seems as if Paul was the Beatle with whom you

were least compatible musically you've gone on
record as saying you wouldn't play with him again.
Yeah, well now we don't have any problems
whatsoever as far as being people is concerned,
and it's quite nice to see him. But I don't know about
being in a band with him, how that would work out.
It's like, we all have our own tunes to do. And my
problem was that it would always be very difficult to
get in on the act, because Paul was very pushy in
that respect. When he succumbed to playing on
one of your tunes, he'd always do good. But you'd
have to do fifty-nine of Paul's songs before he'd
even listen to one of yours. So, in that respect; it
would be very difficult to ever play with him. But,
you know, we're cool as far as being pals goes.

But the press clippings were unbelievable. By the

time I got back to England people were saying,
"That's it, you're finished, man." It was the worst
thing I'd ever done in my life according to the
papers. But really, there were moments of that show
that were fantastic. So all the negativity about that
was a bit depressing, but [grinning triumphantly] I
fought my way back to recovery!
That tour coincided with the formation of your own
record label, Dark Horse. You were signing and
producing other performers such as Ravi Shankar

251

and Splinter, and seemed very active in promoting

other artists' careers.

stops people from gaining more knowledge or just

understanding deeper things. So when somebody
presents them with a whole set of ideas they don't
understand, fear takes loony guy in America who
claims to go round deprogramming people from
Krishna and the Divine Light Mission and that.
That's his fear coming out, because if you
understand something, you don't have to fear it
there's no panic, no problem.

Yeah, right, and that was another reason why 1975

wasn't so good... why I was so wiped out, and it
resulted in me saying, "Sod it, I don't want a record
company." I don't mind me being on the label
because, all right, I can release an album and it
makes some profit, and I don't phone myself in the
middle of the night to complain about different
things. But artists are never satisfied. They spend
maybe $50,000 more than I'd spend making an
album, then they won't do any interviews or go on
the road whatever you'd organize for them,
they'd foul it up. It was just too much bullshit. They
think a record company is like a bank that they can
go and draw money out of whenever they want.
But, nevertheless, there were some good things
that came out of it: the Attitudes album, Good
News, is really good. And I'm happy about the
Indian music we did the Ravi Shankar's Music
Festival From India and the Shankar Family and
Friends albums. But generally the record company
was too much of a problem.

Basically I feel fortunate to have realized what the

goal is in life. There's no point in dying having gone
through your life without knowing who you are what
you are or what the purpose of life is. And that's all
it is. People started getting uptight when I started
shooting off my mouth and saying the goal is to
manifest love of God self-realization. I must
admit, there was a period when I was trying to tell
everybody about it; now, I don't bother unless
somebody asks specifically. I still write about it in
my songs, but it's less blatant, more hidden now.
I'm a very poor example of a spiritual person. I don't
really want anything in my life except knowledge,
but I'm not a very good practitioner of that.

Was there a lot of resistance from the other Beatles

when you first introduced sitar on the group's
albums?

Has remarrying and having a child significantly

changed your life?
Yeah, that's been a wonderful thing for me.
Everybody who has a baby thinks their child is
wonderful, and it is. I'm enjoying it a lot and, again,
that's probably why John isn't working. After a long
time of waiting, he and Yoko finally had a child and I
think he wants to give most of his time to watching
the child grow up.

Not a lot, because at that time it was all

experiments and stuff. In fact, I think it was John
who really urged me to play sitar on 'Norwegian
Wood', which was the first time we used it. Now,
Paul has just asked me recently whether I'd written
any more of those "Indian type of tunes." He
suddenly likes them now. But at the time he
wouldn't play on them. 'Within You, without You' was
just me and some Indian musicians in the studio by
ourselves. It sounds a bit dopey now in retrospect,
except the sitar solo's good.

You met your wife, Olivia, at the end of what seems

to have been a pretty low period for you personally
1974.
Yeah, well after I split up from Patti [Boyd,
Harrison's first wife], I went on a bit of a bender to
make up for all the years I'd been married. If your
listen to 'Simply Shady', on Dark Horse, it's all in
there my whole life at that time was a bit like
[laughing] Mrs. Dale's Diary [a now defunct British
radio soap opera].

Your interest in Indian music, and particularly, in

mysticism and the disciplines of spiritual
development has always been the most
misunderstood and most derided facet of your life.
Do you have any theories as to why that should
be?
It's ignorance. They say ignorance is bliss, but bliss
is not ignorance it's the opposite of that, which is
knowledge. And there's a lot of people who have
fear. It's like I was saying earlier about all those
guys in Liverpool who knew us in the early days
and are now running Beatlefests. All of those guys
had a good opportunity when the Beatles left
Liverpool to leave, too; they could have been
running their own TV shows and doing all kinds of
things now. But they were like big fish in a little
pond. And the fear of failure is a bad thing in life; it

Were you going down fast?

Well, I wasn't ready to join Alcoholics Anonymous or
anything I don't think I was that far gone but I
could put back a bottle of brandy occasionally, plus
all the other naughty things that fly around. I just
went on a binge, went on the road... all that sort of
thing, until it got to the point where i had no voice
and almost nobody at times. Then I met Olivia and
it all worked out fine. There's a song on the new

252

album, 'Dark Sweet Lady': "You came and helped

me through/When I'd let go/You came from out the
blue/Never have known what I'd done without you."
That sums it up.

about what was happening at the time. "Not guilty

for getting in your way/While you're trying to steal
the day" which was me trying to get a space.
"Not guilty/For looking like a freak/Making friends
with every Sikh/For leading your astray/On the road
to Mandalay" which is the Maharishi and going to
the Himalayas and all that was said about that. I like
the tune a lot; it would make a great tune for Peggy
Lee or someone.

There are a number of love songs on the album

in fact, it's a very positive record altogether. Is there
any one song that you're happiest with, or means
more to you than the others?

Critical reaction to the album in England has been

exceptionally good. People have said it's the best
since All Things Must Pass. Is that your feeling?

I like them all really, but the two I least like are "If
You Believe" I like the sentiment of that, but it's a
bit obvious as a tune and 'Soft Touch', which is
just pleasant but there's nothing special about it, I
feel. All the others I like for varius reasons. 'Blow
Away' I like because it's so catchy; in fact, I was a
bit embarrassed about it at first, but it turned out
good and people seem to like it. That was the first
new tune I wrote. I was in the garden and it was
pouring down with rain, and I suddenly became
aware that I was feeling depressed, being affected
by the weather. And it's important to remember that
while everything else around you changes, the soul
within remains the same; you have to constantly
remember that and fight for the right to be happy.

Well, I hope it does as well as All Things Must

Pass. I think this album is very pleasant. It's like I
was saying earlier, when I went and asked the guys
at Warner Bros., "You're so smart, tell me what's
happening," because I really don't follow the charts
and all that anymore. When it came down to it they
don't know any more than I do. But I think even
without following trends, paying no real attention to
what's going on and just writing your own songs,
you still have as much chance as if you follow
things closely. In fact, you probably have a better
chance, because you're less affected by superficial
change. It's more likely to be original.

And I like 'Faster' because I fulfilled the thing the

Formula One motor-racing people kept asking me
to write a song about racing and I did it in a
way I'm happy about because it wasn't just corny.
It's easy to write about V-8 engines and vroom
vroom that would have been bullshit. But I'm
happy with the lyrics because it can be seen to be
about one driver specifically or any of them, and if it
didn't have the motor-racing noises, it could be
about the Fab Four really the jealousies and
things like that.

Do you listen to any current music?

I listen to Clapton, Elton John, Bob Dylan, those
sort of people. I couldn't stand punk rock; it never
did anything for me at all.
Do you feel very estranged from what is happening
musically and socially at a grass-roots, youthculture level?

Is that the Beatles' life story?

Well, musically the punks have been and gone,

haven't they, and it all seems to be very musical
again. Elvis Costello is very good very good
melodies, good chord changes. I'm pleased about
his success, but I never liked those monotone kinds
of yelling records.

Exactly, and when people keep asking, "Why don't

the Beatles keep on going?" they don't realize that
you can kill yourself. Or maybe they do realize that;
maybe they want you to. There's a lot of that in
motor racing I've seen people say they want
somebody they don't like to crash, which is crazy.

Didn't they say the same thing about Larry Williams

and Little Richard?

'Not Guilty' is an interesting song, a rebuff to your

critics.

Yeah, but those guys were inventing something at

the time and I don't think punk was inventing
anything except negativity. The old rock & roll
singers sang fantastically, they had great
drummers, great sax players. As far as
musicianship goes, the punk bands were just
rubbish no finesse in the drumming, just a lot of
noise and nothing.

Actually, I wrote that in 1968. It was after we got

back from Rishikesh in the Himalayas on the
Maharishi trip, and it was for the White Album. We
recorded it but we didn't get it down right or
something. Then I forgot all about it until a year
ago, when I found this old demo I'd made in the
Sixties. The lyrics are a bit passe all about
upsetting "Apple carts" and stuff but it's a bit

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Did the lyrical preoccupations of British punk the

way it was addressing itself of contemporary social
issues did that excite or depress you?

only took ten minutes before we were the best of

friends.
I think after the Beatles, Monty Python was my
favorite thing. It bridged the years when there was
nothing really doing, and they were the only ones
who could see that everything was a big joke.

Well, I felt very sorry when the Sex Pistols were on

television and one of them was saying "We're
educated to go into the factories and work on
assembly lines..." and that's their future. It is awful,
and it's especially awful that it should come out of
England, because England is continually going
through depression; it's a very negative country.
Everybody wants everything and nobody wants to
do anything for it. But it's a very simple thing; how
do you five people money if there is none? The only
way you make more money is to work harder. Now
that may be all right for me to say because I don't
have to work in a factory, but it's true. But out of all
that is born the punk thing, so it's understandable.
But you don't fight negativity with negativity. You
have to overpower hatred with love, not more
hatred.

You were involved in the TV production of the

Rutles' All You Need Is Cash as well. Did Eric
consult you on some facts?
Yes. I slipped him the odd movie here and there
that nobody had seen, so he could have more to
draw from. I loved the Rutles because in the end
the Beatles for the Beatles is just tiresome; it needs
to be deflated a bit, and I loved the idea of the
Rutles taking that burden off us in a way. Everything
can be seen as comedy, and the Fab Four are no
exception to that. And there were so many good
jokes in it. Belushi as Ron Decline: "You ask me
where the money is. I don't know where the money
is, but if you want money I'll give it to you," and "You
ask me where the money is. You know I ws never
any good at maths...." [Laughing] It was just like
Klein. Even Allen Klein himself thought it was just
like him. I think he liked it. One thing you can say
about Klein is that he's got his good side, too. Even
though we've sued each other for years I still like
the man.

Could you personally afford not to work again?

Yes. It's not for the money that I do what I do; it was
never for the money really. We hoped we'd make a
living out of it when we [the Beatles] were
teenagers;, ;we hoped we'd get by [smiling], but we
weren't doing it for the money. In fact, the moment
we realized we were doing it for money was just
before we stopped touring, because we were
getting no pleasure out of it. Then we found out we
weren't even getting the money. The Americans
were keeping it all, and we were paying so much
tax ninety-five percent or more. So it's never
been for the money really, although it can be nice to
have some money. I mean, there's nothing worse
than standing at a bus stop in the pouring rain,
wishing you had a car.

How do you spend your time when you've not

recording?
I stay home and dig not so much with a spade
but I dig the garden, putting trees in. I like gardens;
I like the pleasure they give you. It's like a
meditation in a way you can get everything out of
your mind groveling in the soil! I spend a lot of time
with the wife and the baby.

You've invested in the new Monty Python film, The

Life of Brian.

For the last year, I've been spending a lot of time

working on this book of song manuscripts. The idea
came from some guy who does these limitededition books that are leather bound, printed on
nice, thick parchment paper the whole works. He
approached Eric Manchester, the Rutles' press
officer [alias Derek Taylor, the Beatles' press
officer], and asked if I'd be inclined to do a book of
my own songs. I'd been meaning to put together as
many of the songs I'd written as I could find, just for
my own archives, anyway. I've spent a year
collecting together all the old songs. Eric
Manchester is writing an intro. The problem was to
think of a title, but we've called it I Me Mine,
because it's the old ego problem of "This is my
book." [Grinning] So this is like a little ego detour of
mine really.

Well, I'm what they call the executive producer.

What happened was that I helped to raise the
money for them in order to make the film when the
previous backer pulled out. As I'm a Monty Python
fan, I wanted to see the movie I like to go and
have a laugh too and a friend suggested that I try
and raise the money. So we just got a loan from a
bank. It's a risk I suppose.
I first met Michael Palin and Terry Jones in 1972, I
think. I met Eric Idle in 1975, at the California
premiere of the Holy Grail film. And although that
was the first time I'd ever met him, I felt like I'd
known them all for years, because I'd watched all
the programs and had had them on videotape. So it

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It's rather expensive, isn't it?

"SHE'S A DRAG. A well-known drag. We turn the

sound down on her and say rude things."
George Harrison, A Hard Day's Night, 1964.

Well, the price is about $250, I think. But the original

idea was just to do one for myself, for my own
interest, and it's just grown a bit from that. It's
limited now to 1000 copies, but I don't think anyone
will make any money out of it. Each one is
handmade, and it's a very expensive sort of thing to
do. But we'll probably do a cheaper paperback
version as well if anybody's interested.

You can have a scintillating debate with this LP:

GH: "Your mirrors of understanding need
cleansing/Polish away the dust of desire/Before
pure light will reflect in them."
YOU: "Don't hand me that ascetic holiness, you
molasses-mouthed flake. If you don't like my mirror,
use someone else's medicine cabinet."

You haven't had a major chart success for a while;

is it important to you that the new album is a hit?
Not really. It would be nice, but I'm not into the
competitive type of thing with the record business
anymore. It would be nice just because there are a
lot of records out that sell a lot that are no better
put it that way. Also it would be nice to have a hit
because it would make me feel more like doing
another one. But if it's not, I won't be in tears or be
upset.

GH: "Now you can make your own H-bomb/Right in

the kitchen with your mom."

So it's important for your self-esteem?

YOU: "Play 'Everybody's Trying To Be My Baby'."

No. But the thing is, the general public thinks if you
have a hit and you're on the TV and in the papers,
then you're more successful than if none of those
things are happening. Out of all the ex-Beatles, that
is most evident with Paul, because Paul is
continually making records, films of himself onstage
and more records keeping in the public eye. And
to the public that constitutes success. In the record
business that is success. Whereas I choose not to
be on TV so much or that much in the public eye,
and so therefore my record sales must suffer
because there's less exposure.

Los Angeles Tribune July 8, 1981 HARRISON

BLANKS OUT by Billie Newman

YOU: "Found any plutonium in your navel lately?"

GH: "You've lost a screw in your head /It shows the
way you're led."

SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND Former Beatle and

convicted plagiarist George Harrison, concerned
about avoiding future litigation, has devised a
unique solution to his creative dilemma. He has
made an album with no melodies at all, at least
none for which he claims composer credit. "There
are only so many notes in this material world," a
spokesman for Harrison stated. "Why ask for
trouble by combining them in interesting ways? It's
safer to pursue dullness as an aesthetic end." Such
"songs" as Writing's On The Wall and
Unconsciousness Rules achieve what some critics
have already called "absolute invisibility."

But you plan to continue making records?

Oh, I'll make another couple, I think, before I call it a
day.

George Harrison used to be a nifty guy. (A) Did a

good version of Leiber & Stoller's Three Cool Cats
on the Decca audition demo (B) Performed on
antibiotics on The Ed Sullivan Show (C) Had one of
the best scenes in A Hard Day's Night (see above)
(D) Married a toothsome bird (E) Wrote If I Needed
Someone and Don't Bother Me (F) Put up with
Paul McCartney in Let It Be (G) Helped out Ringo
on It Don't Come Easy (H) Dated a Ronette (rumor
has it) (I) Doesn't have a sense of humor of his
own, so rents Monty Python's and The Rutles' (J) B
+ guitarist.

You can foresee a time when you will call it a day?

Oh yeah.
So you're not going to die for rock &roll?
[Emphatic] Oh no. I'm not going to die for rock &
roll. Not at all.
Mick Brown, 1979

C- thinker. Somewhere In England begins on the

defensive. Blood From A Clone (gevalt!), a
complaint against music-industry nitpickers, might

George Harrison: Somewhere In England

Mitchell Cohen, Creem, September 1981

255

have been written when WB execs told him that

only 18 humans would voluntarily listen to the
album than once (five AOR programmers, a dozen
people so Beatle nostalgic than even Stars on 45
doesn't make them retch, and Lou O'Neill). It gets
worse. Life Itself is God's resume, complete with
noms d'omnipotence. ("You are the real love that
I've got" George sings, as Olivia chalks up evidence
for future alienation of affection charges.) On Save
The World Harrison comes out against paper
towels (!!) (expect a rebuttal on the next Nancy
Walker album) and whalemeat used as dogfood
(ditto Lorne Greene). And...

definitively by Carmichael in To Have And Have

Not; the key rock reading is Jerry Lee Lewis' at Sun.
Harrison doesn't touch either.

All Those Years Ago the last minute addition that

saved this album from commercial oblivion, is
dreadful. Ringo has already denied being the
drummer on the released version. So much for that,
unless Paul and Linda going "bop-shoo-wah" and
the idea of George Martin's hand on the knobs at an
ex-Beatle's session warms your heart's cockles. I've
been called a sentimentalist (call me Mr. Blue), but
somehow I'm able to resist being moved by a lyric
that could have been a group effort by the 4th grade
at Aaron Burr Grammar School in Dayton, Ohio.
"You were the one who Imagined it all." Get it?

George Harrison: Gone Troppo

Actually, Teardrops is OK.

"He is fighting the forces of darkness limitation."
George Harrison, That Which I Have Lost, 1981
Ah, well.
Mitchell Cohen, 1981

Roy Trakin, Musician, January 1983

THE "MYSTICAL" BEATLE had his first hit in a long
time last year with that cloying, simplistic eulogy, All
Those Years Ago. On his latest effort, though,
George's depression in the wake of John Lennon's
sudden death goes far deeper than that pop tune's
treacly sentiments. Gone Troppo is George
Harrison's tenth solo album in the thirteen years
since the Fab Four's demise, but it's still impossible
to judge his music on its own merits.

The Tonight Show July 14, 1981 Ed: "You know, it's
amazing. I'm not a big follower of pop music, but it
seems to me that everything you'd want to know
about how much of a simp George Harrison has
become is right on this record. I'm glad you brought
that album in. I mean, it's all right here."

George was always the most melancholy Beatle,

with mournful expressions of ennui like Blue Jay
Way and While My Guitar Gently Weeps sitting
alongside anti-social diatribes like Taxman and
Piggies. But Gone Troppo's anguish goes beyond
pain into catatonia; in its way, the LP lays George
Harrison as bare as Plastic Ono Band exposed
Lennon. Trouble is, if you scratch George's tortured
honesty, you get masochistic self-pity rather than
John's apparently idealistic martyrdom, and it
dooms this record's attempt to heal those psychic
wounds with calm, offhanded music.

Johnny: "Wrong, curdled curry breath."

Ed: "There's more?"
Johnny: "Our staff has unearthed a heretofore
unreleased George Harrison album, Bedtime For
Buddah, that has such tracks as 'The Path To
Righteousness Is Blocked By A Court Injunction0,'
the tale of the arrest of a Hare Krishna at O'Hare
Airport. 'Appraise The Lord', a song about
Harrison's tax deductions. 'While Your Guitar Gets
An Ulcer', a tribute to Eric Clapton and Pattie Boyd.
And 'All Those Years Ago, Part Two', which reunites
Harrison with Delaney & Bonnie and Bobby
Whitlock on a song about Carl Radle."

Harrison does pierce the placidity with an

occasional slide guitar run recalling the twangin'
wall-of-sound that producer Phil Spector provided
on All Things Must Pass. Both That's The Way It
Goes, a fairly typical Living In The Material World
plaint, and Mystical One, the only song here with
any religious allusions, sport solid Harrison hooks.
So do I Really Love You, a pesky, Coasters-styled
R&B call-and-response that is as surprising as it is
out of place, and Unknown Delight, a layered
production number that recalls Here Comes The
Sun and boasts supersessioneers Jim Keltner,
Willie Weeks, Neil Larson and Gary Brooker.
George's long-deteriorating voice, now buried a little
further back in the mix, sounds pretty wan, but at
least it's in tune. Elsewhere, not even Billy Preston
can rescue the funereal dirge of Baby Don't Run
Away or the maudlin tautologies of the closing

Like Willie Nelson, George Harrison has discovered

ace American composer Hoagy Carmichael. Point
for Harrison: he's picked more obscure tunes than
the ones on Stardust. Point against: Harrison's
nuance-less voice. Even so, Baltimore Oriole, a
clue to Harrison's pick for the championship of the
A.L. East, is probably Somewhere In England's
most likeable track. Hong Kong Blues was done

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Circles. It's too bad the public won't forget George

Harrison was a Beatle. His musical output will
undoubtedly suffer by comparison until we do.

You, it's the kind of song I sure wouldn't mind

hearing on the radio. Especially in the summertime.
When We Was Fab, a wry look back at those
swingin' moptop days, quotes Lennon, Dylan and
Harrison's own Within You, Without You and
while it may not be as memorable as its Lennon or
Zimmy reference points it's a vast improvement
over George's songwriting contribution to Sgt.
Pepper. And Devil's Radio (interpret it as you will)
just might steal the disc, especially with its choral
"gossip, gossip" refrain, complete with Jerry Leelike pounding piano licks.

Roy Trakin, 1983

George Harrison: Cloud Nine
Bill Holdship, Creem, March 1988
IN MANY WAYS, George Harrison's kinda had it
unfair. Just as Let It Be has probably always been
underrated mainly because it was a Beatles LP,
Harrison's songwriting's always been a little
underrated mainly because he played in a band that
included two of the greatest pop geniuses in the
history of Western civilization.

The major problems on Cloud Nine come in the

form of ballads. Harrison has always been far better
with his rockers (though Something fans may care
to argue that point) and he reaches what might be
a pinnacle of mediocrity here with Breath Away
From Heaven. Still, he reflects his Eastern roots in
it, and even the "bad" songs on Cloud Nine reflect a
certain psychedelic spaciness, not to mention a
sense of George's much-vaunted spirituality that
is, good vibes. Kinda refreshing. (What the hell? I
liked hippies.)

But Harrison could be damn good. Cry For A

Shadow, Don't Bother Me, I Need You, Think For
Yourself, Savoy Truffle. His ended up being two of
the best songs on Let It Be. I mean, the man never
really produced anything to be embarrassed about.
All Things Must Pass was an excellent album; how
many three-record sets can you say that about?
There were scattered brilliant moments afterwards
You from the Extra Texture LP sounds like punk
(depends on your definition) pop as Phil Spector
might've done it, and remains a killer to this day.
And when I saw Harrison perform in 1974, he put
on a far better show than the one I would later see
Wings do.

Cloud Nine ends on a great note with Got My Mind

Set On You, an obscure little chestnut that I won't
pretend to have ever heard before Harrison
recorded this version and turned it into a current
radio staple. People might complain that he didn't
write one of the best tunes on the record but
neither did a lot of great artists. As George's old
mate in that band we used to love back when we
was all fab once said: "A good song's a good song."

At any rate, burn out and just dealing with the

pressures of being formerly fab led to two final LPs
that didn't do much to bolster Harrison's (at the
time) sagging reputation. So he did what several
other smart rock 'n' rollers have done over the
years, retiring from the rat race. Cloud Nine is
Harrison's first release in years and the time away
has evidently been good for the man and the artist,
not to mention his backlog of material.

And a good album's a good album, and Cloud Nine

is plenty good. It's by no means a GREAT record in
the classic sense of stuff we used to expect, but it's
the best record from a former Beatle in at least
seven years.
Bill Holdship, 1988

With Jeff Lynne (who's finally sorta done what he's

wanted to do ever since Eldorado) at the boards
not to mention a stellar cast, including Ringo and
Elton John, in the band the first thing you might
notice about Cloud Nine is how good the sound is.
The title track and That's What It Takes kick the
album off on a pleasant pop note; both are
immediately likeable. But it's Fish On The Sand
that really clues you in to the fact that Harrison still
has it. He's always been someone who knows a
good riff when he hears it, and Fish On The Sand
features a great melodic riff...well, a couple of them,
actually. This should be the record's next single
along with the current hit, Got My Mind Set On

George Harrison: All Things Must Pass (Apple)

Jim Irvin, unpublished, 2000
New double-disc remastering of Georges solo
debut. Now with out-takes, remixes and a rerecorded version of My Sweet Lord.
ITS POSSIBLY THE best solo Beatle album ever
a sharper clutch of songs than Imagine, more
individual than Band On The Run and for years
its been hiding in plain sight, a secret passion for
Beatles obsessives. One reason for this is its size;
three discs on vinyl, two expensive discs on CD, it

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has never been an impulse buy. And it has always

seemed uncomfortable on CD with the second disc
burdened by the saggy Apple Jam the supposed
bonus third LP that, frankly, undermines the
brilliance of its brethren. Another reason it has been
overlooked may be the inescapable presence of
Phil Spector, a brilliant sculptor of sound whose
trademark pillowy murk was unfashionable in 1970
and whose work on The Beatles Let It Be has
always come in for bitter criticism in Fabs circles,
making him the kind of bogeyman forever to be
booed and hissed whenever the Beatles panto is
revived.

What Is Life is the perfect example of this effect,

being somehow both exuberant and marbled with
dread.
George has often been accused of being overly
serious, the dour Beatle, his humour sometimes
gloomier even than Johns, and its often assumed
that his solo music one or two highspots aside
is largely redundant. Well, All Things Must Pass
refutes that in spades. Its hard to think of many
bigger-hearted, more human and more welcoming
records than this, and whatever the reissues
shortcomings, I hope it helps its beautiful music find
new friends.

One senses that even George has fallen in with this

opinion as, by the sound of it, he has done much to
remaster the Wall Of Sound away. This edition
boasts a fresh, crisp cut, a world away from the
sound of the original vinyl. Im of the school that
thinks that attempting to refocus old records to
make them more "modern" is a waste of time,
satisfying to no one. But George may be onto
something, as every initiate Ive played this version
to has gone "Wow, this is fantastic!", particularly
during the sparkly roar of Wah Wah or the churchy
clamour of What Is Life. In other words, the music
on this record is beautiful however they might tweak
and repackage it.

Jim Irvin, 2000

George Harrison 1943-2001
Chris Welch, The Guardian, 1 December 2001
George Harrison, singer, guitarist, composer
and film
producer: born Liverpool 25 February 1943;
MBE 1965; married
1966 Pattie Boyd (marriage dissolved 1977),
1978 Olivia
Arias (one son); died Los Angeles 29 November
2001

Ah, the repackaging. George, bless him, has also

felt the need to jazz up the sombre presentation of
the original with a colorized cover and some jokey
"march of progress" retakes of the main image. But
thats not all, instead of extracting the Apple Jam to
a separate disc to help the "proper" albums breathe
which was the preferred option among ATMP
freaks of my acquaintance hes opted instead to
add more music to the first disc, effectively bunging
in a side of outtakes (and, cough, a new version of
My Sweet Lord), half way through the original
sequence. So, far from being focused, All Things
Must Pass is now even baggier than before and has
been dragged some distance from its original mood.

GEORGE HARRISON played lead guitar and sang

in the most famous pop group of all time. Of the
four members of the Beatles - Harrison, John
Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr - he was
perceived as the quiet one, and sometimes seemed
ill at ease with fame; as the youngest, too, he felt
overshadowed by the dazzling talents and
personalities of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
Yet, despite the success of the Lennon/McCartney
songwriting partnership, it was Harrison, with his
enquiring mind, who helped push the Beatles into
new musical dimensions and philosophical paths.
He readily embraced the ideas of the guru
Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and the Indian classical
music of the sitar virtuoso Ravi Shankar, and in so
doing he encouraged the progressive spirit that led
a once-raucous Merseybeat group to become one
of the key forces shaping 20th-century music.

Nevertheless, its still rich, soulful music. In a spirit

of liberation from The Beatles mingled, naturally,
with a little fear - George let the music tumble out.
He sang of deep love for his faith, for life and the
people around him. He revelled in the opportunity to
play with new musicians, catching performances
from people like Eric Clapton and his Dominoes
before they went awry as the 70s deepened.

It was to Harrison's credit that, in the midst of this

extraordinarily talented and competitive group, he
became established as a fine composer, singer and
guitarist in his own right. His Taxman, one of the
outstanding numbers on the 1966 Beatles album
Revolver, was pointed, bitter and witty. At the height
of the Harold Wilson years Harrison offered a
polemic, regarded with some amusement at the

Indeed, theres a palpable sense of transition and

urgency in this music. The blossoming of George is
audible, Spectors huge production billows
appropriately, but it also sounds like the whole thing
is happening on the edge of a canyon, an abyss
into which the 60s is about to topple. A song like

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time, which may actually have spurred the long

march towards lower taxation in Britain:

teachers and, despite parental protests, insisted on

wearing tight jeans and long hair. When the skiffle
craze started, George and his brother Peter formed
a group of their own, and their mother bought
George a guitar for lbs3. The group earned 10
shillings for their debut gig at the British Legion
Club in Speke.

Let me tell you how it will be, there's one for you, 19
for me. . . Should 5 per cent appear too small, be
thankful I don't take it all.
Within a year, however, his writing tone had
softened as he became more spiritual and less
concerned with earthly needs. Within You, Without
You, his song for Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club
Band (1967), on which he sings "With our love
we could save the world . . . / life flows on within
you and without you", has a sensitivity that belies
his cheeky scouse image. Harrison was conscious
that, compared with Lennon and McCartney's, his
output seemed limited. He once explained: "I began
to write more songs when I had more time,
especially when we began to stop touring. Having
Indian things so much in my head, it was bound to
come out."

On leaving school George Harrison thought of

becoming an apprentice engineer; instead music
became his ruling passion and he played in several
groups before meeting the Quarrymen
in 1958. The group included Lennon, Harrison's
new mate
McCartney, whom he had met on the bus to school,
and
Lennon's friend from art college Stuart Sutcliffe.
At first Harrison was deemed too young to join but,
after
filling in when their regular guitarist Eric Griffiths
failed to show up, he was accepted as a full
member. Even
so, he had to convince the much older Lennon.
Lennon said:

In the wake of the Beatles' break-up in 1970

Harrison became a solo artist of some distinction,
but it was not a smooth ride. He was suspicious of a
media that didn't always take him seriously.
Harrison was never accorded the hero status
of Lennon; he was considered less lovable than
Ringo Starr and could never achieve the immense
output of the all-rounder McCartney. But as he grew
older and more mature, and as the pressures of
fame gradually receded and the competitive spirit of
the times abated, so Harrison revealed himself to
be a warmer, less combative person. It became
clear that he was blessed with a sense of humour
which had been submerged in his less attractive,
moustachioed guru period.

Paul introduced me to George and I had to make

the decision
whether to let George in. I listened to George play
and
said, "Play 'Raunchy'." Then I said, "OK, you can
come in."
I couldn't be bothered with him when he first came
around.
He used to follow me around like a bloody kid,
hanging
around all the time. He was a kid who played guitar
and he
was a friend of Paul's which made it easier. It took
me
years to come around to him, to start considering
him as an
equal.

Indeed the quiet and serious George was only one

facet of a personality enriched with impish charm, a
sharp tongue and sharper mind. He had an almost
boyish enthusiasm for those artists he admired,
particularly Carl Perkins, Bob Dylan and fellow
guitarists Eric Clapton and Alvin Lee; and he
idolised the great British humorists - the Goons, the
Bonzos, Monty Python's Flying Circus and the
Rutles.

The young band changed its name to Johnny and

the Moondogs
and later became the Silver Beetles. From the start
Harrison's role was defined as a vocalist as well as
lead
guitarist and he also began writing songs, even if
they
weren't always accepted for recording. His first
effort was
called Don't Bother Me.

The son of a bus driver and raised in a council

house, George Harrison was born at 12 Arnold
Grove, Wavertree, Liverpool, in 1943. He was the
youngest of four children born to Harold and Louise
Harrison, and had two older brothers, Harold junior
and Peter, and a sister, Louise. George started
school at Dovedale Primary School (also
attended by John Lennon) and in 1954 began
attending the Liverpool Institute, the local grammar
school where Paul McCartney was also a pupil.
Harrison found it difficult to study or relate to his

Liverpool had given birth to the group, but it was

another
famous seaport that provided the work and
exposure that

259

knocked them into shape. The Silver Beetles

arrived in
Hamburg in August 1960 on the first of several
visits to
Germany. Still a teenager, Harrison was expected to
adapt
quickly to a tough and often sleazy way of life, far
from
the comforts of home. Life on the Reeperbahn, the
red-light
district where most of the clubs were situated,
proved an
eye-opener. Harrison said later: "Everybody around
the
district were homosexuals, transvestites, pimps and
hookers
and I was in the middle of that, aged 17."

Harrison played
the opening guitar sequence. Kaempfert assigned
the tapes to
Polydor and, after the Beatles returned to Liverpool
and a
regular slot at the Cavern Club, the label released
My
Bonnie as a single, which got to No 5 in the
German charts.
The song was also released in England in January
1962, by
which time a Liverpool businessman, Brian Epstein,
had
discovered the group and became their manager.
As a result
of his efforts the Beatles were signed to EMI's
Parlophone
label and assigned to the producer George Martin.
A new
drummer, Ringo Starr, replaced Pete Best and the
final
line-up of the Beatles was complete.

During a second year in Germany the Silver Beetles

became
the Beatles, and they built up a passionate local
following.
The fresh-faced Harrison became a particular
favourite: when
he sang solo numbers like Carl Perkins's Your True
Love,
he was greeted by cries of "Das liebchen Kind" from
German
girls who held up banners proclaiming "We love
George". But
word reached the Hamburg police that the "lovely
child" was
under 18 and so not allowed to work in night-clubs.
He was
immediately deported back to Liverpool, followed
shortly
afterwards by both Pete Best, the group's drummer,
and Paul
McCartney, who had been accused of setting fire to
their
accommodation. However, the Beatles returned to
Hamburg in
April 1961 when Harrison was old enough to gain a
work
permit, with Sutcliffe deciding to leave the band and
remain
in Hamburg (where he died the following year after
a brain
haemorrhage).

At the Beatles' first recording session, George

Martin tried
to relax the band in the studio. "Let me know if
there's
anything you don't like," he said. "Well, for a start,"
said
Harrison, "I don't like your tie." When the group
released
Love Me Do, the song from this session which
became their
first UK hit that October, it was the start of a pop
revolution which spread around the world. As the
sound of
Please Please Me, She Loves You and I Want to
Hold Your
Hand dominated the charts during 1964, the first
wave of
"Beatlemania" was unleashed.
Harrison learnt to deal with a daily barrage of media
scrutiny and the extraordinary life of a rich and
famous pop
star. He handled it all with a twinkling smile, as the
group
was mobbed, feted and idolised. Harrison was not a
great
rock guitarist compared with contemporaries like
Eric
Clapton and Jeff Beck, but their kind of virtuoso
playing
wasn't required in a pop band. Whether concocted
by George,
Paul or John (and there is still debate about who
played
what), the Beatles' guitar licks always seemed apt

In June the group made their first professional

recordings,
backing the Polydor recording artist Tony Sheridan
under the
aegis of the producer Bert Kaempfert. The Beatles
backed
Sheridan on five numbers, including My Bonnie, an
up-tempo
version of My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean.

260

and
logical.

in London. They also travelled to Rishikesh, in

India, in
February 1968 with the rest of the Beatles. Harrison
remained loyal to the Maharishi even when Lennon
and the
rest of the group began to distance themselves.
Harrison
also befriended and funded the Radha Krishna
Temple, whose
popular Hare Krishna Mantra became a surprise
Top Twenty
hit in 1969.

In 1965 Harrison began playing the 12-string guitar

and
introduced the sitar to Lennon's haunting
Norwegian Wood
(1966), an exotic instrument that had rarely been
used in
pop music before. He had picked up the instrument
when he
found one lying around on the set for the group's
1965 film
Help! Harrison said:

The Beatles' belief that "all you need is love" could

bring
them strange bedfellows. These included some
Californian
Hell's Angels who came to London in December
1968 to visit
the headquarters of the Beatles' Apple Corps.
Harrison sent
a rather chilling note to "Everybody at Apple":

After "Norwegian Wood" I met Ravi Shankar in

London for
dinner. He offered to give me instruction in the
basics of
the sitar. It was the first time I had ever really learnt
music with a bit of discipline. Then I listened to
Indian
music for the next two years and hardly touched the
guitar
except for recording.

"Hell's Angels will be in London within the next

week, on the
way to straighten out Czechoslovakia. There will be
12 in
number, complete with black leather jackets and
motor
cycles. They will undoubtedly arrive at Apple. They
may look
as though they are going to do you in but are very
straight
and do good things, so don't fear them or up-tight
them. Try
to assist them."

The Beatles became a national institution and were

all appointed MBE in 1965. Harrison never sent his
insignia back, as Lennon sent his a few years later,
but the strain of Beatlemania affected him. He
became noticeably dour and looked increasingly
unhappy on stage. He got tired of heavy
US touring and said later of the hectic life, "I was
fed up. I couldn't take it any more." After the band's
last concert, at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, on
29 August 1966,
Harrison said, "Well that's it - I'm not a Beatle any
more."
In fact the group continued as a recording unit for a
further four years.

In the last few years of the Beatles, Harrison

continued to
make important contributions to their albums. His
song Blue
Jay Way took up a whole side of the Magical
Mystery Tour
double EP (1967) and his movie soundtrack album
Wonderwall
(1968) was the first release on the Beatles' own
Apple
label.

Harrison was eager to find a deeper meaning to life.

He
found it in Indian music and philosophy which he
embraced
with great sincerity. His first wife, the model Pattie
Boyd,
had introduced him to the meditation techniques of
the
Indian mystic the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. Harrison
had met
Boyd while the Beatles were filming A Hard Day's
Night, and
they were married in 1966.

Harrison's ballad Something was one of the

highlights of
the band's 1969 album Abbey Road. Harrison gave
pop one of
its most stately and poignant opening lines when he
sang
"Something in the way she moves - attracts me like
no other
lover" accompanied by an achingly simple guitar
melody.

The couple visited the Maharishi during a trip to

Bangor in
Wales in August 1967, the same month that Brian
Epstein died

261

Something was inspired by his love for Pattie Boyd

and was
one of the last great Beatle hits. It reached No 3 in
the US
Billboard chart in 1969 and No 4 in the UK, and was
covered
by many celebrated artists, including Frank Sinatra,
who
described it as "the greatest love song of the past
50
years". Abbey Road was also graced by another of
Harrison's
charming ditties, Here Comes the Sun. His direct
and
simple messages provided a pleasing contrast to
the more
surreal work of John Lennon and the classically
structured
McCartney songs.

embarrassing that Harrison later stood accused of

plagiarism
when the song was compared to the 1963 hit He's
So Fine
recorded by the vocal group the Chiffons. He lost a
court
action in 1976 brought by the publishers of He's So
Fine,
which demoralised Harrison to the extent that he
contemplated giving up songwriting.
Despite his reservations about touring and live
performance,
Harrison helped organise a concert to raise money
to
alleviate suffering in Bangladesh, one of the first
charity
super-shows. It was held at Madison Square
Garden, New York,
on 1 August 1971 and Harrison was joined on stage
by Ravi
Shankar, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Billy Preston,
Ringo Starr
and Leon Russell. It resulted in the "live" triplealbum
boxed set The Concert for Bangla Desh. One of the
highlights
was a performance by Harrison with his pal Clapton
on
Harrison's While My Guitar Gently Weeps. Bob
Dylan
performed six songs and Harrison sang Something
and
Bangla Desh. The latter was also a hit single in
1971.
Millions were raised from the proceeds of the album
and film
of the concert, although the money was frozen for
some years
and much was siphoned off in taxes and expenses,
to
Harrison's chagrin.

After the Beatles' partnership broke down amidst

the
acrimony of the Let It Be period Harrison
commented: "When
we actually split up it was just a relief. We should
have
done it years before." The break-up certainly gave
him
greater creative freedom.
He was still drawn to esoteric religious and quasipolitical
movements, like the Natural Law Party, but the
gnome-like
figure who appeared on the cover of the 1970
album All
Things Must Pass became markedly less uptight
with the
passing years. He could settle down and find peace
at his
new home, a 120-room mansion set in 40 acres, at
Friar Park,
Henley-on-Thames, which he bought in January
1970. He
devoted the following 20 years to restoring the
house and
its magnificent gardens.

After this great effort it seemed that Harrison had

lost
some of his impetus and motivation. Critics damned
as
"lacklustre" albums like Living in the Material World
(1973)
and the lyrics on Dark Horse (1974) were said to be
"full of
sickening self-righteousness". It was a dark time for
Harrison. As well as a poor response to his records
he had
to endure the pain of losing his wife Pattie to his
best
friend Eric Clapton. George and Pattie were
eventually
divorced in June 1977. George Harrison later

During the early 70s he produced a succession of

fine
albums, including the US No 1 All Things Must
Pass, which
contained some of Harrison's most successful
apres-Beatles
work. Produced by Phil Spector, the boxed set of
three LPs
included the soulful My Sweet Lord, which became
a
chart-topping million-seller. It was unfortunate and

262

married Olivia
Arias, who had been his assistant at A&M Records.

song called Mystical One on which he sang, "They

say I'm
not what I used to be, all the same I'm happier than
a
willow tree." The album, produced by Elton John's
percussionist Ray Cooper, had a lighter, more
cheerful tone,
emphasised by a cover design by the ex-Bonzo
Dog dancer
Larry Smith. After a muted response to this album
Harrison
began to concentrate more on his work with the
film-production company he co-founded with Denis
O'Brien,
HandMade Films - responsible for such groundbreaking
British movies as Monty Python's Life of Brian
(1979), The
Long Good Friday (1980), Time Bandits (1981) and
Withnail and I (1987). Shanghai Surprise (1986),
starring Madonna, was less successful. After
problems filming, Harrison said
wryly of Madonna: "She doesn't have a sense of
humour, which
is unfortunate, because it was a comedy."

In 1974 Harrison had launched his own label, Dark

Horse, and
signed his friend Ravi Shankar to the roster of acts.
The
same year he toured the United States on a show
with Shankar
and Billy Preston. But the trip was fraught with
problems,
including the loss of Harrison's voice, which led to
poor
reviews and the unsympathetic headline "Dark
Hoarse". He
even had a backstage row with John Lennon, who
had declined
an invitation to guest on one of the shows. Harrison
then
avoided touring for nearly 20 years.
However, he released a new album, Extra Texture Read All
About It (1975), which was followed by Thirty Three
and a
Third (1976). Subsequent Dark Horse output
included George
Harrison (1979) and Somewhere in England (1981).
In 1981 he also enjoyed his biggest hit in years
when All Those Years
Ago got to No 2 in the US chart. The song was
about the
death of John Lennon, who was shot dead in New
York in 1980.
The two of them had not spoken for some years
before his
murder, but Harrison said: "After all we went
through
together, I had great love and respect for John."

By the end of the decade Harrison, who had

vociferously
criticised modern pop, including rap and "horrible
computerised music", decided he would give
recording
another shot. He staged a remarkable comeback
and gained his
first US No 1 since Give Me Love (Give Me Peace
on Earth)
in 1973 with Got My Mind Set on You from his
1987 album
Cloud Nine. The song was a cover of a 1963 hit by
James Ray
that Harrison had long cherished. By 1988 Harrison
seemed at
last to have come to terms with his past, a mood
expressed
on the cheerful When We Was Fab, another Top
Forty hit. In
January that year he joined Ringo Starr and Yoko
Ono at a
dinner in New York when the Beatles were inducted
into the
Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame.

Harrison lived in seclusion after Lennon's death and

had no
great desire to risk live performances or maintain
his
status as a pop star. He was happier with other
interests
including films, motor racing and gardening. He
wrote an
autobiography, I, Me, Mine, published in 1980 in a
special
limited edition, and also remained involved in
environmental
concerns. He also campaigned to save the Regal
Cinema in his
adopted home town of Henley.

Although he was still nervous of performing in

public, in
1988 Harrison teamed up with some old friends to
form a
relaxed new group, the Traveling Wilburys. The lineup
included Jeff Lynne, Bob Dylan, Roy Orbison and
Tom Petty

Realising the public's perception of him as being

over-serious, he included in his 1982 album Gone
Troppo a

263

and they released a well-received debut album,

Traveling
Wilburys: Volume One. Harrison was billed as
"Nelson
Wilbury" and said later, "It was one of the most
enjoyable
things I've done. I don't have a desire to be a solo
artist.
It's much more fun being in the Wilburys."

"definitely not auditioning for the Traveling

Wilburys".
Interest in the Beatles did not diminish over the
years, and
from 1995 the public fascination was fuelled by the
release
of The Beatles Anthology CD set, which contained
previously
unreleased material, with an accompanying
television
documentary and book. In November 2000 a
compendium of the
group's No 1 hits, The Beatles 1, became the
fastestselling album of the year. George Harrison,
however,
remained essentially a modest, unassuming family
man, whose
feelings and needs were perhaps best expressed in
one of his
simplest songs Give Me Love (Give Me Peace on
Earth).

When Harrison played at the Royal Albert Hall in

1992 in a
fund-raising show for the Natural Law Party, it was
his
first London appearance for 23 years. Ringo Starr
joined
Harrison's band, on drums, for a rousing Roll Over
Beethoven. Harrison seemed moved and even
astonished by the
warmth of the reception. "Sometimes you think
people hate
you," he said in a telling aside.
In 1997 a Live in Japan album appeared featuring
Harrison
with the Eric Clapton band and the same year My
Sweet Lord
and Give Me Love (Give Me Peace On Earth) was
reissued as
a single. Harrison continued his association with
Ravi
Shankar and the same year produced Shankar's
album Chants of
India. He travelled to Melbourne to watch the grand
prix
motor racing and even contemplated living in
Australia. It
was during 1997 that doctors discovered that
Harrison was
suffering from throat cancer and he subsequently
underwent
radiotherapy and surgery.

Chris Welch, 2001

George Harrison: An Appreciation From a Man
Who Peed With The Quiet One
Bill Holdship, LA New Times, 6 December 2001
GEORGE HARRISON is probably bemused by all
the attention his passing received in the material
world this past week. Most of the tributes have
concentrated on the "quiet Beatle" thing,
emphasizing his spirituality, humanitarianism,
subtle-but-brilliant musicianship, and the quiet
dignity he always so beautifully displayed. In
retrospect, he may have been the only living exBeatle never to embarrass himself or us. And take it
from someone who saw that much-maligned 1974
tour as a fan, not a critic: It was terrific, much better
than McCartney's first two U.S. tours.

Despite his low profile and relatively conventional

later
lifestyle, Harrison became the victim of overzealous fans
and stalkers in the wake of John Lennon's murder.
During the
night of 30 December 1999, a mentally unstable
heroin
addict, Michael Abram, broke into Harrison's house
and
attacked Harrison and his wife with a knife. It was a
traumatic ordeal in which Harrison escaped death
by inches,
but afterwards he joked that he could see that the
man was

All this concentration on the serious side of his

personality, however, often misses the man's
warmth and great sense of humor. I was fortunate
enough to have two encounters with Harrison over
the past 15 years, first interviewing him for Creem
magazine in 1987. As a child, I had recurring
dreams that the Beatles actually lived on my street
and were playmates (probably a result of that
Saturday morning cartoon series) - so you can
imagine the devastating impact it would have had,
even on an adult, if George Harrison had turned out
to be a dick. And a Beatle could obviously get away
with being arrogant. But Harrison was a total
sweetheart, everything you would want a former

264

Beatle to be - charming, warm, personable and

hilariously funny. In fact, one of my most vivid
memories of that afternoon is his hearty and
genuine laugh, always delivered with a huge twinkle
in his eye. "I saved you the big attack on
everybody," he said, before dissing a few folks who
deserved it, later adding "if you put this in the
interview, you can say I'm smiling about it. I'm not
letting it depress me."

George Harrison!" You just know Axl Rose would

have had his thugs clear the joint, if he'd ever
needed to use a public restroom at all.
During that 1987 interview, Harrison talked about
Elvis and Lennon as though they were both
spiritually still here. He also addressed death:
"Death is just where your suit falls off and now
you're in your other suit. You can't see it on this
level, but it's all right. Don't worry." And he claimed
to absolutely believe in reincarnation, adding that
"and half those people [in the record industry] are
going to be reincarnated getting one cent on every
CD they sell, and sell more records than everybody,
and then not receive any of the money."

He strolled into the interview by himself, no

entourage or handlers, immediately acknowledging,
without prompting, my co-editor, whom he'd met
more than six months before backstage at the
Palace. "See, I told you we'd make this happen," he
grinned.

I loved George Harrison. And I truly believe that

those who never got to experience the Beatles firsthand missed out on what it was to have real
musical and cultural heroes. It's one thing to mourn
his death. But what we're really mourning is the fact
that the world was a far better (and funnier) place
when the Beatles were still in it. Harrison himself
never seemed to fear moving on. As his friend Bob
Dylan remarked after hearing the news: "He was
like the sun, the flowers, and the moon - and we will
miss him enormously. The world is a profoundly
emptier place without him."

Harrison had grown very comfortable with his

Beatles legacy by this point, but he still had
hilarious stories to tell about Elvis and the Fabs'
psychedelic years, as well as pointed comments to
make about Dick Clark, the music business, and
even Madonna, whom he'd recently worked with,
producing Shanghai Surprise, the flop (the only one
in Harrison's film-producing career) she co-starred
in with then-husband Sean Penn.
"The thing is, you see, people get famous for a bit,
and this is why the Beatles were good," he said.
"We had the four of us - if one of us would start to
get snooty or bigheaded, we'd just broadside him.
But then you have these other people who get
famous and they suddenly start thinking they're
God's gift to mankind. When really all they are is a
silly pop star. There's much more to life than just
been a famous pop star. Unfortunately, a lot of them
fall into the trap. They get surrounded by people
saying how fab they are, all these sycophants. You
have to see it from the other side, too - which is that
the pressure you're under when you're fab is
tremendous. It sometimes does get you crazy when
you can't do anything because everybody's bugging
you and shooting cameras in your face. So I can
sympathize from that point of view, too. But all
Madonna needs is 500 milligrams of some good
LSD."

Bill Holdship, 2001

My Walk-On in the Life of George
David Dalton, Gadfly, 12 March 2002
"FIRST OF ALL," my friend Richard said, "he was a
Beatle, how could he die?" They were immortal,
weren't they? Gods, even if flawed. A Beatle can
only die by assassination or self-destruction, and
George hadn't exactly lived the doomed rock-star
life.
Although we knew George had been sick for awhile,
his death when it came was shocking and sudden.
It wasn't all that unexpected, actually, he'd been
sick for years. But since the attack by a crazed fan
two years ago, George had become almost
pathological in protecting his private life. What little
information got through about his condition was
unfailingly positive.

My second experience with Harrison was a bit

cruder, but just as telling. It was at a 1990 recordrelease party for Ringo Starr at West Hollywood's
Bar One, where a small group of gentlemen were
suddenly astonished to find themselves in line for
the men's room with a former Beatles guitarist.
Noticing the fashion trend so popular among the
follicle-challenged in the music biz at that time,
George turned to the gent behind him and laughed,
"Do you need a ponytail in this town to take a leak?"
To this day, there are several guys walking around
L.A. who still proudly boast that they "peed with

In the last few days, there have been many, many

Georgian panegyrics and evaluations of his
influence and there will be more to come so I
thought I'd just tell a few stories about my walk-on
in the Life of George.

265

In the late sixties I shared a house with Stanley

Mouse and Richard Dilello in Ladbroke Grove in
London. Richard worked at Apple, and somehow I
ended up writing a book for the Beatles with
Jonathan Cott. It was called Get Back, and was
included in the Beatles last (UK) album, Let It Be.
(My friend Richard eventually wrote the best book
you'll ever read about Apple and the Beatles: The
Longest Cocktail Party. Recently reprinted.)

diligent gofers than me heading out in the middle of

the night in search of Phillips' head screw drivers,
orthicon tubes, mini pre-amps or some crazier item
still, ready to take the entire TV set apart piece by
piece and not stop until the music was louder. Billy
chilled us all out by saying, "David, he just messin'
witcha, man. It's a piece of shit, anyway. Let's go
out and get something to eat." So we went to an
Indian restaurant where else? and George told
stories about Ravi Shankar in a Peter Sellers Indian
accent. "My goodness, what is this sort of thing you
are playing there, George?" Shankar asked him
about his sitar playing on 'Norwegian Wood'. "If you
don't mind me saying so, it's the sort of frightful,
twangy thing you hear on Radio Bombay
advertising soap powders."

In those days, George spent quite a bit of time at

Apple. He was producing albums (one by his old
Liverpuddlian mate, Jackie Lomax), and could often
be found talking to the cosmic and roguish Beatles
press agent, Derek Taylor. Of all the Beatles,
George was the most accessible but this wasn't
always such a good thing. Gods pretending to be
human beings is one thing. Gods descending to
your level well let's just say it's a bit scary. John
and Paul were already world-class actors and very
grand in their own very different ways. Ringo was
impenetrable; he was a nice friendly bloke, but you
were never going to find out who he really was.
George was more like one of us.

During the Let It Be sessions there was a tense

moment. George was wailing on his Gretsch, happy
as a clam, when Yoko suddenly began wailing
along with him. For a while George just looked nonplussed. The madwoman of Tokyo screamed louder
and louder, and George's head started to lower
ominously. He raised up his guitar like a sacrificial
victim and hurled it to the ground. Did I mention that
George loved Gertsches? He played them in honor
of his idol, Chet Atkins. George loved country
music; Carl Perkins was his favorite. His songs
always had a country lilt to them. Anyway, there's
the Gretsch, writhing and seething on the ground
like a thing alive, and there's George walking out
the door. After he's gone, there's a pretty cold
conversation between John and Paul about what to
do if he doesn't come back. "I hear Eric isn't doing
too much these days," says Lennon with chilling
matter-of-factness.

He wasn't always St. George, however especially

to people he didn't know, people who worked for
him, people who wanted things from him. This is all
pretty normal behavior for a rock god but he had
his own demons and, like Ringo, felt that some
gods were more equal than others. The first time I
met him, he attacked me. He took one look at me
and pounced. "Wot the fook we 'ave 'ere, then?" he
said. "Hair down to your arse, beads and bracelets?
Oh, you think you're so bloody hip don't you, you
guys from the great Haight-Ashbury!"
I was stunned. George was my hero. I didn't have
time to kneel and say I'm not worthy (or that I wasn't
from San Francisco). George turned on his Spanish
heel and was gone. What had I done? I was
wearing pretty standard hippiewear some of the
clothes were actually from the Apple boutique (and
believe me, that wasn't where hip people shopped).

Richard saw a lot more of George than I, so I asked

him the other day, "George was basically a nice
guy, right? I mean, everybody on the news says he
had a dark side, but nobody talks about what it was,
exactly."
"He was half and half. He could be very difficult and
unpleasant and prickly, even at times a bastard. But
then there was the other side to him, generous and,
uh, kind...." Richard replies, choosing his words
carefully.

He could just as easily be arrogant in the grand

Persian manner. One night George and Billy
Preston were watching a TV show up at Apple. Billy
was performing that night on a variety show called
Talk of the Town. I was sitting on the floor blissfully
happy to be among the gods and felt especially
favored when George asked me to turn the sound
up. After several more requests to "turn the fookin'
thing up," I told him that that was as loud as it went.
George looked at me ferociously and in high
imperial mode demanded that I turn the bloody
volume up. Yeah yeah, I know, just a regular bloke
who happened to be a god, and was used to getting
the impossible done for him. I imagined more

"Didn't you stay at George's house for a while?" I

ask.
"A month. I went down the first week George bought
Friar's Point, his gothic mansion near Henley. He
asked me to come over and take some
photographs of the place. I spent a week
methodically taking pictures of everything. 40 acres,
40 rooms. The day after I'd shot my last roll, Eric

266

Clapton showed up with one of those monkey bikes

tiny motor scooters and we were having a race
around the grounds on them. I hit a low garden wall
and got thrown over the handle bars. The moment I
landed on my chest it really hurt, and I knew
something was wrong. The pain got worse and
worse, and finally I said to George, 'I'm a bit
embarrassed to tell you this but I think I broke
something.' He put me in the Ferrari and drove me
to the local hospital at Henley-on-Thames. He
waited while they x-rayed me and bandaged me up
they couldn't locate the bandages so they used
tea towels.

happened to end up with two Hell's Angels sleeping

on our bedroom floor. Thanks, George, you don't
know what you missed, man.
A few days later George had another little job for us.
He wanted us to get him a pound of hash for his
Yule celebrations. A pound of hash! Nobody outside
of yer actual criminal element had ever seen such a
thing. Nevertheless, in the way you talked to royalty,
we assured him it was no problem. Easy as pie!
We'll be back tomorrow morning with your hash,
man.
Now, what were we going to do? The only people
we knew who had that kind of quantity were some
truly scary Jamaicans down the Portobello Road.
We entered this den of thieves and cut throats,
ganja smoke so thick you could hardly see across
the room. "Show us the money, mon, and we talk."
We pulled out the big fat five-pound notes. "Er,
man, can we see the hash?" we asked hesitantly.
"There ya go, mon," said he, and handed us a long
piece of hash wrapped in linen. But was it a pound?
Richard and I looked at each other. We were
dubious. "Is there a problem with it, mon?" They
laughed darkly. We slid out of the room. Back at the
house we weighed it. Omigod, it was barely 13
ounces. Yikes! Now what were we gonna do? Oh
well, at least rock stars don't actually kill you when
you fuck up they probably just make you leave (a
fate far worse than death). We'd never be made
men now.

"'I seem to have broken my collar bone,' I told

George apologetically back in the waiting room."
"'I think you'd better stay with us then,' he said."
"What was it like at George's gothic pile?"
"Well, he was pretty grouchy most the time. An
unhappy guy. Maybe he'd always been that way,
misanthropic and bitter, but fame certainly didn't
help. George always regarded fame as a total
curse."
Reminiscing with Richard I remembered a couple of
Harristories typical of the misunderstandings that
arose from the mingling of gods, angels, and
mortals.
One day Richard called me from Apple and said,
"How'd you like to have a Hell's Angel, his Mama
and his hog stay with us a few days?" Well, sure!
It'd be an honor. And just how had this come about?
Well, the previous summer George had gone to visit
Haight-Ashbury (ah, maybe that's where his animus
against H-A hippies came from). He was curious,
George. He was the first Beatle to come to America
(pre-Beatlemania), the first to get into Eastern
religion (is this a good thing?), the first rock star to
raise money for charity (the Concert for
Bangladesh) and the first and only Beatle to go and
check out the Haightgeist.

Next morning up at Apple, George ushers us into a

side room. We nervously unwrap the slab of hash.
Tense moments tick by we're about to trot out our
lame excuses when George beams. He's ecstatic.
He's like a child on Christmas morning. He calls in
Derek and Ringo. "Come in here, you gotta see
this, man!" Everyone is duly impressed. George
goes into the kitchen, gets a carving knife, cuts off a
huge chunk and hands it to us. "Merry Christmas,
guys!"

As he was sauntering down Haight Street he'd

casually invited a couple of Hell's Angels in a very
Brit sort of way to come and stay with him if they
ever came to London, never thinking they'd take
him up on it. But, George, you don't know those
California boys. "Man, Christmas with the Beatles!"
they said to themselves, taking George at his word.
Crazy Pete and Tumbleweed Bill and Ken Kesey
and a bunch of other California crazies egad!
Barbarians at the gates! When the Angels actually
did show up at Apple... George hid. No room in the
40-room mansion, apparently. And that's how we

George Harrison: Jolly George The Unsung

Story

David Dalton, 2002

Robert Sandall, Sunday Times, 12 October 2003

In a rare interview, George Harrison's widow
Olivia tells Robert Sandall of his hidden circle of
friends and fun, and that attack
FINDING THE place is a cinch: straight down
Henley-on-Thames High Street, up the hill and
theres the entrance, a couple of hundred yards

267

beyond the town. Although George Harrison lived

here for the last 31 years of his life, you cant help
feeling that after the fateful and nearly fatal break-in
when he was attacked by a mentally disturbed
intruder, he might have come to regret choosing
such an easily located address.

Georges Material World charity. The cast of

performers is impressively diverse. Its not often that
you see an old cockney rocker such as Joe Brown
sharing a stage with Ravi Shankar, the master of
the sitar. Nor will you often spy the Monty Python
crew, helped on this occasion by Tom Hanks,
singing the Lumberjack Song. But these are the
people George knew and loved.

Two years after his death, Friar Park, a 120-room

gothic pile, is still home to his wife Olivia. If George
was known in his Beatle days as "the quiet one" he
could hardly have chosen a more appropriate
partner than the American woman known to him as
"Liv", and to the rest of us as a petite, fine-featured
lady with black hair and a Hispanic complexion.

In its understated, indirect way, Concert for George

lets you know that this guy was far more proactive
socially, and adventurous musically, than his slightly
crotchety, Victor Meldrew-ish public image
indicated.

Not for her the publicity seeking antics of Heather

Mills McCartney nor the manipulation of her dead
husbands legacy favoured by Yoko Ono. Unlike
Barbara Bach, Ringos missus, she has never
aspired to be an actress or model.

"People always think George was serious and a

recluse," Olivia says brightly and carefully, her
accent still lightly LA. "But he was also the opposite,
which is why he was so exciting. He was only
reclusive from the things wed all like to escape
from: traffic, pollution, noise, cities. He didnt put up
with crabbiness other than his own. But he nurtured
friendships and his friends always felt they were
close friends theyd be surprised if they knew how
much he thought about them."

However, it was her handy and courageous

intervention with a poker and a table lamp that
saved Georges life after he had been stabbed by a
deranged intruder at Friar Park in December 1999.

Many of his non-musical friends dont feature in the

film, such as Georges mechanic buddy Paul, who
works for the McLaren team and shared his insider
knowledge of Formula One racing with a man who
said how much he admired the heightened
consciousness of the drivers. With Olivias dad
who has also since died he would watch baseball.

Talking publicly about anything has never been her

style and that nightmarish assault, as well as
Georges death from cancer two years later, are
things she has chosen, until now, to keep to herself.
She has emerged from the shadows only to launch
Concert for George, a memorial film produced by
her with help from their son Dhani and a team of
Georges old mates, led by Eric Clapton. It had its
premiere in London last week.

Tranquil as it seems, Friar Park and its stunning

gardens that we walk around was full of fun.
"George was the funniest man I knew. When he
died it was like, oh no, the partys over," she says.

She appears on the driveway on a mountain bike

with a red rose on the handlebar. She is dressed
sporty casual in black tracksuit bottoms and
trainers.

George spent most of his time working, alone, on

his many acred garden "to escape phone calls,
letters, accountants and lawyers". But often father
and son would head to the shed together, guitars in
hand, and be up all night playing.

Her manner is affable as she recalls the last, and

only, time we met 12 years ago.
The idea for the concert came to her last year while
she was staying at their house in Hawaii (which
along with a place in Sydney acted as their winter
quarters).

Michael Palin was a regular visitor alongside

Brown, their neighbour, who would arrive with his
fiddle. Clapton was the first to visit after the 1999
attack. In short, although he hated e-mails, mobiles
and other aspects of modernity and the material
world, George loved to be in touch and visitors were
always appearing up the long curved drive.

"I had it in the back of my mind that something

would have to be done some time. George wasnt
going to escape this world that easily," she explains,
crediting Clapton with booking the musicians and
Jools Holland for giving up a slot at the Albert Hall.

Any suggestion that he had problems with some of

his associates, notably Paul McCartney, gets a
thumbs down from Olivia. When I spoke to him in
1991, George still seemed to harbour a resentment
about his treatment as a very junior partner in the

Out of the concert which took place last

November, a year to the day after Harrisons death
grew a film, the proceeds of which will go to

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Beatles, and was openly dismissive of his old band

mates publicly expressed desire to get together
and write songs with him.

stage, playing guitar and singing along to his

fathers songs in Concert for George, marks a
watershed about which she feels some
ambivalence.

She "doesnt recall that", although she can

remember George stringing a left-handed ukulele
for Paul on his last visit and tells how "profoundly
affected" Paul was when George died: "Because
you really need those friendships you had before
you were famous to keep you straight."

The most heart-stopping moments in the film come

when the camera focuses on a young man who
looks the spitting image of his father, aged 25. "It is
uncanny, but what can you do?" she frets. "Hes
been thrown in at the deep end now and thats life.
Its like hes inherited the family business."

The thing that most kept George straight, she

reckons, was his spiritual belief and this is where
Olivia gets hard to follow. For at least an hour on
most days, when he wasnt in the garden or
strumming something, George would meditate or
chant.

Dhani runs a small design company that has

worked on the artwork of the concert DVD. "Thats
what he studied at university," says Olivia. "He
happens to be a musician as well and which one
will manifest we dont know yet."

"He embraced the essence of all religions, but he

hated established churches," Olivia says. "He
believed that if there is a God you must see him,
otherwise you might as well be an atheist or a
hypocrite. And his aim was to have a direct
perception of God."

Rather surprisingly, she is happy to talk about what

she refers to simply as "the attack". On the night of
December 30, 1999, she and George awoke to find
an armed intruder in the house.
Michael Abram, a mentally disturbed Liverpudlian,
was on a mission similar to the one in which Mark
Chapman dispatched John Lennon outside the
Dakota Building in New York 19 years previously.
After a vicious struggle in the hall, Harrison ended
up with four stab wounds in his chest. Olivia beat
Abram off and was then assaulted herself.

One reason why George spent so much time in the

garden was "because he always said he could see
God in nature easily".
It was their shared beliefs that brought them
together back in 1974. At the time she was working
in Los Angeles for A&M Records, the distributor of
Georges Dark Horse label. He was temporarily
living in Malibu and coming out of what he called
"the naughty period", the phase of rocknroll
debauchery that accompanied the disintegration of
his marriage to Patti Boyd. But that was not the
tenor of the new relationship.

At no point will she acknowledge the truth: that she

saved Georges life. "I guess not everybody gets
tested the way we did," she says. "George was
incredibly brave." And so were you, I point out.
"Yes, but Im female and you just do what you have
to do.
"George was badly injured, and just when he
thought he was going to die he had to get up and
fight the guy all over again because hed come after
me. If it had been one of us on our own, we would
have definitely been killed. And it would have been
awful if George had died that night."

"It was our spiritual aspirations that provided a

common bond between us," says Olivia. "I was
doing yoga and meditation and I had a great
excitement about the spiritual path, as he did also.
"We had our differences, but that was what kept us
together. What struck me about George was that he
wasnt impressed by anything or anybody, even
then, except Ravi Shankar. I think hed maxed this
planet out."

Having been diagnosed with cancer of the throat in

1997, George was already into his final furlong and
the idea of moving out of Friar Park after this
appalling ordeal never occurred to either of them.
"Wed spent a long time here," Olivia says. "Wed
had an awful lot of fun and deep spiritual moments.
Dhanis childhood was here. Why would we let one
night erase all that? It would be foolish."

One thing he hadnt done was have any children, a

situation that changed in 1978 with the birth of
Dhani. Reluctant as she is to talk about herself,
Olivia is even more protective of her only child.

She says they "went on holiday to the south Pacific

and got over it" and recalls that Georges dry
jocularity had returned before he left hospital.
"When the police asked him who he thought the

Raised and educated in England but miraculously

ignored by the paparazzi, Dhani has barely been
spotted in public before now. His presence, centre

269

attacker was, he said, Well, he certainly wasnt

auditioning for the Traveling Wilburys."

p.m. flight to Montreal, where the second bed-in got

off to a heavily-heralded start.

By the time he died, she says, he was at peace.

"He did films, he did books, he made records, he
landscaped in three continents, he went to Formula
One.

Police were on duty along the corridors to hold back

fans and to scrutinize the credentials of the 50-or-so
press representatives who turned up to either gaze
in wonder at the couple, or to dismiss the visit as
more weird stuff from the weirdest family around.

"When I met him he said his ambition was to have

no ambition. And I think he achieved that. For the
last five years he felt like that actually. So he was
free to go."

Inside the crowded suite, John and Yoko sat

peacefully holding hands, surrounded by pink and
white carnations, record players, film equipment,
empty glasses, and busy phones. Two books lay on
a table Vladimir Nabokovs The Defense and a
personally autographed copy of Jacqueline
Susanns latest voyeurist masterpiece, The Love
Machine. (Earlier, Miss Susann had dropped by to
pass on her good wishes and to cash in on the
publicity of the Lennon visit.)

Robert Sandall, 2003

Bedding In For Peace: John and Yoko in Canada
Ritchie Yorke, Rolling Stone, 28 June 1969
TORONTO It started like a pretty normal Sunday.
The churches were filled, the radio news bulletins
beamed out the latest on wars and starving people
and sales. From the TV came more news than you
needed about the astronauts. Spring was clinging to
the trees.

Yoko wore a white blouse and cream slacks with no

shoes, and Lennon feet tucked under his
buttocks had on a white T-shirt with a green
stripe on the sleeves, cream trousers, white sox
with red and blue stripes, a gold chain which
suspended a crucifix on his chest, and was also
barefoot. A pair of white sneakers lay on the floor
beneath his knees. Yokos daughter, Kyoko, was
ushered off by a friend prior to the press
conference.

Then it changed. An Air Canada flight from the

Bahamas landed at Toronto International Airport
and discharged a load of returning holiday makers,
including the Lennon family. Literally from out of the
blue came John Lennon, wife Yoko Ono, her fiveyear-old daughter Kyoko, publicist Derek Taylor
plus two members of the Beatles film crew.

Both John and Yoko were at ease with the reporters

and gave the impression theyd been through
similar gruelling numbers several times before.

Twenty-four hours later, the Lennon entourage

returned to the airport and flew to Montreal, where
they bean a week-long bed-in for peace (at
midnight on Monday, May 26) on the 19th floor of the
Queen Elizabeth Hotel. To an observer, the 24
hours seemed like a lifetime in the fast-moving 20th
century. First of all, Lennon was detained for two
hours while immigration officials debated whether
he should be allowed into Canada as a desirable
alien. After all, Lennon had a conviction for
possession of drugs. Finally, Lennon was released
on his own recognizance pending a hearing the
following morning. The entourage headed
downtown, where they were booked into a $50-aday suite in the King Edward Sheaton Hotel. Next
morning, Lennon returned to the airport where, in a
thoroughly commendable and unexpected piece of
sound judgment, Canadian immigration officials
granted them a 10-day stay in the country.

"The whole effect of our bed-ins has made people

talk about peace," said Lennon, toying with a white
carnation and licking his thick moustache. "Were
trying to interest young people in doing something
for peace. But it must be done by non-violent
means otherwise there can only be chaos. Were
saying to the young people and they have always
been the hippest ones were telling them to get
the message across to the squares.
"A lot of young people have been ignoring the
squares when they should be helping them. The
whole scene has become too serious and too
intellectual."
"What about talking to the people who make the
decisions, the power brokers?" suggested a cynical
reporter. Lennon laughed. "Shit, talk? Talk about
what? It doesnt happen like that. In the U.S., the
Government is too busy talking about how to keep
me out. If Im a joke, as they say, and not important,
why dont they just let me in?" he added, bitterly.

The entourage returned to the hotel, where scores

of teenagers had crammed into the corridors, and
gave a five o clock press conference. At 9 p.m. they
once again drove to the airport, and boarded a 9:55

270

Admitting that there may be better ways of

promoting peace than lying in bed for seven days,
Yoko looking supremely thin and happy said:
"We worked for three months thinking out the most
functional approach to boosting peace before we
got married and spent our honeymoon talking to the
press in bed in Amsterdam. For us, it was the only
way. We cant go out in Trafalgar Square [the site of
many peace demonstrations in London] and join in
because it would create a riot. We cant lead a
parade or a march because of all the autograph
hunters. We had to find our own way of doing it, and
for now, bed-ins seem to be the most logical way.
We think the bed-in can be effective."

on Canada. Looking back, it was really Canada all

the time. Apart from the hotels, it was so damn hot
down there, and not close enough to the States.
After the Bahamas hassle, we were ready for
Russia or even New Zealand."
The 10-hour stay in the Bahamas cost Lennon a
staggering 500 in hotel bills. He paid 25 for a
couple of orange juices, and people demanded tips
before theyd performed any service. It was a case
of money-hungry people grabbing for everything
they could take from a world-famous personality.
Peace, says Lennon. Pinch, say the pricks.
And so, while Toronto went to church, Lennon and
company winged their way northwards. And it had
all started out such a normal Sunday morning.

Students at Torontos progressive Rochdale College

immediately staged a sympathy bed-in. One
student said: "Wed be willing to go even further
with a nude-in. We would not only strip our bodies,
we would strip our souls."

Once in Montreal, Lennon devoted a good portion

of his time talking with AM and FM stations all
around the United States and Canada from his
hotel room phone. It was a non-stop rap, really, one
call after another. He was on their air, for instance,
happily counselling peace to KSAN-FMS San
Francisco Bay area listeners. The following day
when the big Peoples Park march was on at
Berkeley Lennon phoned KPFA-FM in Berkeley
twice to inquire how it was going and to advise the
demonstrator to use peaceful methods.

On arrival in Toronto, Lennon had said that he

would like to meet Canadas Prime Minister
Trudeau and to hand him an acorn ("an acorn is a
seed, and seeds are symbolic of life"). Later,
Trudeau said, "I dont know about acorns but if hes
around Id like to meet him. Hes a good poet."
Lennon is also hoping to stage a bed-in in Russia.
He grinned and quipped, "Ive heard its easier to
get into there than into the United States." He plans,
once he has obtained a U.S. visa, to hold bed-ins in
New York and Washington, D.C. There are no plans
for the West Coast.

"Youve got to do it peacefully," he said. Lennon had

read all about the Peoples Park imbroglio "when
I first got the news it stooned me, absolutely
stooned me" and told KPFA that people around
the world were on the side of Peoples Park.

The twosome also plan bed-ins in Germany, Ireland

and Tokyo. London is out. "Id have to take me prick
out to get the attention of the English press. Now
we do it outside and the English press come to see
it. We need the press very much to get out
message across, so we have to go along with all
sorts of bullshit from reporters. We answer the
same questions over and over. Let me tell you that
the Amsterdam gig wasnt the best way I know of
having a honeymoon."

"But you cant do it with violent means. That wont

accomplish anything. Keep it peaceful. Violence is
what has kept mankind from getting together for
centuries."
AN INTERVIEW
Before the peace troupe left for Montreal, Ritchie
Yorke managed to get an exclusive private
interview with John. Yorke describes the setting, as
Lennon sat back in the cab and heaved a sigh of
relief:

Later, Derek Taylor explained why the Lennons had

chosen Canada for their second bed-in. "Last
Friday, we decided that if John wasnt going to get a
visa for the U.S., we would have to get close to the
States and create a lot of publicity. We half-decided
on Canada, but then we decided on the Bahamas.

It was an understandable sigh. Moments before, he

had been engulfed by a swarm of half-crazed
teenagers who had shoved past police and
descended on him.

"Its not a good place. Its not that the hotels are
bad, theyre just not hotels. John and I both didnt
like it, but we said, Lets go to bed and see what it
looks like in the morning. John called me at 7 and
said, It doesnt look any better, so then we decided

It was meant to be a top-secret exit from the hotel

with the Lennon family heading to Toronto airport
where they planned to fly to Montreal to start a
seven-day bed in. Wed left several phones angrily

271

demanding attention, carnations littered over beds

and rugs, unopened letters and telegrams, fans
screaming from behind burly policemen along the
hotel corridors.

with Yoko. I was in India meditating on the Yoko

album and how to present it. [He laughed.] One day
I just suddenly thought the best way was to have
Yoko naked on the cover. I wrote and told her and I
got some static at the other end. She wasnt too
keen.

Down some sort of fire escape we had fled, any

moment expecting to be deluged by fans. It didnt
happen until we were almost to the car, waiting,
motor running, in a quiet back-of-the-building
tradesmen entrance.

Finally I had her persuaded. I came back to

England and by natural turn of events, I wound up
being naked in the picture too. It was all a bit
strange. When we were taking the picture, I got a
funny feeling when I looked down at me cock. Hello,
I thought, were on.

Running out of the elevator Lennons two-man

film crew letting the film race through the camera
they were suddenly on us. Lennon was seized in a
dozen different places. He groaned. Yoko One cried
out, "Quickly, John, this way." Somehow the police
regained control, we were shoved into the cab, the
garage door opened slowly, too slowly, and they
were on us again kids climbing on the hood and
the trunk, even the roof. Derek Taylor, the Beatles
publicity man, shouted to close the windows, lock
the door. It had already been done. The fans either
jumped or fell off as we gathered speed.

When I got the pictures back, I was mildly shocked.

You know, I was only mildly shocked, but I thought
that if Im surprised by it, what will others think?
Then I looked again and I thought it was great
having the Financial Times on the floor and
everything.
Im pleased we did it. For all reasons, Im glad
about it. I wanted people to be shocked. It was all
worth it just for the howl that went up. It really blew
their minds like right-wing Fascists.

Lennon looked tired, a quiet figure sinking back into

the rear seat, next to Yokos five-year-old daughter,
Kyoko. Yoko was nonchalant. Lennon, all in white,
sighed again and said: "I think Ringo was right
about not touring." And later "The Beatles are a
democratic group of middle-aged teenagers. We
just dont happen to agree on doing concerts. Ive
wanted to do some for a while, but Im not sure any
more."

I got long lectures form Paul about it at first. Is there

any need for this, he said. What are you doing, said
George. It took me five months to persuade them
that it was right. Thats why it took so long coming
out.
What did you think of Jim Morrisons recent alleged
masturbation incident in Florida?

It was an uneventful trip to the airport, a welcome

respite from the maddening crowds. We arrived unannounced, but in less than 60 seconds a crowd
had gathered; shoving, shouting, pushing, poking.
While Taylor took care of the tickets, John and
Yoko, John holding onto Kyoko, one of the Lennon
cameramen and myself were ushered into a small
room, vacant but for three chairs, a desk and a
plastic rubber plant.

I dont think anything of it really. I suppose the show

wasnt going too well, so Jim decided to pull out his
prick and liven it up a bit. If he likes wanking, thats
OK. I dont think he actually wanked off though;
even if he did, I wish hed done the whole thing and
fucked some bird up there. Do the whole scene.

John, did you anticipate the controversy resulting

from the cover of your Two Virgins album (which
pictured John and Yoko naked on the front of the
jacket); were you upset by it, and how do you feel
about the whole thing in retrospect?

Actually, Ive got a wanking play opening tonight on

Broadway. Yes, four guys are wanking tonight in
New York. Its the Kenneth Tynan play (Oh!
Calcutta). They asked us to write a smutty bit for
them. I dont know whether theyll do it like it was
when I wrote it. Ah, it all fucks up their little minds,
doesnt it?

Yeah, well I expected some noise about it. But I

didnt expect as much as we got. Im sure Yoko
didnt expect it. Id always wanted to produce Yoko,
before we were lovers.

A couple of years ago you made a highly

controversial statement about the Beatles
popularity as compared with Jesus Christ. Do you
still think the same way?

It all started with the producing kick the Beatles got

into. Paul was producing Mary Hopkins, George
had Jackie Lomax, so I decided to produce a record

I think I said that the Beatles have more influence

on young people than Jesus Christ. Yes, I still think
it. Kids are influenced more by us than by Jesus.

272

Christ, some ministers even stood up and agreed

with it. It was another piece of truth that the Fascist
Christians picked on. Im all for Christ. Im very big
on Christ. Ive always fancied him. He was right.

Have you planned any more records with Yoko?

[The Wedding Album, suggested Yoko.] OK lets
give The Wedding Album a plug. It will be presented
like a book, and the record will be all about love and
peace. Theres some heavy stuff halfbeats
recorded with terrific machinery. Therell also be
some bits and pieces from our press conference in
Amsterdam.

As he said in his book, Youll get knocked if you

follow my ways. He was so right about that. We got
knocked. But Im all for him. Im always saying his
name, I use it in songs [the new Beatles single,
The Ballad of John and Yoko, includes several
less-than-reverent mentions of Christ], and I talk
about him.

Your film crew has been shooting practically all day,

and are even filming our present interview. What do
you intend to do with all this celluloid?

Recent reports form London claim that you are

going broke, and youll soon have to resort to
touring to get some money. Is this true?

Well, we have seven films which were producing.

Were looking for a distributor now. If you know any
distributors, tell em to get in touch with us. We also
have two books, one of which was written by me,
and the other by Yoko and me. Our old publisher
has turned them down, but I think well find another
publisher.

I did lose a lot of money in Apple. I mean, the

company was becoming a joke. We were losing our
own money. Apple consists of 80 per cent of
Beatles royalties. We had some wrong people in
there. Some of the people just came into the office,
and called up Los Angeles and made reservations.

We dont compromise, and we therefore get turned

down by distributors. No one realizes that, but Im
always getting turned down. People send me in
songs, books, films, records, all sorts of things they
want to get out. But I cant even get my own stuff
out, so I cant help them. People think weve got it
all sewn up, but we havent. Look at all the things
Im having trouble getting out.

But weve got some good people now. We had to. It

got so bad that Paul and George and I couldnt
even be bothered going into the office. We made a
lot of mistakes with it. We promised to help
everybody but it couldnt be done. We gave away a
fortune but it was useless. We attracted shit-kickers
from all over the world.

How long have you known each other?

In the end, I threatened to pull my money out. Then
we hired Allen Klein to come in and take over, and
in he came followed by a black cloud. They said he
was tough and ruthless, but we found hes a good
guy. Sos David Platz, whos looking after publishing
and recording. Its all much better now.

Two years this time around.

What would you describe as the most satisfying
thing that happened to you since the Beatles
started?

What is happening with Beatles records?

Meeting Yoko.

Weve finished the next album. It was like a

rehearsal. But we decided to put the rehearsal out.
Only one track was almost finished and that was
Get Back. The others are in various stages of
completion.

Youve spent a considerable amount of time trying

to obtain entry into the United States. Arent you
afraid of the political climate there, and once you
have obtained entry, how long do you think it will
take before your campaign can have any effect?

One day we just decided to stop right then or wed

be on it for another four months. So we stopped. It
will be called Get Back, Dont let Me Down and 12
others. Remember the cover on the Please Please
Me album. Well, we went back to the same
photographic studios and had our pictures taken in
the same positions, except that we look as we do
now. It looks great. So weve got that album
finished, and another one half done. Oh, and we
have a new single, The Ballad of John and Yoko,
and Old Brown Shoe, one of Georges songs.

Yes, were really scared to go to the U.S. because

people have become so violent, even our sort of
people. Violence begets violence. We want to avoid
it. But once we do get into the States, and can do
our bed-ins in Washington and New York, I think
well start to have some effect. I think it will take five
to ten years to change things. Yoko thinks five, Im
for ten. But we cant do it alone, we must have
everybodys help.

273

 Ritchie Yorke, 1969

though in the case of OZ, they might be very hard

to read beneath a psychedelic pattern.

John Lennon/Yoko Ono Interview

To listen to old tapes like this is a form of time
travel; an out of body experience. To go back 26
years to a specific time and place when John was
still alive has a poignancy. John and Yoko had just
kicked a heroin habit but as far as I remember they
were in very good shape. I sound stoned on the
second tape, probably the result of spending too
much time in Derek Taylor's room. This probably
accounts for some of the odd questions. I had been
attending Beatles recording sessions since 1965 so
I knew perfectly well that whoever sings a song is
the one who wrote it and there are other similar
inconsistencies which suggest a slight
disorientation.

Miles, unpublished, September 1969

These tapes were made on September 23rd and
24th, 1969, at Apple. When Allen Klein fired Ron
Kass, the head of Apple Records, John and Yoko
took over his elegant white ground floor office at the
front of the building overlooking Savile Row.
Here, surrounded by pictures of themselves, they
organised their bag events, their peace campaign,
their exhibitions and films, maintaining an open
house for anyone who wanted to interview them. I
had been label manager of Zapple, the
experimental and spoken word division of Apple
Records since October 1968, and spent a fair
amount of time at 3 Savile Row, using their
equipment to edit spoken word tapes. Though it
was Paul McCartney who started the Zapple
division, John and Yoko took a great interest in it so
I saw quite a bit of them. This tape was made
originally for International Times (IT) to coincide
with the release of Abbey Road but because the
latest issue of IT was at the printers, I gave it to
OZ magazine instead who printed about a quarter
of what you see here (this is about half of the
rambling conversation). It was not a formal
interview and people wandered in and out
throughout the recording. There were a great
number of interruptions, usually to answer
telephone calls; sometimes John would give a five
minute interview over the phone to a foreign
journalist or radio station or an aide would have a
quick conference. Apple press officer Derek Taylor
was there for some of the time, "Magic" Alex
stopped by, and another journalist came in and
asked questions half way through the first tape. The
second day's tape came out very indistinct so a
copy of the Apple archive recording was used
instead which accounts for the abrupt start, cutting
off the question and beginning of John's answer. As
far as I know, all interviews with John and Yoko
were recorded throughout that period, resulting in
hundreds of hours of tape presumably now in
Yoko's hands.

The strangest thing, however, is that despite all the

talk of Beatles records and Beatles music, John had
in fact resigned from the Beatles three days before,
on September 20th, so we were talking about a
group that no longer existed. The Beatles had
decided to keep their demise a secret and the news
was not released until six months later. Reading the
transcript with hindsight, it is amusing to see John
sidestep questions and carefully word answers to
avoid lying, but at the same time maintain the fiction
that The Beatles, the world's greatest rock'n'roll
group, were alive and well.
M: Abbey Road, then. I made notes on each track.
'Come Together'. Does that relate to what you've
been doing in the last year or so?
JL: Yeah...
M: You've been getting more involved with the socalled underground.
JL: I don't know about the underground - I don't
believe it exists. Leary was saying "write me a
song", you know, for his campaign. And his
campaign song was Come Together. But obviously
'Come Together' is not a good campaign song. It
didn't work out - it ended up like that; a funky bit of
rock. I'm writing, I've got another one for him.
M: 'Something'?

In those days there was no serious rock press, the

pop weeklies were little better than fanzines, still
asking "What's your favourite food?". Most serious
music journalism was in papers like the Sunday
Times or Evening Standard. Rolling Stone, which
started in October 1967, was rarely seen in the UK.
The underground papers IT and OZ were the only
place that ran uncensored Q&A interviews where
rock stars could discuss drugs or sex and know that
their words would not be taken out of context,

JL: 'Something'? That's George. A great song I

think. Possibly a single in the States. If I can get
'Come Together' on the backside I will be very
pleased. It's so that I can listen to it without listening
to the whole album.
M: 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer'?

274

JL: That's McCartney as you might know. We don't

really write together any more. We haven't written
together for two years. Not really, you know. Just
occasional bits we help ...somebody's got to use a
line or two.

M: There seems to be a whole range of music on

Abbey Road
JL: I suppose it's because I do what I like, Paul
does what he likes and George does what he likes,
and Ringo. You just divide the album time up
between ourselves. Its more apparent on the
double album. Its always been that really and the
combination of the music is what we call pure
Beatles. Like 'It's Getting Better' where we've all
written it and we've all turned into pure Beatle.

M: How does that affect you when you're playing

then?
JL: It doesn't make any odds you know, who writes
them. It's when the Beatles perform that makes it
into Beatle music. Its a long time since we sat down
and written together for many reasons, because we
used to write together mainly on tour. Then there
was a valid reason for it. It got false - "Come round
to our house and we'll write some songs" - it doesn't
work any more.

If I want to sound like 'Come Together' and 'I Want

You' all the time - which I always did and I always
do. 'Dizzy Miss Lizzy' - and whatever, I wanted to
be that guy. And Paul wanted to be whoever it is he
wants to be. And George. So when the combination
does it, we come out with what we term Beatle
music.

M: You still go into a studio - isn't that a great ideas

place...

M: Do you no longer have a direction that the whole

group is going in?

JL: You have a - I want this funky - like with 'Come

Together' I just said, "I got no arrangement for you,
but you know how I want it, like that." And they play
like that. I think that's partly because we've played
together for a long time. Give me this, give me
something funky. I'll set a beat maybe and they'll all
just join in.

JL: We never did - I mean it was just whoever was

pushing the limits of the bag at the time. You know,
we often all pushed at the same point. There was
never, "this is the way we are going".
M: No but there seemed to be a type of music one
could identify as Beatle music which had elements
of all four personalities in it.

M: 'Oh Darling'. Is that one of yours?

JL: No, that's Paul's, whoever sings it is whoever's
song it is. If we sing together we usually both wrote
it .

JL: Well, does that no longer exist? I don't know,

you see, I can't really be objective about it.

M: I see, that's tricky. 'Octopus Garden'...

M: On this album I thought probably it didn't.

JL: That's Ringo - we all sing on that and we all

helped on the arrangement or whatever. Its as
simple as that.

JL: Well did it exist on the Beatles double (White)

album?
M: To a greater extent, and even more on Sgt
Pepper.

M: 'I Want You'?

JL: That's me.

JL: (interrupts) Cos I mean as far as we're

concerned, this album is more Beatley than the
double album. Cos that was just saying, This is my
song, we'll do it this way. That's your song, you do it
that way.

M: What's your attitude towards heavy blues?

JL: I love it, you know. I've always liked it. We used
to play it at college. We were allowed to play rock
and roll by infiltrating, by playing blues at art school,
because they would only let you play trad jazz on
the art school record player. So I got myself voted
onto the committee so that we could play rock'n'roll.
So that we could get the snobs by playing them
blues - which was alright. All that Leadbelly or
whatever it was in those days, Bo Diddley...

M: How do you conceive of an album these days?

Do you have a vast array of material?
JL: There's an awful lot of songs. It's pretty hard,
trying to fit three guys' music onto one album, that's
why we did a double. It's hard to bring out double
albums all the time you know, it takes us a long
time. So we probably outlet them in other things like

275

Plastic Ono, or George gets....Jesus and the

something else. So we split them up like that
because it's like being constipated with all the other
material. That's the only way we can do it really. We
don't have conceptions of albums. I think Paul has
conceptions of albums - or attempts it. Like he
conceived the medley thing. I'm not interested in the
conception of an album. All I'm interested in is the
sound. I like it to be whatever happens. I'm not
interested in making the album into a show. I just
put 14 rock songs on.

I'm in love and that's the end of it. So every time I

pick up the guitar I sing about Yoko and that's how
I'm influenced. I am obviously influenced by her
ideas and her coming from that other field, so-called
avant garde or underground or wherever she came
from. ..she came in through the bathroom window.
She encouraged the freak in me.

M: The idea of the track at the very end...

M: How did that affect the Beatles then?

JL: We like gags, you know, we always have. We

like little jokes and surprises at the end of things.
Because we are all sort of..

JL: Well you'll have to ask them...

M: There seem to be a bit of stage act...

JL: I can't say how - I know it affected us, obviously,

me getting married to Yoko and Paul getting
married to Linda. Everything affects them, but how I
don't know.

YO: He had all these things in him that were just a

little bit..We have stimulated each other to wake
each other up.

M: As one quarter of them.

JL: We've got a bit of that too..

M: Do you long for those days?

M: The things you're doing don't seem to have

given rise to new subjects for your songs yet.

JL: I don't long for them, no. We stopped doing it

because it was a drag. But I dug performing in
Toronto and I didn't have that Beatles' mystique to
live up to, which is the drag about performing with
the Beatles. You've got to be The Beatles. But
performing is a groove, I enjoyed it like mad, even if
I did have to sing 'Dizzy Miss Lizzy' and 'Money'
again, because they're the only things I know! It
was just the performance was good. With a different
band, it was very good.

JL: What is there to sing about? On the album I sing

about Mean Mr Mustard and Polythene Pam, but
they are only finished bits of crap that I wrote in
India. But when I get down to it, I'm only interested
in Yoko and peace, so if I can sing about them
again and again and again - its only like I'm going
through my blue period as a painter. It's like he's
gonna paint this cup for a year, you know, to get
into that cup. So maybe I'm doing that. And I'll do
that 'til I get tired - I can always write 'Mr Kite' and
those songs any time of day. But when I get down
to it - I like funky music. I like rock or blues or
whatever you call it. On 24 Hours [60s TV news
magazine] they sardonically read out 'I Want You' "'I want you, she's so heavy'.that's all it said." but to
me that's a damn sight better lyric than 'Walrus' or
'Eleanor Rigby' because its progression to me. And
if I want to write songs with no words or one
word...maybe that's Yoko's influence.

M: Do you think you will do anything else like that

again?
JL: Yes sure. I'm bound to now I've had a taste of it.
I mean not going out as a Beatle. Nothing's
expected of John and Yoko: anything's expected of
John and Yoko or the Plastic Ono. They could be
anybody or perform anything. So with that sort of
freedom there's no hang-ups.
M: How much do you think Yoko's influenced you?

Yeah, when it gets down to it, awopbopaloola et

cetera is great, and that's what I'm getting round to.
I remember in the early meetings with Dylan, Dylan
was always saying to me 'Listen to the words, man',
and I said 'I can't be bothered, I just like listening to
the sound of it, the sound of the overall thing'. And
then I reversed that and started being a words man.
I am naturally, playing with words anyway. That's
when I made a conscious effort to be wordy, a la
Dylan or whatever it is. But now I've relieved myself
of that burden and I'm only interested in pure
sound.

JL: Well, a lot. She's now fifty percent of me.

YO: We influence each other.
M: How about on the stuff you write for the Beatles
as opposed to the stuff you do solo...
JL: (interrupting) I don't write for the Beatles, I write
for myself. So I'm influenced by whatever's going on
at the time, you know.

276

M: Do you think that your future recordings will be

getting more and more instrumental?

JL: My schoolboy magazine was called the Daily

Howl

JL: I don't know. A voice, like Yoko's modulation I'm interested in that - we did that in Toronto too.
We did 'Blue Suede Shoes' and ended up doing
'Cambridge 69', only with all of us blasting it.
Fantastic. It's just pure sound. The thing that got me
about 'Heartbreak Hotel' in the early days was I
couldn't hear what he was saying or anything, Little
Richard. It was just the experience of hearing it and
havin' my hair stand on end. You know, so I'm
interested in that. I don't care what the words are
about and if there are going to be words, they can
either be rubbish - what I call rubbish, which is just
word play - or 'I love you and you love me and let's
get together' you know? Because I don't want to
sing about suburbia.

YO: Really?
JL: Yes, I invented it .
YO:Well there you go. It's sort of a spiritual howl,
you know - when people come to an extreme of
emotion, genuine or whatever. You can't explain it in
words. Words are like a sort of ritual..
JL: You grunt when you come, you know.?
M: I accept the validity of the music, I was just
wondering how you were trying to bring along the
audience as it were, because the Beatles have got
five or six million teenybop fans?

M: So, the whole middle period is sort of over with

the Beatles, with the really complex...

JL: Yes...I don't know what influence 'Revolution

No.9' had on the teeny bopper fans but most of
them didn't dig it, so what am I supposed to do?. I
mean, I probably won't impose it on a Beatles
album. Life of the Lyons sold 60,000 in the States.
I'm very excited, it's nothing on Beatles sales but its
a lot of albums for that music. Maybe some of them
were Beatle maniacs who thought they were going
to get something else, but I think they might have
guessed by now after Two Virgins. So there's a
whole new market, I don't have to think of that. I
can't keep framing it in Beatle music you know, to
sort of bring along the people.

JL: You see, I think that one note is as complex as

anything, but I can't go on the rest of my life
explaining that to music critics who want complex
harmonies, tonal cadences and all that crap. I'm a
primitive so I'm not interested in that. And it was
quite flattering at the time to hear all that crap about
the Beatles but I don't believe it, you know. Paul
himself said in 1962 in his house we'll end up with a
one note pop song. And I believe it, you know. I can
groove to the sound of electricity in the house, or
the water pipes. A lot of people do groove to that,
but if I lay it down on record, and say this is a John
and Yoko record, then we're going to get all - "Who
do you think you are, this isn't like Cage" and they
intellectualise about what Cage and Stockhausen
do. And say "You're not doing it because you're only
playing a tea spoon", that's crap.

How many 'Revolution No 9's am I going to get on

an album, you know?
M: its probably the most important direction that
The Beatles have gone.

M: Don't you think to a certain extent you have to

explain it.

JL: 'Revolution No 9'?

M: Not 'Revolution No 9', but this new approach of
getting down to the more simple areas.

JL: Why do I have to explain what a sound is? I

mean we all sit by the sea and listen to it and
nobody says, "This sea is good because it is
reminiscent of childhood experiences when we
were at the seaside or it's like your mother's water"
or anything like that. People just lie in fields and
listen to birds you know, and nobody says - if I
record that - all I've got to say is "This is the birds",
and anything else is cheating you know, or a joke.

JL: You know, I think it is too...

M: I knew Yoko's work about five or six years ago. I
was hoping the two would compare - and they
compare quite obviously
JL: You would have dug the Toronto show then, it
was just incredible. I'm making an album out of it
and we've got a film of it. Pennebaker was there. It
was really something, it finally happened that night something happened on stage alright, and in the
crowd. Because we didn't know what we were going
to do, a rock'n'roll audience and how the reaction

YO: A genuine emotion that's what we're aiming at.

People say we're howling and all that - I don't
knowf...

277

would be. But something magical happened that

night. The fact that it affected Eric and Klaus and
Alan - they really got turned on by that experience.
So that turned us on even more. The whole thing
really just was a big, big turn on. And it was like a
new direction. We didn't do anything we didn't do at
Cambridge or that Yoko hadn't really done with
Ornette Coleman at Albert Hall. But the fact that
when she first gave me her Albert Hall stuff I
grooved to it. I was saying all that intellectual jazz
going on in the background, can't stand it, can't
stand it - let's do it together, do it this way.
Conceptually you think you're going to howl and the
musician's going to play but the difference between
Ornette Coleman intellectualising that jazz, which is
just to me, intellectual literary crap coming out of a
trumpet or whatever he plays - and just playing
rock'n'roll or just playing the amplifier is tremendous
you know and that's what happened in Cambridge
because it was small, it was a small experience.

JL: No we haven't got a lot because we haven't got

any home recording because we've moved home
and getting studio time is a hassle. I'm in the
process of building something at home and then
maybe we'll have that problem of what to release.
But at the moment it's not a problem, its getting
what we've done released is the problem.
Other journalist - Everything you've talked about
has been sort of totally creative. I wondered how
you related that to Apple and your part in Apple and
if Apple was right now?
JL: Apple is right as Apple - as a company that
produces records.
Other journalist - But you didn't set out to do that
only.
JL: No, no, no - I mean that's all gone by the wind. It
was a dream that didn't happen. All that happened
is our money went into a box and never came out.
Apple itself as what it is now, is running well and
doing alright obviously by the charts and all that bit.

YO: And that happened too because I didn't need

John then - I was going through a phase of, all that
scene when I was the oddball because I my thing
was that I was less theoretical than most of them. I
was intuitive and so when I followed, even say
Ornette you can obviously see immediately that
Ornette's job is highly intellectualised, sophisticated
stuff. And I'm howling, and the combination is not a
combination really, its not merging, its sort of
separate, but I didn't have anybody else to merge
with. But then I met John who was having the same
kind of problem. He was always having to cut
himself down for The Beatles. And playing old stuff
by himself at home. He was really freaking out at
home. And I've heard some of that freaked out stuff
that he did at home. I really wanted to groove, you
know? And this time it was really very easy,
because both of us are basically intuitive people
and we are normal oddballs. And you know what
they say, when two people dream it's a reality...we
were like in a dream state and then he came and
we started to make love.

M: Does that track 'You Never Give Me Your

Money,' relate to that?
JL: I dunno, ask Paul. Don't give me your funny
paper - seems to be coming true.
Other journalist - Apple stopped before it started in
a sense - OK, the record side is fine, but how's it
going to progress?
JL: I don't know. My other areas of interest are film
and that. I don't know how related to Apple they'll
be. It depends what the sort of businessmen can do
with Apple for us. They are the only people that can
tell us how to get the money out of the box and be
able to use it. So in that respect we're in their
hands. As long as it doesn't interfere with my
creative ability it doesn't really matter.

JL: I've never heard any avant garde stuff that I'd
wanna bring in. I'd sooner have ten Eric Claptons.
I'd sooner get a Salvation Army Band than get a lot
of avant garde people to squeak and play all that
intellectual crap. I think anything's valid, but if Yoko
says this is a particular performer that I recommend
and we should perform with him, then I'd do it, but
anything I've heard has always left me cold. I
haven't heard anything better than a car engine yet.

OJ- But your creative ability - surely its got to relate

to Apple, surely its got to relate to commerciality.
JL: It doesn't have to relate to commerciality. I mean
I have Back Productions with Yoko, which is sort of
separate from Apple. Its just the fact that most of
what I earn goes into Apple and doesn't come out it doesn't benefit anyone, neither me nor anybody
else. If I could sort that out that would be nice.
That's what we all need. If Apple was more fluid I'd
channel some of my creative energy into it. (sings)
I'll Apple you, you'll Apple me - we'll Apple together'.

M: How do you choose what you are going to

release because presumably you have a great deal
of recorded stuff?

278

OJ- You were talking earlier about intellectualising

things and how you detested it and that you were
primitive. A lot of people feel that this is how the
Beatles started and they feel alienated because you
and Yoko have been getting into bags and sitting in
bed and they just don't understand. You say that
you don't want to intellectualise - most people feel
that you have started to do that completely beyond
their comprehension.

OJ - Can you...
JL: I'm not a politician so I don't rely on public taste
or public opinion as to how I run my life - I refuse to
do that - I mean I don't even consider it. For a
politician to go into a white bag in the Albert Hall
he'd have to consider the affects it would have on
his constituents but I'm not a politician and I don't
owe my constituents anything other than I create
something, whatever it is and they accept it or reject
it on its own merits and not on any pre-conceived
ideas...we're half an jour late for the films, the car is
waiting. So another five or ten minutes if you need
it.

JL: But I haven't started to intellectualise at all - all I

do is get into a bag you know, literally.
OJ - And that was it, forget it.
JL: Yes, that is the end of the experience.

OJ - No the thing is I was just wondering if we could

talk generally about why you've done these things.

YO: I mean what's so intellectual about getting into

a bag.

JL: Well why?

OJ - Well why not - I don't want an explanation - I
want to know what pushed you into doing these
things.

JL: It's just like if I painted myself blue what could

we do about it - if there's a concert on and for my
turn of the party I want to be painted blue there's
nothing to intellectualise about. But I mean that
Disc poll proved otherwise on a lot of things I mean
some of the letters from the kids, they're having no
trouble [with what I do]. 60,000 kids in America are
having no trouble with Life With The Lions. I mean
there's always going to be people complaining
because we left the Cavern and went to work in
Manchester, you know That's all it is really, how
dare I leave the Cavern and jump in a white bag in
the Albert Hall. But I can't wait around for those
people to decide they'd like me to go into tap
dancing. If the Beatles had just gone into show biz,
there would have been nothing said, we would have
got probably a knighthood and nothing but praise
but we're not looking for that. At least I'm not and so
I must just do what I want and I can't. Its like we
couldn't take a poll at the Cavern to see if they
thought it was suitable for John Lennon, Paul,
George and Ringo to go and play in Croydon
because the poll would have said "no, stay at
home" and we couldn't have taken a poll as to
whether the Beatles went to America or not
because most of the British fans would have said
"no stay here", you know, and its only the same
thing going on. I'm just moving out, or pressing the
outer limits of whatever's going on and people say
how dare you - I don't understand why you're
leaving your cosy rut and doing something else why don't you stay in your rut where we can
recognise you. There's no time for waiting for
people to understand why I've grown a beard or
why I've shaved it off, or why I want to be naked or
why I want to stand on my head, there's no time for
it - you know if people waited for people to
understand everything they did, nothing would ever
be done.

JL: Well why?

OJ - Well why not - I don't want an explanation, I
want to know what pushed you into doing them.
JL: Nothing pushed me.
OJ - What pressure..
JL: There's no pressure.
OJ - But there's always pressures - it's just like
Yoko saying on the top of a mountain "there's a lot
of wind you know" but you've still got to get on with
tending the sheep or whatever.
JL: Yes, so if I was thinking about all this dreadful
wind all the time I wouldn't get on with tending the
sheep or building my house or whatever - so I can't
think about that you know - I've got to get on with
whatever I'm doing. Nothing pressurised me into
going to Toronto and performing with Yoko.
YO: No, nothing pressed us.
JL: Just felt like it. Somebody rang up and I said
"OK" and we were invited to the Albert Hall and we
thought what shall we do and we thought let's do
the bag. I'd never done it before and it was going to
be that kind of evening with Jack Moore painting
lines or whatever it was he was doing so we did
something to suit the occasion.

279

OJ - What was it like inside?

a mistake in a way I suppose - she could go to

Trafalgar Square in the old days which she did and
do an event or wrap the lions up which she did or
stand in a bag. But as John and Yoko, to stand in
Trafalgar Square we couldn't do it - we'd probably
get kicked up you know so the trouble was to carry
on events with my involvement without getting
beaten up or trodden on you know. So that was a
practical conclusion to that problem.

JL: It was fine you know - we just wondered what it

like outside you know. We were just wondering what
they were thinking while we were in there you know,
wasn't it funny and wondering if anyone understood
it or didn't understand it or what they thought we
were doing we could hear a lot of chanting and
noises going on and then we saw the video of it
later and saw it all from the outside later you know
-its just like that you know - on the simplest level its
just like a practical joke.

OJ - So if you have an idea this afternoon..

M: There aren't any pressures, but do you see any

influences on you?

JL: Well we do try and plan things ahead you know

but most things are done on the spur of the
moment.

JL: Yes, but from everything you know - but the

main influence is Yoko because I'm more involved
in her than anyone else on earth you know. So that
is my biggest influence.

OJ - But you said inside the bag you wondered

what other people thought and you wondered if they
understood, but according to what you said
previously....

YO:That's another thing you know. We're not trying

to turn on anybody else in a way we're just so
involved in each other. I mean you talked earlier
about the emerging Beatles, but its John that I'm
sort of involved in so its happening with John and
me you see.

JL: There isn't anything - well that's..

M: How about in campaigns for peace though

because there you are definitely trying to put across
a point to other people though - I mean it is a public
gesture.

OJ - In fact you were just trying to provoke them

into thinking something.

OJ - But then why?

JL: Because I wondered if people would be thinking
what is the message behind the bag.

JL: Yes.

YO: Well we never really discussed those things

with the Beatles.

OJ - And you didn't really care what it was.

OJ - Do you mean related to the Beatles?

YO: And that's what he was wondering if they

understood that you know.

M: No, no.

OJ - Oh yeah, I see yes.

JL: Just personally we just thought what have we

got in common mainly its just to change the world a
little bit - so how to do it - and we went through the
whole sort of creating the idea of being in bed till we
came up with that conclusion - that's the best way
for us two to do it.

JL: Because I mean there is the basic thing of when you're in a bag and communicating with
somebody they can't be hung up with what you're
wearing or what colour you are. And I mean that's a
basic, you know. If you went for a job in a bag - if
that was the game - then later they can't say well
you can't live here or you can't have the job you
know because you're a spade. They'd have to say
well what are your qualifications - then the guy can
say "I've got 10 GCEs" and they wouldn't know who
was in there so that would be a nice dream of
bagism come true you know.

M: I just wondered how you considered this kind of

action?
JL: Well, it was how to perform without performing
was the problem you know, and at the time we
didn't feel like appearing in public particularly or
doing anything like that - maybe we were feeling
paranoiac or whatever so we wanted to know to do
an event or a stunt without having to do anything
and that's how we came up with it. But it turned out

OJ - When they wrote about the bag at the ICA one

person said of the voices was distinctly
Liverpudlian, the other was Japanese.

280

JL: Oh yes, in fact weren't there at the ICA, you

see, there was two Hare Krishna's in the bag but
one of the musicals wrote that could hear a distinct
Liverpool voice shouting hare Krishna and a distinct
high Oriental voice - so that's bagism.

never went away from it. There isn't an album

without some rock and roll on it is there. There isn't
one really that I can think of. I mean 'Sgt Pepper' is
a rock'n'roll song, 'Good Morning, Good Morning'
was you know, fairly straight rock and roll except for
some strange beats on it - Sounds Incorporated
playing their saxes and all that.

OJ - So you had two bald headed hare Krishna's

from Ohio.

M: Yes, 'Get Back's' similar to 'Abbey Road'...

JL: Well its not predictable really. I mean it does
vary - the reaction to the bag in Vienna was
something else again. It was very indignant you
know. That we should be in Vienna and in a bag - it
really bugged them - the Hapsburg family actually
lived in this room and these two obscene people
were in a bag - so I mean just to upset those people
is enough.

JL: It's nothing like it because 'Get Back' is

unfinished you know - we never got to the final
Beatifying of the whole lot you know, we just got so
involved and fed up with it that we just thought well
this is it you know - couldn't stand to go further with
this album.
M: It sounds as if you made a lot of re-takes of 'Get
Back.'

M: Have you read anything about the Dada period.

JL: Well, I've heard from Yoko you know - she
educates me on my lack of culture - I mean I heard
about Dada at art school obviously but I didn't take
much of it in, I was to busy being pissed and raving
and so on.

JL: No.

YO: No, I think the difference between us and Dada

in a way is that Dada was closed this way, we
opened this way. Alright so everything is an illusion
you know, so all realities are dreams you know but
the kind of dream that we're selling - a kind of
dream reality or whatever there is some ingredient
added to it which is hope and hope is something
that the Dadaists dismissed you know.

M: Oh right because I heard some of the those

tapes.

M: No?
JL: No, but 'Maxwell.'

JL: Yeah, 'Maxwell's' the only one we tried it on - but

it's been a long time to get to 'Maxwell'.
(Tape cuts)
M: ...I keep interrupting

Miles -Yes, well it came just before the First World

War so it's understandable - they don't usually
portray anything more with Dada and I think that's
the main difference really - I mean we are naive
people.

JL: Can you hurry up because we are already half

an hour late for our film show, is that OK. If you
want any more, you can do it tomorrow or
something if you didn't get enough.

JL: Well, I'm lucky about it because I don't know

about it so when I come up with some new idea whether its Dada or anything else its too bad you
know. I can't be accused of being neo-Dada or any
other and she sing any kind of rock and roll songs
and no one can say its like Little Richard or
anything some other person that did it in 1920
because she wouldn't know from Adam but she's
innocent of the charge of being like somebody or
being influenced by whatever.

(Tape cuts. Sounds of tape recorder being

positioned)
JL: ... so then I get angry again and that's
aggression and then I feel like jumping on
something you know - I feel like knocking my head
against a wall and all the time I feel don't shake
your fists at building students because a building
isn't it because I can understand it because I - go to
No. 10 you know and kick the windows in or
something you know - it's just that inability to cope
with it - it's so big you know such a big fight that
we're in that it overpowers you and you get sort of
lulled by the TV and the papers and your hit records
or whatever - or your love you know and then you
suddenly remember again - God almighty, then you

M: On the album you go back to some pretty early

rock stuff.
JL: Yes, well we always ... 'Lady Madonna' etc you
know and 'Day Tripper' - we've always had, it all we

281

get angry and then you do something again - what

we are saying on the peace campaign - when we're
in the middle of those things there's not a moment
that we're not aware of it and the whole situation
every day - because we're talking to the press every
day and we have to answer and then after them we
go through a depression because its an event or a
performance. Anyway, the bed-in and after that we
go through a depression - was it worth it. What
were we doing you know what were the motives,
was it effective - we go through that - and then
somebody comes up and says what about Biafra what about this and that we have to start coming
out of our shell again and doing another
performance, another stunt and relive our initial
anger that made us go out and do those bed events
you know - and the point about the bed-in in a
sense as we've said all along that keep it in mind
that peace is an alternative and they can have it if
they want it because the people have the power
and all this crap about the people being given the
power by a group of revolutionaries is rubbish you
know. The people have the power now and if we
can't remember it ourselves how can we expect all
the other people to remember it - and if we're the
ones that are doing most shouting about it well.

wouldn't answer me - it went on for hours and

hours.
YO:It's amazing really.
OJ - What do you think of the situation in London at
the moment with the hippies, squatters, skinheads
etc.?
JL: I just, I don't want to - I don't know what it is you
know. I don't understand it. The skinheads is a new
thing to me - are they the mods? I don't have a clue
you know. I mean I've got to try and throw myself
back to 16 and imagine where my sympathies
would lie. Who I'd be imitating at that age you know,
whether I'd be a skinhead or a hippy - before I'd
ever know you know. I don't know, you know. But if
they got together they'd be quite powerful you know,
but while there's diversity amongst them they don't
stand a chance really.
OJ - It must disappoint you a bit that this type of
diversity is building up.
JL: Well it builds up and dies - I mean the mods and
rockers, I mean the rockers are now helping the
hippies as Hells Angels. What's left of them you
know, and there's no such thing as mods now. The
Who were the king of the mods and what are they
now you know? So its a thing you go through when
you're a teenager - identification bit. I mean so
maybe all the skinheads, the real sort of ardent
skinheads will be skinheads at 30, but they're
bound to mature and change a bit like I'm still a sort
of teddy boy somewhere in me because I imitated
teddy boys - I was never a real one you know, but I
was always torn between being a teddy boy and an
art student you know so there was always a bit of
both - so I'm always a bit of both now but I don't
have the same mentality or the same ideas as I had
when I was that age and identified with them so
obviously they'll change as they grow up you know its just a club to belong to.

YO:Yes, we've seen the film that was taken of our

bed-in you know and I suddenly realised that its not
a peaceful film at all you know.
JL: The whole film is just rolling and shouting and
arguing with people.
YO:So even to get peace we have to - I don't like to
have use that word but, fight, you know - but not
with the violence thing you know.
OJ - But you have to go though a message you
know.
YO: Quite right, I realise that.
JL: Yes, I mean you saw that interview with Al Cap
you know and he was pretty tough on us you know
and I ended up screaming at him - he was
suggesting that we were doing the bed-in for money
you know. He was throwing everything that he could
at us you know a real clever bastard and I really lost
my temper and I said "what are we doing taking the
shit from people like you" and then he comes and
says "well I'm your guest here", and I really felt like
a cunt then - its all on the film and we're raving and
shouting at him and all that he's going on about the
students taking over the university, and we're both
of us screaming at him "Who wants the university,
answer me - who wants the university? Answer!" he

YO:I think a new generation is forming and there is

a proof of that because I mean there are many
young people particularly in America that are
sending us letters saying that they really do like
Life With The Lions you know. I think that
generation is probably going to take a long time to
respond (can't hear what she says) - and I think
probably the skinheads are like that too.
JL: They just want to remember the laws on dance
music - the basic thing is dancing together in a club
or a town hall, so even if they go out of their minds
they're still going go to dance and listen to dance
music - they keep the beat behind the howling that's

282

what they are doing - what kind of music do the

skinheads dig? I heard it was rock steady, I don't
know.
M: Blue beat.

beginning of 'Be Bop A Lula' - weeell, the big well

you know . Still haven't pinched that bit I always
meant to start one just like that, you know either
that or just do 'Be Bop A Lula' but I'm just a 30 year
old rocker you know.

JL: Blue beat. Oh maybe they'd like 'Give Peace A

Chance' blue beat. It's a great version, I'll just play it
to you.

(Yoko: can't hear what she says - apparently

"droning on about classical music and their
rhythms")

YO:I like rock'n'roll, John likes rock'n'roll. I don't

know about rock'n'roll but now I really dig it you
know.

And anyway, the thing is the Indians were so far

advanced in rhythm, structure that all the classical
music is like primitive, and avant garde jazz is
nowhere near it. You hear Yehudi Menuen playing
with Ravi Shankar and it's a joke - Yehudi Menuen
sounds like a child on his first guitar, you know - it
must be frustrating for him because you realise he's
studied all his life and he can't get into that, you
know, hear that whole new vista of beats and
counter beats, or whatever it is.

(dreadful cacophony in background - presumably

'Give Peace A Chance')
JL: So maybe we'll get through to the skinheads
with that.
(Miles: can't hear what he says)

OJ - Do you feel at all that you're being pushed into

extreme situations because of certain situations,
say the world situation?

But there's always been those gang fighters though

- I mean in the '30s they used to have the A gangs
or something in Liverpool - they wore those flat hats
with the razors in, and when I was a youth it was
the teddy boys and now it the skinheads but I mean
they're always going to be there fighting. Local
village fights that's all it is - one town against the
other.

JL: Well, when I say a primitive, I consider myself a

primitive musician just because I never studied
music, you know, and so therefore I'll always
consider myself a primitive. They were always
asking us in the early days, "Would you and Paul
ever consider learning music?" and we always said
"No, no it would wreck our style" or whatever. We
said those things and that's what we meant - we'd
becoming scientists then or mathematicians and I
just.... - sometime it's annoying not to be able to
write down something. You know, to write down a
bit of music I have to go through a whole
complicated process to remember it, and I've lost
lots of music through not being able to write it. But if
we could write it....I think there would be some
counter loss - I tape record it. There's no need for it
now. I think writing music would be alright if it was
updated, it's just a very old fashioned style of note
formation. Most of my songs, the sheet music is
always incorrect if I ever get anybody to play me the
notes on it. They always, never, there seem to be
some notes, I don't understand it but, some notes
like minor notes against major. I'm always singing
minor notes against a major chord. I think it's bluesy
but it turns out that it isn't. It's a mistake, they keep
telling me, so they never write it like that, they
always write a major note. All these bands, if they
read this music they're just playing the wrong tunes
all together. So there's certain notes they can't write
down you know. If they're going to have music they
- somebody - should invent some new music that
can really cover all the notes there are. There must
be some way of doing it.

When we first started listening to our records she

always said "why do you always put that beat in", I
said, "why no", and she used to get very uptight - I
mean it's basic, basic music. It's just like jungle or
whatever - its - you know all the societies always
have a rhythm to it and its always the on beat or the
off beat - its never anything else. The off beat
wasn't invented in the last 20 years you know, its
been there for ever. So I used to say I like them with
beat (laughs). But she came round, arty snob she
was. Like the most exciting thing about early Little
Richard was when he just screamed you know - I
mean just before the solo and that was howling you
know its only the same thing only skipping the wop
bop baluma thing and just doing the whole record
like that. It used to make your hair stand on end
when he did that long scream into a solo. I mean I
still imitate him, I mean I, still when he comes to a
solo on a record I always have to do something just
to prevent myself from going "aaaah" like this which I've been doing ever since I heard Richard
you know but now I just try and cut it short you
know but maybe I should just let it go you know forget about it so next time I can do something else
- so its just that, you know, just eliminating the song
bit and elongating the howling bit because that - it
definitely got everybody I knew... that and the

283

- How strongly do you feel about peace? Suppose

there was a war, what would you do? Would you
say "Yes, I will fight," or would you go to prison?

JL: No, because they're converted on many

different levels. The revolutionaries in this world,
they've all got many many different ideas about
what should be done and how to do things so it isn't
preaching to the converted. Even to convert some
of the aggressive violent revolutionaries who want
to do things about it would be good. I would
consider it a good move if we could change some of
their minds, to put all their creative energy into
peaceful revolution and infiltration because the
game is a lot subtler than they think. I can't
understand they are all highly educated people,
middle class mainly, and I don't understand how
they are so unaware as to think the game is really
down to street fighting, because the game is a lot
subtler than they imagine. That's what I mean when
I suddenly get reminded that it's to do with oil in
Biafra. What's the street fighter going to do about
that? How can you fight big business? Only
attacking the shares or their image.

JL: Oh, I'd do that, you know. I wouldn't fight at all.

Never ever any intention of fighting. Up until about
18, there was still call-up when I was a teenager
and I remember the news coming through that it
was all those born before 1940, and I was thanking
God for that as I'd always had this plan about
Southern Ireland. I wasn't quite sure what I was
going to do when I got to Southern Ireland. Hippies
and drop-outs weren't that famous. There was no
thinking, "He did it, he went to Ireland and lived
happily ever after." So I was never sure what I could
do, but I had no intention of going and fighting. I just
couldn't kill somebody, you know, I couldn't charge
at them. I don't know whether I could kill somebody
who was actually trying to kill me in the room. I still
don't think that's comparable with "that country's
trying to kill this country" because then it is just big
game politics. That isn't the same as a man
breaking into your house and trying to kill you. I
don't believe that. And the only way that we're not
going to wake up and see that Britain is at war with
America, or whatever it is tomorrow, is for any of us
who do think anything about it to keep chanting
about it or keep doing anything that we can about it,
otherwise it will happen - we will wake up and they'll
say we'll have to go to war to save so and so. And
everybody is always asking us that, "Well, what
would you do if war was declared tomorrow", and
the thing is we can't think in those terms. We've got
to think about now and that there isn't a war literally
in Britain, and the only way there isn't going to be
one in the next whenever is to prevent it and
change all this generation's mind about war - that it
isn't inevitable and it is just a big game that involves
money and nothing else. Nothing to do with saving
us from communism or whatever jargon they put
out. Did you see that thing in The Sunday Times
Supplement last week where they had a picture of
one guy with his Anderson war shelter with the
flowers on it? Now in the war the propaganda was
"look at this guy". What actually happened was the
council went round and half finished millions of
Anderson war shelters and never did actually build
them. They're all sort of half done to counteract
people saying "well we haven't got a shelter" and
complaining about it, they did this propaganda
about "look what Mr. Higgs is doing" as if lots of
people were doing it and if he can make flowers in
his shelter what are you complaining about having
half a shelter for? It's just business you know.

Questioner - In other words it's revolution by

infiltration.
JL: I think that's the only way, because simply on
statistics all revolutions are violent. I've said this a
million times, all violent revolutions produce status
quo or imitation, you know, like Russia and France
and Britain, we've all had our revolutions and our
words of revolution and where is it? It is exactly the
same, because the people's minds are the same.
The new bureaucracy is created in Russia and the
reason they appear less cool than western
politicians is that they probably are less cool. They
are the workers and have got the control, and the
red tape gets redder and longer and longer. So if
someone could show me one that has worked then
it might turn me a bit. So I'd say "All right, that's the
way to do it", then turn the place upside down. But
there isn't one. Cuba is the nearest but how long
has it been going? Five years - relatively no time at
all. Give it another 50 years and see what the
machinery is like. They always think in terms of 20,
30 years but I'm thinking in terms of hundreds or
thousands. The only way to ensure a lasting kind of
peace of any kind is to change people's minds.
There's no other way.
M: That's the most difficult thing of all.
JL: That's the hardest one. The Government can do
it with propaganda, Coca Cola can do it with
propaganda, the business men do it with
propaganda, why can't we? We are the hip
generation.

Q: Do you ever get the feeling..................? (can't

hear the rest)

M: How successful are things like the Bed Piece?

Do you follow up whether they have taken up any of
your points?

284

Yoko: Oh yes, by general vibrations....(fades off)

Instead of everybody singing "Yeah, Yeah, Yeah",

they're just singing "Peace" instead. And I believe in
the power of mantra. I think all words are mantras
and some are more powerful than others.

JL: Yeah. There are millions of photographs and

articles circulating around the world now, some
exactly what we said, and allowing for all the
distortions, 50% distortions, but even then I think
the mantra of the word works. So therefore
whenever we have the press in we always have the
word "peace" there. I think it's that subtle as well,
that kind of, what do they call it in advertising
subliminal message?. So even when the word is
distorted and they say "Those two gurus in drag" as
we said in the song, and all that bit. So there's a
mass lot of propaganda gone out from those two
bed-ins, mainly the Montreal one, and it's still going
round now, you know. The only way we know is by
people sending us copies in things like The Ohio
Express. We just get our feedback from letters and
newsprints in general, and so that's all we can hope
for really. Circulation. But even so, when kids see
me know they do that (peace sign). That has turned
into the peace sign. I mean everybody used it, but
we used it all the time because it seemed to be in
fashion wherever we went. The peaceniks always
did that so we started doing it all the time. So
whenever kids see us now that's what they do, most
of them. Even if they're fans who wanna do it
because they know it will please me, that's alright
because then they've got to think in their heads "I'm
doing this now to John and he likes it and he wants
peace". Even if it's on that level it's alright. A nice
reaction to it is we get all the press cuttings on us in
England and there's a lot of stuff on us every day.
Every local writer will throw our name just to get an
interest. They use John and Yoko and there's
nothing about us, you know, nothing relative in the
article. But every garden party this summer in
Britain, every small village everywhere, the winning
couple was the kids doing John and Yoko in bed
with all the posters around. And that's a very mild
thing but we've got thousands of them, Newcastle,
Scotland, Wales, everywhere. Everyone won a
prize and every one we were the joke. Two years
old, four years old, 11 years old or 60 years old,
every one of them was doing that - sitting in bed
with long hair and beards, but everyone had the
words around them 'Give Peace A Chance' and all
that, just the record itself. In Israel now it's going to
be small, it's gotta start with yourself, whatever that
is. It's got to start on a family basis and your
neighbour and all that. It can't be an over-night,
world-wide turn-on. There's no man in the sky going
to come out and zap us out, so we've got to start it
locally like that. So they're having these 'Give
Peace A Chance' events in Ireland, and things like
that, where they've had a rock concert with that as
the theme, that's alright. Now there will be one in
Liverpool and things like that. We're just giving
suggestions you know and they use it like that.

YO:I think the only difference between animals and

us is that we have more mantras. Animals do have
different screams and shouts. (they talk over each
other)
I believe in the mantra of the word "Peace." People
are like their language in a way, or like their image.
M: I think the language grows out of their national
characteristic and their characteristics are caused
by their world.
JL: That's the reaction sort of thing. A friend of mine
was telling me, this is just by the way, that all magic
words, black magic or white magic, even in the
centre of the African jungle, are Greek. Alex said it he's a Greek, he knows a lot about magic and that
kind of stuff.
M: I wouldn't actually believe that. The most
powerful magic in the world was probably Egyptian
and that predates Greek.
JL: I say it in just one sentence as I don't have the
details. He was talking about it with Dan Richter
and covered the Egyptian bit and Dan was saying
they probably got it via Greece, Egypt, Africa, like
that. When you get down to it certain words,
whatever they are, create certain vibrations to make
the pencil jump off the table. The word would
probably have to be the same one, if a certain word
makes a certain thing happen and people discover
it, like electricity being discovered at two ends of the
world at once, it's got to be the same mantra or
same formula that makes it happen.
M: There is a sound mantra for just about
everything. If you read the history of legends, which
are probably the history of very old civilisations,
there are various sounds you could make that
enable you to fly or enabled inanimate objects to.
That occurs in ancient Irish legends, in Tibetan and
the whole of the Indian area and Japanese and
South America.
JL: It's gotta be like the formula for electricity is the
same in any language.
M: Have you been able to carry on from there?
Have you read any philosophic stuff? Derek said
you've been reading Willhelm Reich.

285

JL: Yeah, because my friend Ivan Vaughan, I think

you might know him, anyway, he's like a forever
student, he sends me books through the post now
and then. He sent me The Murder Of Christ and
Listen Little Man, I think maybe that's all, so I read
them.

with The Plastic Ono Band, and performed, the left

would really attack me or the underground or
whatever it was, because I went to South Africa,
and that's what happened with the Peace event a
bit. At first we put ourselves right in the middle and
we were getting attacked from all sides,
underground disowning us, overground disowning
us, so we were really open to aggression from all
sides. So when you get a choice like that South
African thing, I'd never thought of it before, I thought
no, I wouldn't go there. But when this guy put it, you
come there and you can play in certain places
where you play to black and whites and therefore
you might influence us a bit, or just give a charge to
people who are trying to do something in South
Africa, one's that don't want to leave and are going
to live there anyway because it's our country, or
whatever. And therefore you've got to give thought
to that. It gets very subtle then about what to do.
This conservative German guy was on TV last night
- Do you know his name? It may be Strauss - and
he was saying "I'd like to be a good guy but politics
is no child's play and when you get up there it's a
real dirty game, so you've got to fight like that to
survive." If you're thinking about going into to
politics, I wouldn't do it.

M: Do you want more?

JL: Yeah, I read them, like. There's only a few
things I can read and that's when it's just right down
to the point, I read it. I get millions of different, quite
interesting books on religion, philosophy and
everything, but most of them have just not quite got
to the point. They're all sort of versions, bur Reich
seems top be right on the point to me. He really
knows what's happening. I just read some review of
him last weekend in the Sundays and it was sort of
saying he died insane and hated. They talk about
him as if he was a madman, you know.
M: Towards the end of his life he did get pretty
paranoid.
JL: It looks like he made the mistakes he warned
people against. There's a good communication
thing going with Ivan and I because he sends the
right book at the right time. He sends the book
about not being a leader - was that The Murder Of
Christ? I think it was - just at the time when we're
going out on the bed again. So I had to keep not
being a leader, refusing to because many people
wanted to crown me. Different movements, "You will
be it, John, and you will lead us to....." like they did
with Jesus bit, you know. So Reich's a good right
hand man to keep reading for doing the game, you
know, of not getting tricked into being the king.

(Yoko drones on in the background whilst Miles and

John have a conversation.)
Tape 2
JL: I'd like to read about one of the Orgone things,
very strange, that machine.
M: Yeah, I used to have one of those.
JL: What do they do?

(Yoko: can't hear)

M: It's a very simple mechanism which gathers
atmospheric energy. Just the general vibrations that
are in the air.

The response was coming in by the mail and the

press and things like that. And it was picking us up
again because we went through "What have we
done" and all that.

JL: And what's the function of them?

(Miles: can't hear)

M: Well it concentrates them to three times normal.

Use the media. Don't be a snob the media is the

thing. If you're a writer, write. Infiltrate the Daily
Express, don't not work for it on principle. But then
you've got to work it out, like some guy wrote to us
saying "I know you don't appear in South Africa,
probably for good reasons, but the alternative is
coming here and helping us by performing or
something. So you see you're going to find
yourselves in the middle of both worlds, like, the left
and the right we'll call it. You're getting knocked
from both sides. Now if I went to South Africa, say

JL: And what do you do with it?

M: You sit in it.
JL: You sit in it and gather energy. And do you use it
still?
M: Not in London, no.

286

JL: Why not? If it was good you would have used it

wouldn't you?

JL: That's what happened with Apple in a way.

Apple was a manifestation of Beatle naivet,
collective naivet, and we said we're going to do
this and help everybody and all that. And we got
conned just on the subtlest and the most grossest
level. We didn't really get approached by the best
artists, or any of the recording thing, we got all the
bums from everywhere - they'd been thrown out
from everywhere else. And the other people who
were really groovy wouldn't approach us because
they're too proud.

M: Well, in London there's all sorts of weird things in

the atmosphere and there tends to be the wrong
type of energy.
JL: Oh I see. Well maybe we could set one up in
Ascot, you know, maybe it's a bit freer there.
M: Yeah, it would be easy to build one.
JL: Come out and recharge in Ascot.

M: Or maybe they don't like hustling.

M: It's just a metal box with organic material round

it. It doesn't have any knobs or anything.

JL: They don't like hustling, of course. I couldn't

hustle.

Interview resumes.

M: The only way to reach young people is to hustle.

JL: It's like we're self-styled doctors of philosophy,

but we're self-styled politicians and naturally got a
degree.

JL: Right, and that's why it didn't work. And then we

have to quickly build up another wall round us to
protect us, from all the beggars and lepers in Britain
and America that came up to us and the vibes are
getting insane. And I tried, when we were at
Wigmore Street, to see everyone, like we said "You
don't have to get down on your knees" - I saw
everyone day in day out and there wasn't anybody
with anything to offer to society or me or anything.
There was just "I want, I want" and why not?
Terrible scenes going on in the office with different
spades and hippies and all different people getting
very wild with me. Even the peace campaign we
had a lot of that too, but once you've opened the
door it's hard, you know. That's all it is, it's just
different.

M: Yeah sure, I accept that you're very effective

from the outside as far as young people are
concerned.
JL: Bernadette Devlin went in there didn't she and
what happened? She got out within six months.
When she got in and realised what could she do in
there? And that to do anything at all you have to be
outside.
(Yoko)
What we're trying to do is gather the forces outside
which are far superior to the forces inside and make
them work at full potential to get rid of the cancer,
you see. Because the politicians rely on us out here
they need us to propagate them, to keep them
going and people forget that, that the politicians
need them more than we need the politicians. And
we've got to get them aware of that without
frightening them with anarchy, and the word
anarchy and all that, about not needing government
and all that bit.

M: What's the answer? You obviously don't want to

cut yourself off from humanity like that.
JL: I have to take it slower and I have to deal with
people, even people who are thinking the same way
as us we have to agree on steps to be taken. Make
a deal, whether it's on paper or a shake of the hand,
and then move forward together. At a bit slower
pace, see I'm very impetuous, so I like it now,
everything tomorrow, and I'm beginning to find out
that it doesn't work. It's just impossible to do it like
that so I've got to slow down.

There are two choices: doing something or not

doing something, and that's the choice facing all of
us. We decided to do something and when you
don't do something you're not doing anything and
you're aware of it. And once you do something you
set up a kind of a thing in your mind or your self and
there's no turning back, you know.

(Yoko)
People say "You're staying in bed, why don't you go
down and shake hands with the people?" The
answer is that communication isn't just shaking
hands. And how much communication do they
really want? These are intelligent people but do
they really want to see pictures of us like Nixon or

(Garbled, faded conversation and then a break in

the tape.)

287

the Queen shaking hands with a few people in the

street and nothing happening at all except where I
sign a few autographs. There are intelligent people
asking us "Why, why in this luxury hotel and not in
the street?" And the answer is it's impractical and
less is done shaking hands on the street corner.
They've got to look at it from our point of view, not
from theirs. They always see it from theirs. It must
be hard to imagine what it is to be Nixon or Queen
Elizabeth which is the position we're in. You can't go
on the street and shake hands and protest at Hyde
Park unless you've got a bullet-proof outfit to protect
you. This is public to me. This is communication,
talking to you and we're either doing this all the time
or we stay completely alone in our room. Maybe we
get a full day a week alone and that's our Orgone
machine where we revitalise and come out the next
week. We don't even go to dinner with people or
anything like that.

M: Since when you were recording Sergeant

Pepper, you were a completely different personality
then, we all were I expect.
JL: Oh yeah, sure. I'm more myself than I was then
because I've got the security of Yoko, that's what's
done it and it's like having a mother and everything.
That's it. So I'm secure in my relationship with her
so then I can afford to relax. I was never relaxed
before, I was always uptight. The me that you see
now was in there but it only came out at a very
intimate party or somebody who knew me very well.
I could never relax in these kind of situations, very
seldom anyway. I was always in a state of
uptightness and therefore the cynical Lennon image
came out and the remarks and all that bit, so I was
always uptight. I'm not uptight so much these days.
I still get uptight but less because I'm not hiding
anything. I'm trying to break away from that "what
have you got to hide" thing because when you get
down to it I've got nothing to hide. I have fear and
paranoia and happiness and joy. I'm just like
everyone else and I know everybody has the same
problems that I have and they're not something I
carry alone. As that creative artist who you probably
met during the Pepper time going through torture
about not writing good enough and all that I still go
through that but now I can remember, even in the
worst depths of misery, we're both going through it
together. That helps.

Miles- What do you do when you're alone?

JL: We stay together, we talk and think about things
and go over everything we've done and what we're
going to do - go round the grounds like The Squire
Of Trelawn and enjoy the trees.
M: Don't you have a lot of people down there?
JL: Yeah, but the rule seems to be that they keep
out the way and we've got Dan and Jill right in the
house with us but they are sort of running the thing
for us. We've got one gardener and he's right at the
other end. The original people had 30 gardeners
but we're not running the thing like that.

M: What's happened to you is what you're trying to

make happen to the world and break down those
barriers.
JL: Yes, that's saying that if we can be naked as
much as we can, both physically and mentally then
so can you and it helps. It helped me, so...

M: Do you just have one room?

JL: At the moment, because the house is being
redecorated and knocked to pieces and things like
that. All you need is one room in the end, when it
gets down to it. I think we tend to feel a need to
have acres and a large house, protection in a way.
If we were in a mews cottage in London life would
be unbearable. Because of what we are there'd be
a continuous stream of people but a big house, big
grounds protect us. It has that overpowering image
to a lot of people and it keeps a lot of people off our
backs. It's not so inviting as a flat in town. But when
you get down to it all you need is a bedroom and a
kitchen functionally, but for us at this period of time
we need more.

M: They're really difficult barriers to break down

though. I think Yoko's overoptimistic about them.
Yoko: I'm not, I know it's very difficult, but I believe
in miracles.
JL: Believe in everything until it's disproved. When
we were watching TV in Montreal in the bed-in
some Harvard professor was on saying how they'd
done this test on kids in the university or a school about 11 or 12 year old kids - and they conned the
teachers, they didn't tell the teachers what the test
was. They said that at the end of a year all these
certain amount of children in this class, and they
named them, are going to be exceptional children.
What they didn't tell the teachers was that they'd
picked the names at random out a hat. The
teachers thought that they had done special tests
on them or whatever. So at the end of the year all

M: You seem to have changed a lot recently.

JL: I don't know, I suppose we have. Since when?

288

these kids were getting A plus, they all turned out to

be geniuses and it was the simple fact that the
teachers believed it. They picked them at random
out the hat, really at random, and the kids believed
it. The kids were encouraged, the teachers were
coaching them, you know, "you're gonna be great."
They all were A wonders. All we're trying to say to
the world is you're all....It's like the other story I've
told a million times because we've got it down to a
few stories after repeating and repeating in
Montreal and Amsterdam. The other thing is, who
told us we were artists? All kids draw and write
poetry and everything and some of us last until
we're about 18 but most drop off about 12 and that's
when some guy comes up and says "You're no
good." That's all we ever get told all our lives, "You
haven't got the ability, you're a cobbler." It's like in
one of me books, "You're a broomstrivest" or
something. The father keeps saying to him you're
this and get it right what you are. And that's all we're
told all our lives, what our limits are. What we've got
to make people aware of is not their limits but what
these people's limits are, what they think the limits
are. People are limited into thinking they couldn't
run their own affairs and what we're trying to say is
that you are unlimited and you're all geniuses and
you were all artists and musicians until some
bastard told you about 12 "you must do woodwork,
and you do metalwork and we haven't got room in
lithography for you, so you've got to be a letterer"
and all that. That was going on all the time, it
happened to all of us, but if somebody had told me
all my life, "Yeah, you're a great artist, you're a great
artist" I would have been a more secure person all
the time.

good, you know as long as you look after it, don't

destroy it at all. But I'd really destroyed it and I was
so paranoiac and weak I couldn't do anything. I'd
really done a good job on the ego, and I was just
about building it back up again when I met Yoko. It,
literally, went in weeks. I was just trying to work it
back again and get confidence in myself. Then we
met Derek again after a long time and Derek did a
good job on building the ego one weekend at his
house. Reminding me of who I am and what I've
done, what I could do. He just reminded me of who
I am, him and a couple of friends did that for me,
they said "you're great, you are what you are and
you're infinite" and all that. The next week Yoko
came down to Derek's. That was it then I just blew
out and it all came back to me like I was back to
age16 and all the rest of it had been wiped out. It
was like going to a psychiatrist. I remember
everything. I've got to believe I'm a genius I've got
to believe that I'm great to do anything. It's my
mantra. I thought I'd lose it all and I really don't
believe in genius just for when the RM readers read
it. Just to cover that angle. When you look in? and it
says "I am a genius, I am great" it depresses me if
it's read the wrong way. It was like one criticism of
one of our film events. I don't know which paper, it
was one of the papers. If he didn't know us or had
followed my career or Yoko's a bit more he'd think
we were on a big ego trip with the film in my face
and all that. He realised it isn't that but that's how
it's coming over to him. That's the danger you've got
to watch out for.
The things was coming out and she came and
opened the door a little bit. I love you for what you
are, whatever it is, and I respected her genius. For
her to love me was the answer then. She wouldn't
have loved a dummy which I'd begun to think I was.
That helped - the accumulation. I was just out of it
then. Of course she goes through the same thing
where I can help her the same, once I'd got over my
intellectual reverse snobbery about avant garde
which I had to get over.

Miles: (can't hear)

The two years before I met Yoko, I think the others
were on to the same thing. We all went through a
depression after Maririshi and Brian died it wasn't
really to do with Maririshi it was just that period. I
was really going through "what's it all about" type
thing and this songwriting is nothing, it's pointless
and I'm no good, I'm not talented and I'm shitty and
I couldn't do anything but be a Beatle. What am I
going to do about it, and it lasted nearly two years
and I was still in it during Pepper. I know Paul
wasn't at that time, he was feeling full of confidence
and I wasn't going through murder around those
periods. I was just about coming out of it around
Marahishi even though Brian had died - that
knocked us back again, well it knocked me back. I
just about got my confidence. With the acid trip
scene, I went through that get rid of your ego bit. I
really had a massive ego, three or four years after
acid I spent the whole time trying to destroy my ego
which I did until I had nothing left. I went to India
with Maririshi and that, and he was saying ego is

M: you've still got it, have you?

Sure, sure I can't help it. It'll take a long time to
wear off, but I'm getting better. So, when she's in
trouble I can do the same for her so it's a good
combination. Why shouldn't I be a poet, a film
maker, a dancer, an actor- let's do it all while the
going's good. That's it really. It's a freedom, it's a
relief because you can never escape from the hell
on earth, there's no escape from that. Even two
people who are as lucky as us two that have
somebody that can be so close on all levels.
There's still great depths of misery to be found.
That's the human condition and there isn't any
answer for that. Even Yoga and all the different

289

philosophies - they all just paths to get out of it. On

the way there it's just the same for everyone. The
highs and the lows are just greater as you develop
your confidence but it's still the same old games.
Even talking about it I get a bit....you know they're
there and there's no way out of it but at least now I
know there is a high plus a low and the low needn't
last that long. Just last year I remember watching
that film on the falcon and it was so depressing. I
remember seeing this film on BBC2 about a guy
training a falcon and he lived in this beautiful little
cottage in Cornwall or somewhere like that. It was
dreamlike, he didn't have any problems it was just
nature and him training the falcon and it was just so
beautiful. And I thought "God almighty, it's all I want
really" but it can't be or I'd get it. Well, I can get it. I
can get a cottage and live there if I wanted to. I
always have this dream of being the artist in a little
cottage, and I didn't do any of this gig or publicity or
anything like that, I just wrote poetry and a few oils
and that's the dream. Seeing this film reviewed for
the past few days it was just the end of it. Here we
are in this grand palace, we've got nice people with
us and everything's going well and here's this film
and it makes us so sad to see it but there's no way
out, the grass is greener. It's strange - not that I
want to be a falconer or anything. It just seemed
like such a dream, living in a cottage and wandering
in the trees. I really can't wait to be old, you know.
You do your best and then there is a time when you
do slow down and it seems nice. I always look
forward to being an old couple of about 60, just
remembering everything, I suppose we'll still be
cursing because we're in a wheelchair.

YO:Even our wedding album we made.....

Our wedding was set up six months ago and it's still
not out and it's so frustrating it drives you mad. The
last thing that Anthony said was "we lent you the ?
and the microphone and we only got the ? back" so
I wonder where it went then. Do you remember
where we would have sent it if we sent to get it
mended?
(Other person talking about where it might have
gone)
(talking about it)
Everything's tied up they keep cameras in such a
mystique like you have to be a doctor to work a
camera and they could easily make them simple.
They just want to keep that thing of photographer
A.S.C in the film world. Once the people get their
own newspapers that's the end of it, because all the
youth will film what's actually happening and show it
to each other and we won't have to take the news
as delivered by BBC and ITN. The underground will
send it's own films around everywhere, whatever's
going on from each country. If their newspapers are
that successful on the underground, films once
there's cheap eight mil network.
M: There is something like that already, a videotape group commune in NY.
JL: We just had something over, about the big antimarijuana laws in the states, he showed me the
eight mil.

M: you won't stop?

No, but it must be slower, it's such a frantic way our
minds work and nothings thing's quick enough. The
only thing is TV that's out the next day and before I
started diversing my career with Yoko into films and
all different things. At least I'd have a record out
within a couple of weeks of making it. God the
frustration of making these films, the fight we have
to get it out, like Two Virgin albums I still can't get
out in Japan. She was concentrating on her work
and now I am. I realise what it's like and I've had it
so easy - just write a song and get it out and the
thoughts of Chairman John were on the wall the
next day. Now I'm getting into this dead end all the
time and it's like starting life again and that's the
groove, starting from scratch, you know.

M: There's another group in N.Y, called Newsrial,

they've made some great films of demonstrations
and reporting the news.
JL: We saw the CBS version of our Montreal bed-in
with Al Cap and our version uncut. They just cut it
slightly so that Al comes out better. That was on the
TV version and they were quite friendly towards us.
The guy interviewing us was a pro and a peacenik.
But the editor - everything we said he just nipped
out. We look like maniacs and Al looks like good
ole' witty Al.
(talking about a biography)
It's beautiful, I like it. I'm glad you didn't have my
face ??. It's a lovely biography isn't it.

YO:Even in Apple we had a difficult time in

producing our records.

M: Do you think I could have a drawing to illustrate.

JL: We can't get our things through a machine that

was set up specifically to get our creative things
out.

JL: To illustrate what?

290

M: To illustrate this.

Not the Archbishop of Canterbury for all his

outraged prophecies of Protestant hellfire and
brimstone. Not H.R.H. Elizabeth II, Queen of
England and Protector of the Faith, her regal
majesty's position having already been irrevocably
compromised with the all too public knowledge of
those silver star and ribbons, awarded (in the teeth
of bitter controversy) to four loyal Liverpudlian
subjects. Who, then?

JL: I see, when do you need it. ??????turn up with

illustrations or something.
M: It'll be in the next issue.
JL: So I've got a week or something. Anthony keeps
reminding me that I've got to do a drawing. There's
a lovely cover for Sculptures And Asnel(?) that the
guy was too scared to use because Maxwell owns
it. Hey do you think that sculpture guy is ever going
to use it or can we give it to It, cause it's a nice...it's
a photograph of us on a stand, cause there's a
sculpture in the garden for sale and it's got
sculpture on it and it's really nice and he's never
used it.

Not the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whom John had

been the first to ultimately reject and expose for the
sad old man that he was; a lecherous, foxy, pintsized quack, with a hard line in soft sell miracle
cures and an unfortunate predilection for Mia
Farrow's thin white legs. (What did John call him?
Sexy Sadie... "Sexy Sadie, look at what you've
done/You've made a fool of everyone ..."). Not
Hitler, dead in his concrete bunker five years after
John was born. Not Paul, to whom all publicity was
good publicity; (John once called Paul "..probably
the best P. R. man in the world.."). Not me, and I
think, dear reader, not you.

????
Yeah, but if he used it in It would he say "I'm not
using it" cause they've always got pictures of stones
- very square magazine really.

Who, then? Who stood against Lennon in Summer

of 1969? And who stands now against this
loudmouthed braggart of a Walrus? It isn't George,
for whom all things must pass. It isn't Maureen's
husband. It isn't Brian, the 5th Beatle, who was
queer and is dead, but who knew how to make
money and (perhaps more importantly) how to keep
the geese that laid the golden eggs together on one
farm. It isn't the sensitive Japanese girl who loves
her man with an unbearable and, what is worse,
unfashionable intensity, and whom many people
foolishly accuse of breaking what was already
broken. It isn't Allen Klein, who will certainly sue
INK for whatever little money we're still worth in
these harsh times if I say one true word about him.
It isn't Marshall McLuhan, who expressed the view
that the portals of Toronto University's debating hall
had been "honoured greatly by Mr. Lennon's
presence". It isn't the vicar of Aldgate East who
called John Lennon "the Devil's emissary ..."; or
Pierre Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, who
shook hands with John on the City steps and
thanked him for coming while they posed for the
photographers.

YO:Let's ask him.

JL: Yeah, cause it's a good one, but I'll draw
anyway.
(becomes very muffled)
JL: The best thing for you to do is to get to our
house before twelve on Friday morning and you can
take it then. If you do it then we can pop into the
garden and then go into town together or something
like that.
[A much edited version of this conversation was first
published in OZ magazine.]
Miles, 1969
John Lennon
Felix Dennis, Ink, 2 November 1971
"I still think that kids are more influenced by us than
by Jesus".

Only one man stands against Lennon. In and out of

Yoko's bags; in and out of recording studios; in and
out of boat rides on his private artificial lake; in and
out of political dabbling and rhetorical sloganeering.
One man. His name is John Lennon. It is himself.

THUS SPOKE an unrepentant John Lennon in the

Summer of 1969. And who could have doubted
him? Or at best stood convincingly against him?
Not the Pope, that Beast of Rome, rumbling
obsolescent threats of irrevocable
excommunication, one hand up our Lady Madonna
and the other outstretched to bless his erring flock.

"War is over if you want it!" shouted Lennon to the

crowd.

291

"Bullshit", came an anonymous cry. "What you

mean John, is that war is over if you can afford it.
You can. We can't."

"I no longer believe in myth and the Beatles is just

another myth..."
"This is what we are like with our trousers down.
Will you please end the game now?" (Rock
Magazine, April 1970).

This slowly emerging, uncompromising, and at

times, painfully embarrassing dialogue between
Lennon, the working-class hero, and Lennon, the
Apple rich superstar, represents to many observers
a nauseating and repetitive exercise in self-delusion
and hypocrisy. For others, (notably certain review
critics in quality nationals and the American rook
music press), it appears as only a muddled attempt
to evolve and extemporise on some vague
sociological and philosophical premise. Both points
of view share only their misconception in common.
The first is grounded in understandable, but
irrational materialistic envy. The second is more
complex, and as it is through the media, and the
press in particular, that we come to know or think
we know, and understand the motivation behind an
artists work, perhaps it is worth investigating.

Which is? Simply, that the key to Lennon's musical

and social programme of behaviour in recent years
is rooted solidly in voluntary acceptance of his
position. To use his own phrase, an acceptance of
his own "pain", (although the word 'acceptance' is
perhaps a little misleading; certainly it no way
implies any major degree of passivity). Both
harmonically and lyrically Lennon's music is, by its
very nature, experimental and exploratory. As an
explorer blessed with a surfeit of integrity, he is
prepared only to say that he knows where he is not.
As to where he is, he can only affirm that he is lost,
but enjoying it. Once every year or so he sends a
postcard via E.M.I, enclosing a stamped addressed
acetate for the next album. It always contains the
same message: "Hard travelling, but a fantastic
view. Please develop these snapshots. Wish you
were here, love John." A lot of people think,
secretly, that he's crazy.

As in other professions that deal exclusively in the

communication of ideas, journalists are notoriously
jealous of their territorial rights. Critics are by
definition, armchair journalists, and in this light it
was almost inevitable that their instinctive reactions
should have been to vehemently reassert their own
definitions of Lennon's already quite clearly defined
motives and strategy. It is for artist to perform and
for critics to explain and to evaluate. Here was a
clear case of imbecilic poaching. What was Lennon
doing explaining as he was performing as he was
evaluating? Did he think he was God or something?

"I can't speak for anyone else, because I'm only

me." (Canadian Press Conference Dec. 1969)
It's significant that John's more recent obsession
with 'Pain' followed hard on the vanishing heels of
the abortive 'Peace' campaign. (Abortive, I hasten
to add, only in the sense of the lack of public
interest in 'Peace' as a saleable commodity: it's
influence as a creative element in Lennon's work is
certainly beyond dispute. 'Give Peace A Chance'
may well prove to be for the 1970's what 'We Shall
Overcome' represented in the previous decade). Be
this as it may, the criticism levelled at Lennon's faint
gesture in the sphere of international statesmanship
compared as nothing to the enormity of the stick
with which he was furiously thrashed following the
release of his last album.

Question: "Do you think you are a genius, John?"

Answer: "Yes. If there is such a thing. I am one."
(Rolling Stone, May 1971).
But they missed the point. Lennon's dialogue with
himself is a longstanding and deep-seated
subconscious reflex. He's been crying wolf in the
wilderness for longer than they know; and indeed,
perhaps he has reached the point where it is all that
he knows. On Imagine, there is a song, 'Gimme
Some Truth'...

Naive visions of the brotherhood of man were one

thing, and might possibly be excused. But wilful,
introverted exposures of the darker recesses of
human emotion were quite another, and most
certainly couldn't. "Self-pity!" came the ugly cry as
they dropped it like a steaming brick. To some
degree I fear a repetition of the same behaviour
with Imagine. Nothing is feared and despised quite
as much in our community as a crippled man
openly flaunting his wounds. However therapeutic
the process, the stench of another man's cancer is
all too real a reminder of our own sickening frailty.

"I'm sick and tired of hearing things from uptight,

shortsighted narrowminded hypocrites
All I want is the truth
Just gimme some truth."
But truth is just another word for in between the
lines. Read those papers and you'll see what I
mean. If it's at all humanly possible, even on
Imagine, they miss the point...

292

"You can wear a mask and paint your face

You can call yourself the human race
You can wear a collar and a tie
One thing you can't hide
Is when you're crippled inside..."

I took along three recent copies of the MM, a token

gift which he eagerly accepted.
Thinner
John Lennon now seems smaller and thinner than
he's ever been. His hair is cropped short and he
wears tiny round glasses similar to the type that are
provided with sun-ray lamps to protect the eyes
from the blinding glare. He sips beer on the terrace
and talks willingly about any subject I bring up.

You should know, John. You should know.

Felix Dennis, 1971
John Lennon: Lennon Today

He's very friendly and very open.

Chris Charlesworth, Melody Maker, 3 November

1973

The reason for his visit to Los Angeles is to put the

finishing touches to his next album Mind Games
which is due out in November. But as often as not
he's out on the town. Nightly it seems, he's seen
socialising at the Rainbow, catching an act at the
Roxy and even spending a weekend in Vegas
where he stopped off to see Fats Domino.

WHERE Doheney cuts Sunset at the edge of the

Beverley Hills estate, there's a tobacconist shop
that carries all makes and brands. It's called Sunset
Smokes and it actually sells English cigarettes.
When my duty-free allocation burned up, I went
there to re-stock, deciding ultimately on a carton of
Rothmans to satisfy my nicotine habit

But, he explains, the problems of being John

Lennon are always there. Whenever he's spotted, a
crowd gathers just to gawk at this little man who,
probably more than anyone else, gave popular
music the biggest kick in the ass it's ever had. Once
a Beatle, always a Beatle.

"You English?" inquired the shop assistant, who

was probably in her late forties. I replied in the
affirmative.
"We got Piccadilly now," she informed me. "I'll tell
you something," she continued. "When the Beatles
were the Beatles and they were staying in Los
Angeles, they were in here every day asking for
Piccadilly.

We talked for over an hour about his new

record...his love of the States...his dodgy visa
situation...his thoughts on the recent Beatle rerelease double albums...his lack of live
appearances...his views on the current music
scene...and, of course, his relationship with the
other ex-Beatles.

"We couldn't get them then, but we've got them

now. If you see one of them, tell them."

"Tell me about the hew album," I asked him first.

Three days later I saw one. He smoked only

Gauloises. "I've been smoking these for years," said
Lennon, in the bustle of the Rainbow Club, situated
on the Strip not a stone's throw away from Sunset
Smokes.

"Well," said John in his thick Liverpool accent, "it's

finished. I'm out here in LA to sit on Capitol, to do
the artwork and see to things like radio promotion.
The album's called Mind Games, and its, well...just,
an album.

John was sat in the quietest corner of the noisiest

club, curled up on a seat among a constant stream
of well-wishers and others seeking an audience.

"It's rock at different speeds. It's not a political

album, or an introspective album. Someone told me
it was like Imagine with balls, which I liked a lot. I've
used New York musicians, apart from Jim Keltner
on drums.

In the company was Lou Adler, self-made

millionaire, part-owner of the Roxy Club next door,
mentor to Carole King and owner of the Bel Air
mansion where Lennon is staying on this rare
excursion out of New York and rare separation from
Yoko.

Message
"There's no deep message about it. I very rarely
consciously sit down and write a song with a deep
message. Usually, whatever lyrics I write are about
what I've been thinking over the past few months. I

About a week later, after a series of 'phone calls

and messages, I spent an afternoon at the same
Bel Air mansion in the company of Lennon.

293

tend not to want to change an idea once it's in my

mind, even if I feel diferently about it later.

John considers Mind Games to be better than

Imagine, although he says he's never completely
satisfied with his records. "For the last ten years I've
said that if I didn't like something I wouldn't put it
out, but whenever I played the record back I'm
thinking of ways to change it and make it better still.
It's good, but you can always do better and that's
why I go on making records.

"If I stated in a song that water was the philosophy

to life, then people would assume that was my
philosophy for ever but it's not, it's forever
changing."
Yoko is not involved in the new album, although
John played some guitar on her last record. The two
of them, says John, have decided to keep their
careers separate for a while. "Now that she knows
how to produce records and everything about it, I
think the best thing I can do is keep out of her hair.

"I was disappointed at the reaction to the last

album. Over here they banned it and made such a
fuss about the songs, and it was never played
because they said it insulted blacks which it didn't at
all. I know a lot of black people, and they know
what's going on.

"We get a little tense in the studio together, but

that's not to say we won't ever do another album. If
we do an album, or a film, or a bed-in or whatever,
that's just the way we feel at that moment.

"I know it was political with a capital "P", but that

was what I had in my bag at the time and I wasn't
just going to throw them away because they were
political. 'Imagine' did pretty well, so after that I
wanted to just do one that I felt like.

Bath

"I still like the song 'Woman Is The Nigger Of The

World'. I like the sound of it and it gets me off, but it
just happened that it didn't please people."

"We're just playing life by ear, and that includes our

careers. We occasionally take a bath together and
occasionally separately, just however we feel at the
time. Yoko has just started a five-day engagement
in a club in New York, and I ain't about to do five
days in a New York club.

At present, John has no immediate plans to tour or

appear live anywhere. He had plans until the muchpublicised visa situation reared up, and now he's
content to wait until these problems are sorted out
before going on the road.

"She's over there rehearsing and I'm letting her get

on with it her own way."

"At the time they were trying to throw me out, I

really felt like going on the road, but having to go to
court and go to Washington put me off the idea.

The curent temporary separation between them,

says John, is the longest there has ever been but
he's quick to deny the inevitable rumours that they
have parted.

"I had no time to think about work, which was

maybe what they were trying to do to me wear me
down.

"We have been apart more than people think, for

odd periods over the years, and now I know people
are calling from England suggesting we've split up.
It's not so. The last time that happened was when
we spent one night apart at Ascot and somebody,
started off rumours.

Money
"I wouldn't mind doing it, but the organisation
frightens me. I could probably earn a lot of money,
which wouldn't be a bad thing because all my
money is tied up in England and they won't let me
have it. I get lots of people wanting me to do things
for charity, but usually when I show, it turns out the
whole thing is a fiasco and I end up running the
whole show.

"All that scares us about being apart is whether

something happens to us. Our minds are tied in
together and there's always the telephone, but one
of us could have a plane crash or something. We've
been together five years or more now, but we've
really been together for more than ten years in most
people's terms.

"Not many people know how to put a show on

properly: most of them think that if they get a
famous name, he'll call everybody he knows and
they won't have to worry about anything else.

"Her output and energy is so much greater than

mine that I just let her get on with things."
Change

294

"The Bangla Desh show started this big charity

thing. Now people ring me and they think that if I
say 'yes' then Dylan, George and God will appear,
too. If Yoko appears anywhere, they automatically
expect me to appear, so I now say screw it for the
time being.

like a Buddhist monk at the time with all my hair

chopped off, and I thought nobody would spot me.
They spotted Yoko before me, and assumed
rightly that I must be with her. It was quite a trip."
John took part in some of the sessions for Ringo's
forthcoming album which brought three ex-Beatles
together and almost all four for the first time
since the split. "Yea, the three of us were there and
Paul would most probably have joined in if he was
around but he wasn't," said John.

"I'm in no particular hurry, I don't miss not being on

stage and one way or the other I always seem to be
performing somehow, no matter where I am.
Feeling

"I just got a call from Ringo, asking me to write a

track so I did. It seemed the natural thing to do.
George has written a track and Paul has written
one, but most of them are Ringo's. I like his songs.
For the track that I wrote, I was on piano, Billy
Preston was on organ, Ringo was on drums,
George was on guitar and Klaus Voorman was on
bass."

"When I did the Madison Square Gardens show, I

had a sort of deja-vu feeling that I'd done it all
before and this was no better or no worse than it
had ever been before. It felt strange and I felt like a
robot doing the same thing over and over again.
"I'll probably go out on the road again before too
long, but it's just the itty-bitty things about it that I
can't stand. If something comes up that interests
me, then I may do it.

Bedroom
John says he talks to at least one of the other three
ex-Beatles every two weeks. "I've talked to Ringo a
lot recently because he's just moved into my house
at Ascot, which is nice because I've always got a
bedroom there. I haven't talked to Paul since before
he did the last tour with Wings, but I heard Red
Rose Speedway and it was all right.

"I think I'd sooner play the Roxy here than a

ballpark, but the complications of someone like me
doing a show anywhere are endless.
"I couldn't do what Paul did with Wings and just turn
up at Bradford University and play. It'd have to be
something more organised than that."

"I liked parts of his TV special especially the intro.

The bit filmed in Liverpool made me squirm a bit,
but Paul's a pro. He always has been.

Right now, John is waiting for the appeal hearing for

his application to remain in the USA. While the
appeal is pending, he's just behaving naturally, and
relying on a team of lawyers to keep him informed
of how the case is proceeding.

"I hear two people have left Wings now. The only
news I hear is what I get from the English trade
papers. Nobody tells me things, unless I ask and
really, it's nothing to do with me anyway what Wings
are doing."

To this end, he's kept out of the papers recently,

living quietly in an apartment in Central Manhattan,
New York, anxious not to offend those who want to
see him leave America. His only publicised public
appearance recently was when he went to watch
the Watergate hearings in Washington.

While emphasising that he doesn't mean to be

insulting to England, he says he never misses
home. "I don't miss England like I didn't miss
Liverpool when the Beatles moved to London

Papers

"England will always be there if I choose to go back,

and when I came here originally I didn't have a plan
to stay. It just happened that way.

"I only went once to see Watergate, but it made the

papers because I was recognised straight away. I
thought it was better on TV anyway because I could
see more. When it first came on I watched it live all
day, so I just had the urge to actually go. I had other
business in Washington, anyway.

Hottest
"I love New York. It's the hottest city on earth. I
haven't been everywhere in the world but it's the
fastest city on earth. The diference between New
York and London is the difference between London
and Liverpool.

"The public was there and most Senators have

children, so every time there was a break in the
proceedings I had to sign autographs. I was looking

295

"For me New York has everything. And if I wanted to

get away from it there's always New England to
visit. If I feel homesick for England, I feel homesick
for Cornwall, or Ireland or Scotland where I went on
holidays. When I think of England now, I think of my
childhood or discotheques in London and in New
England it's very similar with the rock and the sea
and that.

I told John that Slade had been called the new

Beatles. "Hell, who wants to be the new Beatles!"
he replied. "I like some of their records. They get it
off. I saw them on TV here and it was all right.
"It must be so hard for them when they come here
and they're used to being treated like God in
England, but I think they'll survive. They're a good
band. They're a singles band and I'm a singles man.

"I've got a little pad there where I can go to get

away from the rush of New York, and I've got an
apartment in the Dakota Building in New York which
is the place they made the film Rosemary's Baby.

"The only reason I make albums is because you're

supposed to. I haven't really got into somebody's
album since I was into Elvis Presley and Carl
Perkins, and even then singles were always the
best.

Movies
"I also love the millions of radio stations and
television channels and the piped TV movies I can
get and things like that which you can't get in
England."

Enough
"I'd like to see the Who when they come over here,
they're like clockwork. I went to see Cheech and
Chong the other night, but once is enough for them.

John regrets that he doesn't get out to see many

artists performing, a situation that stems from his
being John Lennon. "I get nervous at shows. Either
I have to sit in the audience and I get hassled by
the crowd, or I go backstage and have to mix with
the groupies and all that trip.

"That's another thing that puts me off playing live

the fact that you've got to do the same thing over
and over again every night, and the audience wants
to hear the songs you're associated with. I
remember I sang 'Imagine' twice in one day when I
was rehearsing it, and that bored me.

"Rod Stewart's here at the moment and I wouldn't

mind seeing him. I like him. I want to see Jerry Lee
Lewis, too, while he's on here. I saw Fats Domino in
Las Vegas I seem to be catching up on the ones I
never saw when I was a teenager.

"I've nothing against the song, in fact I'm quite

proud of it, but I just can't go on every night singing
it. I'd try and vary it, but then I don't like to see that
myself. If I go to watch an artist I'd expect to hear
the things I know.

"I had a ticket for the Rolling Stones on the East

Coast but at the time I was in Los Angeles, so I
never got to see them. I haven't seen the Stones
since the Rock and Roll Circus which was the film
that never came out.

"I understand it from both points of view. Actually I

have trouble remembering lyrics. I sang 'Come
Together' at Madison Square Gardens for a TV
show too and really I sang 'She Got Hairy
Arseholes' instead of what it should have been, and
it was never noticed.

"I still prefer records. They're the thing of the

moment that matters. I like to see the artist
occasionally, but some people have made one
great record and I go for that record and don't care
whatever else they've done.

John admits he's dropped-out a little recently, and

has deliberately stopped making explosive
statements that would make newspaper headlines.
He says this may have something to do with his
visa situation, but it's hard to tell.

"People are saying the Stones are getting too old to

appear now but that's bullshit. Mick'll never be past
it. I saw the TV show they did over here and it was
fantastic. It was a master's performance and that's
what Mick is, a master performer.

Regret
There has, he says, not been much to talk about. "I
think I'll always be the same whenever there's an
issue. In the olden days, the MM would carry
headlines like 'Lennon Blasts Hollies' and, not that
I'd regret saying what I'd said, it would reverberate
back to me for months afterwards.

"The English always tear into their own artists more

than others, and worship Americans. Here it's the
other way around. I like a lot of the new British
bands though."

296

"So then I'd drop back a little. I'm going through one
of those phases now. Either Lennon is all over the
place or he's invisible. Like other things, I don't plan
it. It just happens naturally."

because it's good for your ego, but I know I'm not
supposed to because it's against the business. I got
copies made from this Decca audition and sent it to
them all. I wouldn't mind actually releasing it."

The next project coming up for John, though, is an

album of oldies he's making with Phil Spector. "Phil
and I have been threatening to do this for years.

I told John I had a copy of the Beatles Live At Shea

Stadium. "Yes, I've got that," he said. "I think I've
got them all. There's one of a Beatles show at the
Hollywood Bowl which was an abortion, and there's
others from everywhere we played, obscure places
here in the States. It seemed someone was taping it
everywhere.

"I want to go in and sing some 'Ooo eeh baby'-type

songs that are meaningless for a change.
Whenever I'm in the studio, between takes, I mess
around with oldies. I even used to do it in the studio
in the Beatle days, so now I'm finally getting round
to doing a John Lennon sings the oldies album.

"I think the official reissue albums came out around

the right time. Maybe we'd have sold more if we'd
got them out before the bootleggers, but they didn't
do too badly at all. They got gold records each.
They brought back the sixties."

Next
"This will be my next album. I hope people won't
think I've run out of songs, but sod it, I just want to
do it.

John says he never really had a favourite Beatles

number. He usually preferred whatever was current
at the time. "I have a favourite of Paul's, and a
favourite of George's and a favourite of my own.

"I'm not going to tell you what numbers I'll be doing;

I don't even know for sure myself. Phil and I are
sorting through loads of songs right now.

"Of mine I like 'Strawberry Fields' and 'Walrus', of

Paul's I like 'Here, There and Everywhere', of
Ringo's I like 'Honey Don't' and of George's I like
'Within You, Without You'.

"I enjoy working with him, but I equally enjoyed

doing the latest album on my own. There was
nobody to lean on, and this was a good exercise for
me. I always control everything anyway, but this
time I thought I'd do it all on my own."

"Of course I still like 'Eleanor Rigby', and another I

liked was 'For No One'."

Conversation turned to the recent double Beatles

compilation albums that have been so successful, a
fact which pleases Lennon almost as much as
when 'Imagine' occasionally creeps back into the
charts. He get's a bigger kick, however, out of his
own albums doing well rather than Beatle material.

Nervous

"George controlled the choice of the material on

those albums more than any of us. They sent me
lists and asked for my opinion, but I was busy at the
time. I think it was the pressure of the bootlegs that
finally made us put them out after all this time.

"I heard they've tried to stereoise the old albums. I

wish they hadn't. I also think they could have put
some of the tracks out that were "B" sides and
aren't available any more. Maybe they still will. I
hope so."

"Did you know that there's a bootleg out now of the

Decca audition which the Beatles did? I have a
copy of it, but I'm trying to find the tape. It's
beautiful. There's us singing 'To Know Her Is To
Love Her', and a whole pile of tracks, mostly other
people's but some of our own. It's pretty good,
better than that Tony Sheridan thing on Polydor.

My last question was inevitable...any chance of us

seeing the four Beatles on a stage or record
together again?

Tapes

"There's no law that says we're not going to do

something together, and no law that says we are.

"I have favourites from different periods. When I first

received a copy of the compilation albums, I was
too nervous to play them in case they were mixed
badly. I thought the sound was a bit rough.

"There's always a chance," grinned John. "As far as

I can gather from talking to them all, nobody would
mind doing some work together again.

"Every time I go on TV here somebody tapes it and

within a week it's in all the shops. In a way I dig it

297

"If we did do something I'm sure it wouldn't be

permanent. We'd do it just for that moment.

We'd spare mentioning some of the other weary

cliches that make up the substance of this album,
but John has written a song called Nobody Knows
You (When You're Down and Out). Pretty original
idea for a song, don't you think? Or Surprise,
Surprise (Sweet Bird of Paradox), which actually
contains lines like "Just a willow tree, a breath of
spring you see...I was blind, she blew my mind."

"I think we're closer now than we have been for a

long time. I call the split the divorce period and
none of us ever thought there'd be a divorce like
that.
"That's just the way things turned out. We know
each other well enough to talk about it."

Two good songs. Steel and Glass is fused by

anger, the singing direct and forceful, with the How
Do You Sleep instrumental riptide giving the tune
depth. Old Dirt Road shows the brilliant instinct for
phrasing and rhythm of language that a guy named
John Lennon used to have before he started hiding
behind walls of aliases like Dr. Winston O'Boogie,
and sleeping under bridges played by that Plastic
Ono Sominex Band. ZZzzzzz.

Chris Charlesworth, 1973

John Lennon: Walls And Bridges (Apple)
Wayne Robins, Creem, January 1975
WELCOME TO THE latest chapter in John
Lennon's Identity Crisis. Fresh from troubles with
the immigration authorites, the breakup with Yoko
and public behavior reminiscent of Don Rickles on
Thorazine and Madria Madria, John will be out
shortly to perform twelve songs from his new
album, Walls and Bridges.

Wayne Robins, 1975

John Lennon: Rock 'N' Roll (Apple)
Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, March 1975
IN OCTOBER 1973 John Lennon was reported
cutting an album of oldies with Phil Spector. After
only four sides had been cut, Spector was seriously
injured in an automobile crash, and the album was
shelved for a year before Lennon got around to
cutting the remaining eleven tracks. Now it's out,
and a lot of people are calling it Lennon's most
exciting release in a long time.

Of course, there's no one named John Lennon in

the credits. There is a Kaptain Kundalini playing
electric Ono guitar on What You Got. Reverend
Fred Gherkin plays pickled piano on Bless You,
and Mel Torment alternates piano riffs with Nicky
Hopkins on Scared.
Well, here's John. It looks like John, but Going
Down On Love has a line about "sowing wild oats."
Lennon never wrote stuff like that. Must be the
James Gang, or Orphan. The guy singing on What
You Got sounds like John, but the band Keltner,
Jesse Ed Davis, Klaus Voorman, Hopkins played
this track on the Shelter People Christmas Album.
Or was it the soundtrack from Oklahoma Crude?

I only wish I could agree. This is an album I wanted

very badly to like, and there's no reason it shouldn't
have been everything I expected. With John's
innate feel for rock 'n' roll basics, and his wellknown devotion to '50s rock, this album had all the
makings of a powerful statement, on the order of
Bowie's Pin-Ups, paying tribute to Lennon's sources
and bringing a forgotten era back into focus for a
moment. Why then, in light of all that, does this
record impress me only as a superfluous rehash of
hackneyed cliches?

Ah, here we go. Whatever Gets You Through the

Night has energy all right, but it's more like a Ringo
novelty record with Bobby Keys sax riff snatched
out of a Bruce Springsteen song. Sounds good on
the radio, though.

The main problem is the material. These may be

John's favorite songs, but unlike hundreds of
equally compelling but slightly less familiar songs
from the '50s, these in particular have been done to
death, in the case of the Little Richard and Chuck
Berry tunes, or stand as such classics (Be-Bop-ALula) that the only possible comparison is
unfavorable.

There are a few songs that remind us of the John

Lennon we've known and pitied. "I'm scared...I'm
scared...I'm tired," are the ideas expressed in
Scared. Just how tired Lennon is comes through
clearly: "I just manage to survive," he sings, "I just
wanna stay alive." Not exactly a lofty ambition from
the man who once aspired to being more popular
than Jesus or even Elvis.

Predictably, then, the most listenable cuts are

Stand By Me, Just Because (with a fine Spector
production), the medley of Bring It On Home to

298

Me/Send Me Some Lovin', Do You Want to

Dance and Ya Ya. Even these songs are overlyfamiliar, when one thinks of what Lennon could
have done with any Eddie Cochran tune other than
Summertime Blues, any other Vincent song than
Be-Bop-a-Lula, something by the Everly Bros.,
Ricky Nelson, or even a couple of obscure things
that Rosie and the Originals B-side he's always
talking about, Give Me Love, would have been
great.

In case anyone should think that Peel is just

another crazed street-loonie he proves he knows at
least one of his principles by including an interview
with Lennon on the album.
The subject: How Lennon first met David Peel and
his opinion of Peel's music:
"Howard Smith was showing Yoko and me around
the Village although Yoko didn't need any
showing but he was an old friend of Yoko's and I
got to know him. And he took us down to
Washington Square of course and there he was,
you know, shouting about 'Why do you have to pay
to see stars?' and all that, and I'm standing at the
back of the crowd feelin' all embarrassed, thinkin',
'He must be talkin' about me he must know I'm
here!' But he didn't. And then we walked off.

Some of the songs hold up well enough, although in

no case does John come close to equalling the
power of the originals, even today after from ten to
twenty years of wear and tear. That shouldn't be the
only criterion, but when an artist chooses to recut
such classics, it can't be avoided. Good as Peggy
Sue is, good as Bony Moronie is, good as Sweet
Little Sixteen sounds it ain't Buddy Holly, it ain't
Larry Williams, and it certainly isn't Chuck Berry.
And unfortunately, it's not John Lennon either.

"Another time... it was arranged for us to meet him

but it seemed like a happening and he was just
suddenly there and we started singing with him in
the street. We got moved on by the police and it
was all very wonderful and that was it. And then
he was such a great guy, and we loved his music
and his spirit and everything, and his whole
philosophy of 'the street', so we thought, 'well, okay,
le's make a record with him'.

Greg Shaw, 1975

Beatle Freak: Lennon Talks
Miles, NME, 21 May 1977
DAVID PEEL and the Apple Band have released an
album dedicated to that all-American cause of reuniting The Beatles.

"The thing about it is, people say, 'Oh, Peel. He

can't really sing' or 'he can't really play' and that, but
he writes beautiful songs. Even as simple as his
basic chord structures are, supposedly... well
Picasso spent 40 years trying to get as simple as
that. David Peel's a natural and some of his
melodies are good, y'know? If you took away the
effin' and blindin' and the politics and you just sang
some sweet melody over 'I'm A Runaway' or one of
his tunes, well then you'd have a pop hit. If he ever
wanted to do those as Pop 40 he could do it as
easy as pie."

Peel, you remember, began his musical career in

the early days of psychedelia with a memorable
album called Have A Marijuana which was recorded
live on the streets of New York. (He believes all
music should be free and performed in parks and
on the streets so everyone can join in.) In April,
1972, John Lennon and Yoko Ono produced The
Pope Smokes Dope, one of Apple's more unusual
albums, and one which showed Peel as proto-punk
with such numbers as 'I'm A Runaway' and 'I'm
gonna Start Another Riot'.

Thus spake John Lennon. Well here's the Pop 40

album, full of simple melodies. The main thing that'll
probably stop John's words from coming true is that
Peel released the thing himself. It's on Orange
Records (Orange Peel geddit?) of 209E 5th
Street, Apartment 10R. NY. NY10003, but NME
expects the import shops will get some soon.

It seems that his contact with an actual Beatle

turned his mind from dope to The Beatles not a
difficult step to take and this, his latest release on
his own Orange label, is devoted entirely to bringing
the four lads back together, and has scarcely a toke
of championing for his beloved herb. In fact the
album opens with a reverential re-work of the
American Oath of Allegiance called 'The Beatles
Pledge Of Allegiance'. He sings a Ramones-like
vocal on 'Imagine' same strangled New York
accent but with a beautiful oboe backing track
and has made Lennon's short story, 'My Fat
Budgie', into a song.

Miles, 1977
John Lennon & Yoko Ono: Double Fantasy
(Geffen)
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 22 November 1980

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IN THE cocoon, something stirs. John Lennon

one of the people who used to be in The Beatles, a
group reckoned to be hot socks when I was a kid
and Yoko Ono break a five-year recording silence to
announce that everything in their garden is
wonderful, but wonderful. For people imprinted with
the passions and preoccupations of the Beatle
Years, the release of Double Fantasy is of necessity
An Event though maybe not a happy one.
Everybody else: straight to the next review, please.

humanity. Her verse about Lennon demonstrates

that her love and admiration for her husband are
considerably more clear-eyed that his for her: he
writes about her as an omnipotent, benevolent lifegiving Natural Force: she writes about him as a
gifted human who is still a child (he says the same
thing of himself in another song). Yoko is Mom to
both of them: she jestingly depicts herself in just
this all-powerful Supermom role in the jokey,
Nilssonesque 'I'm Your Angel.'

Lennon and Ono appear on the cover clamped in a

passionate embrace, resembling nothing so much
as the Streisand/Kristofferson Star Is Born clinch.
The album celebrates their mutual devotion to each
other and their son Sean to the almost complete
exclusion of all other concerns. Everything's peachy
for the Lennon's and nothing else matters, so
everything's peachy OED. How wonderful, man.
One is thrilled to hear of so much happiness.

Yoko One's entry into rock in the early '70s was

heavily attacked by most mainstream rockcrits of
the time because even by the eclectic standards of
post-hippie art rock her music sounded totally
unrocky. In the '80s post-Slits etc. her music
sounds vastly more modern and considerably more
interesting than Lennon's. In particular, 'Kiss Kiss
Kiss', 'Give Me Something' and the freezingly eerie
'Every Man Has A Woman Who Loves Him' an
ode to Romantic Destiny, would you believe? are
easily the album's best moments.

Criticism along orthodox social-realist lines may

seen boorish and pompous: after all, anyone can
make a record about anything they wish, and if the
Ono Lennons find their own domestic and parental
bliss to be the only worthwhile subject for their
music, then they are perfectly within their rights to
finance their next decade with an album that deals
purely and simply with their own highly finite
universe. The trouble with music that is self-centred
to the point of utter solipsism is that one cannot
criticise the art without also criticising the life on
which the art is based.

Still, Yoko's vision is by no means unflawed. To say

the least, anyone who can seriously serve up a
song entitled 'Hard Times Are Over' is being a trifle
subjective. For those of us still to make our first
million, hard times are only just beginning.
Double Fantasy is right: a fantasy made for two
(with a little cot at the foot of the bed). It sounds like
a great life, but unfortunately it makes a lousy
record. Still, who said that rock stars and Lennon
is one of those for life whether he wants it or not
were under any obligation to provide record buyers
with anything 'useful'! Of course they're not, but
people like Paul Weller do so whether there's an
obligation or not.

So the Lennons choose their roles and play them to

the hilt. John croons his love for his son on
'Beautiful Boy', apologises to Yoko for ever having
been horrid to her, expresses his devotion as
debasement. He is besotted and abject (the old
buggar still has a wonderful voice, by the way).

That's why I look forward to Yoko Ono solo album,

why I wish that Lennon had kept his big happy trap
shut until he has something to say that was even
vaguely relevant to those of us not married to Yoko
Ono and why I'm pissed off because I haven't heard
the Jam album yet.

On 'Watching The Wheels', he explains that he's

perfectly happy not giving a shit about either the
rock business or the world events that inspired him
to produce Some Time In New York City and that
astounding series of late-and post-Beatle solo
singles of the early '70s, but by coming out of
retirement and releasing an album, he's 'playing the
game' whether he admits it or not. Anyway, let's
waste no more time on John Lennon. On this
showing he can get back to the kitchen and mind
the kid and the cows, because all the most
interesting material on Double Fantasy is Yoko's.

Now bliss off.

John Lennon
Mark Cooper, Record Mirror, 13 December 1980
WHEN WE were growing up, my brother and I, he
loved John Lennon especially. Our parents used to
give us a Beatles album every Christmas. Sergeant
Pepper was the last one we got. Maybe we left
home after that, I can't remember.

She answers hubby's 'Beautiful Boy' with her own

'Beautiful Boys', a tripartite essay which devotes its
first verse to young Sean, its second to Big John
and its third to all the male egos which run the world
at the expense of their own and everybody else's

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My brother used to live in small bedsits in Sheffield.

I'd go and visit him and for bedtime reading I'd
always take down 'John Lennon Speaks'. Lennon,
around that time, always seemed a bit daft, always
going over the top and changing every minute. But I
always believed him. He never struck me as a man
who lied. He was always searching for something,
trying something out, taking a new tack.

stopped writing his diary in the public eye. John

sought anonymity, privacy, peace, a family life.
Nobody seemed to quite believe in John and Yoko's
private life. Many resented it; they were so used to
him and "they never trusted Yoko." The papers had
great difficulty in letting them disappear, he'd been
such good copy. Somehow he managed it by being
normal in NY for a while. He'd be frequently sighted
in the Village, arm in arm with Yoko. He'd chosen
his privacy and the locals at least respected his
wish.

John, along with Yoko, tried to use his public power

for peace, a word that only Presidents use
anymore. Yoko and he looked so funny in bed
surrounded by cameras and flashbulbs, all white
and eccentric. Then there was the political phase
that openly declared John's love affair with New
York. The cover was all newsprint and John and
Yoko were angry and left and topical. And above all,
nave and enthusiastic in the way they picked things
up.

Starting Over wasn't really a new start. It was just a

reminder that John still existed, still loved Yoko and
rock and roll, like suddenly getting a telephone call
from a friend you used to spend every day with and
haven't seen for years. I felt sick when the radio
started in this morning. I wanted it to be a hoax. I
wanted him to have what he wanted, his son and
his wife. And I can't believe he died like that, his
body broken. How could anybody hurt John whom
everyone loved like they loved their youth?

I've never written an obituary before. The last time I

felt like this was when Kennedy died and some
essential safety seemed to have gone from the
world. I was too young to understand it, but I knew
something was wrong. I haven't written any
because most of my friends are too young to have
died. Including John. Now I feel like some binding
thing has been torn, not only a period in life but a
whole growing up.

I'm in a state of shock. I want to talk over the old

days and how we always loved John whatever he
did because he always did it all the way with the
best drum sound. And he wrote down growing up
for us.

The Beatles were ours, me and my brother, in the

sixties. Our parents came to like them, grudgingly at
first and then wholeheartedly. The sound was ours
and the media made them everybody's they
were more reproduced than Kennedy. John was
always winking into cameras, taking the piss out of
the medium, making it human. His wit was always
Liverpudlian to the core, John was always a wag.

Crazy John. Poor Yoko. Some stupid bloke killed

him because he used to be famous. All you can say
is that he always will be. The world's gone mad and
now I'm going to try and get through to my brother
again. Because I want to remember. You owe him
that and a whole lot more.
Mark Cooper, 1980

The Beatles got wrapped up more and more into a

nice homely package. Everyone loved them,
America canonized them and still does, and the
media hugged them. People didn't like John giving
back his medal and a lot didn't think he deserved it
in the first place but they ended up respecting him.
When John was primal screaming about his Mother
or appearing on the Two Virgins cover, his sheer
innocence and commitment somehow enabled him
to lose his dignity and recover it at the same time.
He was a holy fool and still a bit of a wag.

John Lennon: My Brilliant Career

Simon Frith, New York Rocker, March 1981
'Death Of A Hero' it said in big black letters across
the front of the Daily Mirror, and if I hadn't known
already I'd have expected a story about a
policeman or a solider in Northern Ireland.
The British media response to John Lennon's death
was overwhelming, and what began as a series of
private griefs was orchestrated by disc jockeys and
sub-editors into a national event, but it was difficult
to decide what all this mourning meant. The media
themselves seemed less slick than usual, more
ragged in their attempts to respond to a genuinely
popular shock. What came through was not just
Beatle-nostalgia but a specific sadness at the loss
of John Lennon's Beatle qualities qualities that

And then he went to New York and left the public

eye. He started escaping the cameras and trying to
live his own life with Yoko and his child. All through
the sixties every gesture he made was mirrored a
thousand times by followers and a million times by
cameras. He began to live for the public, using his
gestures as responsibly as he could. Then he

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never did fit easily into British populist ideology.

"The idea," as Lennon once told Red Mole, "is not
to comfort people, not to make them feel better, but
to make them feel worse."

everywhere else was silenced, and most of his life

afterwards was committed to keeping faith with this
voice, preserving its edge, cutting through the
ideological trapping of pop.

John Lennon was a 1950s, not a 1960s, teenager

and he didn't have a great youth, but he did grow up
in Liverpool where there was an aggressive way of
leisure that survived television and the fifties rise of
family consumption. By the time I was a teenager,
with the mods in the sixties, the young were the
only people left out at night and no one was very
tough. The Liverpool sound was the sound of gangs
and territory being claimed, and the Beatles always
had to stand for something. They played their gigs
in Liverpool and Hamburg clubs in which there was
no space for subtlety or self-pity, no room for
preening. The Beatles' noise was hoarse and harsh,
an effect of the unrelieved nightly sets, and even
the best of the sixties' live bands, the Stones and
the Who, were indulged youth groups by
comparison, with a flabbiness that the original
Beatles couldn't afford. The Beatles sang American
music in a Liverpool accent nasal rather than
throaty, detached, passion expressed with a
conversational cynicism.

John Lennon refused to be trivialized and Yoko Ono

was truly his partner in this, facing him with many of
the issues that were later addressed by punk. She
questioned the taken-for-granted masculinity of the
rock & roll voice, rock conventions of spontaneity
and realism, rock assumptions about the 'truth' of
the singing voice and the relationship between the
public and the private.
Since Lennon's death I haven't done anything
much, but before it I was watching old films: Top
Gear from 1964, a flat studio showcase of the
year's British stars with two good incidents the
Beatles cheerful on stage, and the spine-chilling
moment when the young Steve Winwood opened
his mouth and that extraordinary white soul voice
came pouring effortlessly out: and Rude Boy, a
shoddy piece of flimflam designed to trivialize not
only the Clash but the entire punk moment of 19769 working-class 'experience' is mimicked though
the medium of bourgeois realism and I walked out.
The Clash concert footage is good enough though,
and does raise questions about the shifting rules of
rock meaning. These days, for example the annual
berk of a British Christmas is Rod Stewart, who
releases an album and goes on tour. Once upon a
time his singing style (a refinement of the white soul
vocal) was the epitome of emotional sincerity. Now
he just sounds silly, and it is Joe Strummer's narrow
range and tight-throated projection or John Lydon's
wailing inarticulacy which are the sounds that mean
it.

John Lennon was the only hero I've ever had. His
genius is usually described with reference to the
songs he wrote, but it was his voice that always cut
through me. He sang with a controlled, forthright
intimacy that demanded a hearing even on
uninteresting material (like Double Fantasy). He
was the only rock singer who ever sang 'we'
convincingly.
The day John Lennon was shot in New York I got
the Clash's Sandinista! I've played it incessantly
since, as an exorcism of those old Beatle records
that I don't want to hear again. Sandinista! is
infuriating, indulgent, exciting and touching. It is
packed with slogans and simplicities, guns and
liberation, images of struggle and doubt, and it is a
wonderful tribute to Lennon's influence a record
that would have been impossible to imagine without
him. Jones and Strummer always were closer to
Lennon and McCartney than their Jagger/Richards
pose lets on.

"Imagine no possessions", John Lennon sang, but I

never thought he could (John Lydon maybe). There
was a sloppiness to John and Yoko's concept of
peace and love and changing things by thinking
them so, that concealed what mattered more an
astute sense of the mass market and how it
worked. The central contradiction of John Lennon's
artistic life lay in the uneasy enthusiasm with which
he packaged and sold his dreams (which were, to
begin with, real enough). The problem for the
working class, he told Red Mole in 1971, is that
"they're dreaming someone else's dream, it's not
even their own". The problem for a working-class
hero is that he too is defined in other people's
dreams.

John Lennon believed, more intensely than any

other rock performer, that rock & roll was a form of
expression in which anything could be said, and he
believed, too, that rock & roll was the only form of
expression in which many things to do with
growing up working class, mostly could be said.
His music (and the Clash's) involves an urgent need
to be heard (a need which often obscures what is
actually being said). In 1956 John Lennon found in
rock & roll an anti-authoritarian voice that

John Lennon was murdered by a fan, by someone

who pushed the fantasies that pop stardom is
designed to invoke into an appalling, stupid
madness. But the grief that the rest of us Beatle
fans then felt drew on similar fantasies, and the

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bitter fact is that John Lennon, whose heroism lay in

his struggle against being a commodity, whose
achievement was to express the human origins of
pop utopianism, should be trapped, finally, by a
desperate, inhuman, nightmarish version of the
fan's need to be a star.

was filed alongside 'Can't Buy Me Love' and 'Lady

Madonna'. Ever since, with their bed-ins, peace
concerts, primal screams, nude covers, weird free
noises, imaginings, Christmas records, green cards,
kiss kiss kissing, double fantasies and Playboy
interviews, they have been an unfailing resource
when times were thin for gutter-level commentators
on rock.

Simon Frith, 1981

With the murder of John Lennon in December 1980

the cruellest denouement to any affair rock has
yet thrown up the Lennons took their last bow for
a world which suddenly loved and wrung its hands
for them both.

Yoko Ono
Richard Cook, NME, 11 February 1984
How does the widow of John Lennon face up to a
world that won't leave her husband's memory alone,
three years after his death? In this rare interview
Yoko Ono talks about Milk And Honey, her life
without Lennon and her hopes for "a beautiful
future".

Now it will never let them be.

A small Japanese woman, her dark hair styled in a
plain, rather matronly way, walks across the room to
welcome us. She speaks in unhurried, gentle tones,
her manner politely conversational, her native
accent undiminished by her long residence in
America.

"Our life is our art."

John Lennon 1980
FORTUNATELY, I am not much given to
superstition. I might have taken the brief, furious
electrical storm overhead as I walked to the
Dorchester to meet 'Mrs Brown' as some omen. I'm
nervous enough as it is.

She is the richest woman in "show business", and

like many of the extremely wealthy, she is dressed
in a way that might be termed sloppy. Her son has
gone to visit Stonehenge, where she and her
husband often liked to spend time.
A sleevenote to Milk And Honey mentions how,
since Lennon's death, Yoko Ono has found herself
"surrounded by human wolves, who 'claimed
themselves close friends' and meanwhile raped and
desecrated John's body in front of our eyes". One's
sympathy and guilt mix awkardly with the contents
of the record. As private as the Lennons wished to
be, so equally did they emblazon themselves in
public.

*
Do you find it disagreeable that you're so constantly
pursued by your husband's memory?
No (amazed voice). That's another thing. While we
were together I was very much disturbed by people
calling me Mrs Lennon, even though we were
married. I'd say, what's this? If there were fan letters
coming to me that were communicating with me
because I was Mrs Lennon I'd throw them in the
trash can. After John died... I don't know, maybe
there was a change in my perspective, but now if
someone calls me Mrs Lennon it's acceptable. I feel
almost good about it. I don't mind at all if people
think in terms of a connection with John.

MR AND MRS Lennon, now and then, dead or

alive, have been the most public couple rock has
ever known.

Milk And Honey is unrelenting in its peeling away at

'John And Yoko'. It seems to hold a giant, crystalclear mirror before them, every kiss and squeeze
and declaration of love. Double Fantasy did much
the same in a more collected, composed way, but
the material of Milk And Honey some scrawny,
unpolished rockers by Lennon and a series of terse
counterparts by Ono has a raw complexion
missing from the earlier record. If it's bereft of the
skilled energy which the best moments of Double
Fantasy summoned, even exhausted of new
passion, some quality in it stirs a chill. It has a
disembodied aura which only the association of
death can lend.

Their courtship took pop hagiography to

unprecedented lengths. Even the Beatles made a
song about it, 'The Ballad Of John And Yoko', which

Two voices rise through music that's often thinlycovered bones. The voices are finally all you hear.
They resemble muffled ghosts on the two musty

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demos 'Grow Old With Me' and 'Let Me Count The

Ways' that stand as the lock of the record. We are
made to peek into the chamber of the Lennons
again. Nothing is new in the lyrics, no stone
previously unturned from a romance the world
seemed to envy. But the unintended ironies of
'Stepping Out' or 'O'Sanity' or 'Borrowed Time' are
punishing.We cannot let them be, and they in turn
refuse to withdraw.

with John, in that sense. 'You're The One' is the

only one that came after.
Because 'Grow Old With Me' and 'Let Me Count
The Ways' are so obviously personal to you,
weren't you tempted to just keep them to yourself?
No. Because when we discussed Milk and Honey
we discussed those as the backbone of it. As the
liner note says, we thought of it as (chuckles) the
Brownings, you know, and the cover was going to
be like a passport photo, looking at each other and
holding hands in the middle, things like that. We
would have put that in anyway.

*
DO YOU have perspective on Milk and Honey in
pop music as a whole?

Why did you choose to end the record on a

question?

I never think in that context. I'm not a critic, you

know. You make what you have to make.

It's not a question.

Then did you make something that will compete in

the marketplace?

"How can I tell you/you're the one"?

I don't think that way. We're taking a chance on that.

If you start thinking of what's going to sell or what's
expected of you... that's just a guessing game. Most
businessmen will take the safe route, and if you're
an artist you might say, this was a hit in my past so
we'll do the same thing again. But we don't do it that
way. That game has no ending to it. What we do is
dish out what we have. The best of it.

It's a form of a question, but you know what that

means... it's a statement.
You never seem to sing on each other's songs.
Not true! 'Heart And Soul', 'Every Man Has A
Woman'. But there was always concern that we
should sing what we had written. John was
concerned that when he sung on my songs he
would take a position that wasn't really forward. We
did sing together, though.

How much did you have to do to the remaining

tracks that your husband made?
Not doing is a lot of doing as well. To decide that
you don't put the finishing touch to something might
be a big artistic decision too, just as doing is doing.
You can't say how much I did, in a way. I just did
what I think is needed and no more and no less.
Some people make songs because it's
commercially viable or whatever. In the case of
John and I, of course we'd be glad if it sells. But we
thought in terms of just sharing our life and
communicating what we found through our lives. It's
like a diary.

Do you find yourself frustrated by the simplicity of

the song lyric?
I think that things which are very important in life
are very simple.
And they can be put directly into a song lyric.
Yes. I don't believe communication is only on a
conscious level. Even when you're asleep you can
listen to a song and it'll enter you. Maybe it's better
then because you don't have such conscious
resistance. The lyrics can get into you consciously
or unconsciously.

Apart from 'Let Me Count The Ways', were your

songs written after his death?
No, no. 'Don't Be Scared', 'Sleepless Night',
'O'Sanity', 'Your Hands', they were all... (phone
interruption). 'Don't Be Scared' we debated about
putting on Double Fantasy. 'Sleepless Night' is a
song John liked. 'O'Sanity' was one he always
giggled on (chuckles). 'Your Hands' he liked very
much and that nearly went on Double Fantasy. I
collected all the songs that had something to do

Are you proud of your voice?

Not necessarily, I'm proud of it or ashamed of it. I
used my voice to communicate in the way I thought
was best. One has to use whatever one has, you
know.

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I think a record like 'Walking On Thin Ice' proves

that in those "accessible" surroundings you can
create something with an equally powerful
emotional weight to it.

*
YOKO ONO'S voice is one of the few unique
instruments in rock music. The accent of her
singing seems to bridge east and west: her vowel
sounds transmitted in half-American, her unlikely
emphases drawn from her Japanese origins. That
her songs are so simple aphoristic, hung on
rhymes and rhythms like crossed fingers
multiplies the effect of that voice.

Put it this way: in the beginning we were so excited

about what we could do together; John was very
excited about the freedom he could have on a
guitar, not just four-in-a-bar or whatever, but freeform expression. And we were totally involved in the
activity of that and loving it and not thinking about
how communicative it was, in the sense of market
or whatever. No matter how good a piece it is or if
it's something you throw straight in the garbage
can... that's what would happen in those days.

Sometimes it sounds ferocious, at others doll-like,

unhuman. It whispers like a girl, shrieks like a
demon. When planted in the mainstream circuit that
her recent records have followed, it gnaws at the
nerves used to ingratiating rock tonsils. If her
melancholy is bone-deep, the austerity of her
delivery banishes mere sentiment. Electronic jags
mimic her tones machines in answer.

I used to get photographs from Japan showing a

huge trash can and people standing around going,
Yoko Ono records...(mimes throwing in dustbin).
That's how it was received initially. We realised later
that it's better to communicate with 100,000 people
than 20. But in those days we didn't care about that
at all. It was a new discovery and that's how it is
with those; you just want to share it with the world.
We didn't hold back at all.

'Walking On Thin Ice', the single and song which

she and Lennon did their last mixing work on,
leaves the listener numb. A primeval lurch pitched
between rock and funk clasps her voice in the way
that the old outrages of the Plastic Ono Band ('Don't
Worry Kyoko' and 'Why Not') failed to do. Before,
she bawled against noise: here she is right inside it.

Seeing as you've got a large audience for your

records...

Her two subsequent albums, Season Of Glass and

It's Alright, have their quota of sensation for ghouls
seeking anguish over her husband, but the sinister
vigour in songs like 'No, No, No' and 'Loneliness'
disavows it. The irony isn't lost on her. If before she
was Lennon's old lady making a fool of herself, here
she is now making a complex rock that mocks the
soft shell of the form.

Well, I don't know that. You tell me. It's John. You
know. I'm very happy about that. What his voice is
communicating on this record is something very
important, and that's why I put it out. My tracks on it
are complimentary just for... well, it has to be
there because it's a dialogue. That sort of thing. But
I felt when I was preparing it that the main thing was
to communicate John's voice.

It won't do, you know. Show us blood, Yoko. Show

us your heart. A corpse.

Considering, then, that it's now just vibrations on a

tape, how much of a lifelike quality does the voice
possess?

Season Of Glass has already been deleted from the

UK catalogues.

Well, that's... that's the real stuff. That's it. That was
my main concern on the album, that his voice was
not in any way damped down or distorted. I just
wanted that to be forward, because... listen to it.
He's got a very genuine, very sincere voice, and
that should give you some energy. If you can get
some energy, then, you know,
thankyouthankyouthankyou.

*
DO YOU find the avant garde qualities of your early
records embarrassing?
I'm not embarrased at all. There were good things.
'Why' or 'Don't Worry Kyoko', youre referring to
them I suppose... I think that we express and I
say we because John's guitar is a very important
part of it that's a duet and a half, you know!
Sometimes on 'Why' you don't know which one is
what! I think that kind of expression is one way of
communicating.

When it was 'Don't Worry Kyoko', it was maybe too

much energy and people couldn't take it, I don't
know. But it was to share the surplus of energy.
Somehow with Milk And Honey we're still talking
about love not just love. We wanted to share the
fact that we're insecure and we have doubts too.
We made sure to express that side of it too.

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Especially with John. The image of a macho man;

in this society they still believe that men are strong
and women frail, that sort of concept. He was really
trying to show his vulnerability as a male.

curious about our private life, they say, did you

really...? It's not like that. So as for role models, I
don't feel that way. I think that we expressed
enough so that they know we were just 'a boy and a
girl' (soft chuckle).

In a way, the fact that is 1984 and still the human

race is so resilient that the machine couldn't take
over us, that we still have a strong desire for
survival and for loving oneself and other people
that love for life is still here.

You've spoken before about an inner strength and

wisdom that women have. Can you elaborate on
that?
Well, I think that's something that I learned more
from John. He pointed out to me that he felt that
sort of thing in me. It's very hard for a person to look
at themselves objectively. He'd tell me I was a
strong woman and... oh, am I? I don't think so? That
kind of thing.

That's what Milk And Honey is almost proclaiming,

and that it comes out at the beginning of 1984 it
wasn't planned that way but it's really rather
significant. While most of the world is living in the
dream of George Orwell, that, yes, the machine's
going to take over us, we're saying, no, we're still
here.

Do you agree with the feminist proposal that

women have greater self-consciousness in the
different levels of the creative process, more so
than men?

Well, in 1980 you said the '80s were going to be a

"marvellous age". Are you sticking to that?
I'm still sticking to it; and if you hear John's voice
you'll see that. That voice couldn't be erased. It's
going to come through you and inside you.

I dont think so. I think we're all the same in a way.

It's just that society forces us into the different roles.
Men have to repress their vulnerability and women
have to repress their strength. It's the society that
told us; societies that maybe we created, but it's the
machine taking over us. We were taught to believe
that we were limited people with certain roles to
play and if we're not we're either unmasculine or
unfeminine. I think it's a product of the past and the
future's going to be quite different; a world where
men are allowed to be vulnerable and women can
be strong.

Do you think the message of 'Starting Over' has

been picked up?
Yes, I do. In the United States I went to a place
that's like a health spa and I met a woman who's an
instructor in one of the exercise classes. She said,
my boyfriend and I had a fight and I said if Yoko can
do it, I can do it. Now get out! (chuckles) And I said,
well, good luck to you. She told me that her
boyfriend was always saying, I'm sick of you saying
Lennon said this! John said this! I'm not John! It
was a point of contention. And this woman looked
all made up with nail polish or something and she
didn't look like a person I'd normally communicate
with... it's sort of affecting all men and women
relationships. The way he proclaimed he was a
househusband... that seems to be having a very
quiet effect, but a very strong one.

Many people believe that because I am or so

they say a feminist that I'm propagating women
to become stronger, and independent, and career
women or whatever. I think we don't have to do
anything that we don't want to do. If there's a
woman who prefers to stay at home and raise
children and feels happy about that, she should do
that. Its not changing the concept of our roles in the
society but widening the possibilities. Whatever you
want to do is alright.

At the same time, don't you find it upsetting or

disturbing that people would look to your husband
and yourself as some kind of life-role models?

I expect you're aware of the action by the women at

Greenham.
Yes.

That's why we're trying to show our best foot

forward. We were very careful about showing all our
vulnerabilities and doubts and fears and what we go
through as a man and woman. It wasn't all rosy and
easy. We emphasised that side of it a lot. If you take
it literally it's wrong. 'Stepping Out' is a typical male
situation, and 'Sleepless Nights' it's just that we
took those roles in the dialogue. If you take it
literally, well, because people are particularly

Does that kind of activity seem an anachronism in

the '80s? You've said that your bed-in for peace in
1969 was at least contributing to a changing of
attitude, but is such "action" valid today?
I think all of us contribute to make the future. We
keep having some scapegoats so-and-so Prime

306

Minister is wrong, or something. And we think they

have the control; by thinking that we no longer have
the control. What it means is it's all up to us. Each
one must do it in the way that we can. So of course
it's really very valid. You can't say certain ways of
doing it are hip and the others are an anachronism
you just can't put labels on it. If we each
contribute one thing a day then we'll have the future
that we want. It doesn't have to be waving a flag. It
could just be opening one part of your mind,
secretly.

So why are people still so reluctant to take that

step?

But some ways of doing that must be more

effective than others. The idea of "demonstration" is
still very endemic to the '60s, and the way that's
been organised still revolves around philosophies
that grew out of that time. Meanwhile governments
have changed.

That's what we're saying in Milk And Honey. Double

Fantasy was to show that we lived together and had
separate fantasies but could be in harmony: two
different sounds, not in unison but in harmony. In
Milk And Honey we're showing that John and I
could go through the same differences but in the
end be saying I love you. And it's so beautiful that
(sighs) all of us are responsible for living in a
suggested dream, shall we say. I call it the
remnants of a Victorian dream or the Middle Ages
they call this the second coming of the Dark
Ages but I say it's the continuation of the first one.
We still haven't got out of the Dark Ages.

Because it's hard to... shake hands, hug each other,

when there's so many formalities and hangups you
don't share. You look at me and see an oriental
woman with slanted eyes and you think my God,
where does she come from? Well, this is a disguise
and inside I've got the same heart (points at Cook's
chest) that's beating just like yours. We have to go
back to that and start from there.

Yes, but... it's the time and place and circumstances

and if it's valid, it's valid. John and I always felt that
we didn't want to stick to one gig because time and
situations change so rapidly, so we kept changing
our methods. But some people want to stick to one
method, and that's good too. Everything that we do
for the benefit of the future is good. One danger that
we get into, especially the liberals or hip people or
whatever, is that they're so critical of each other or
themselves that they can't unite. One thing that's
important is to allow each other to use our own
methods. People coming together who are so
opinionated that they don't know what to do; that's
the trap intellectuals fall into. We have to
understand that we only have one heart each, one
life each.

It's great to know that in 1984, when we're

expecting the world to be taken over by the
machine and humanity is no more, that that's not
happened our hearts are still beating and we can
still say we love each other. It's the victory of the
human race, the humanity that couldn't be killed.
We are resilient, totally resilient in the sense that we
have such a want and desire for survival.

Does that mean that we have to deintellectualise?

Oh yes. Definitely. Anything in excess is likely to be

a sickness. We have to always remember that
without this body you don't have yourself.
Intellectuals forget about the body and it's all in the
head, but without the body you're not here.
Whatever opinion you have, while we're busy
discussing and arguing, our hearts beat in unison.
This is a time to emphasise our unity and what we
have in common. I know it's difficult because the
more you stick to your principle the more
opinionated you are.

UNITY, COMMUNICATION, the future, love. Yoko

Ono sits cross-legged on her sofa and speaks
calmly about the messages she thinks Milk And
Honey propels through a Godless, uncaring pop
machine. Though her face might be a little puffy, her
hands beginning to tauten around their bones, she
scarcely looks the full weight of her 50 years.
The visor she wears for photographs is removed to
talk and her eyes are quite clear and steady. She
lights a lot of cigarettes, smokes about half of each
and stubs them out suddenly.

So it's almost like a challenge to us, the whole

world. How forgiving can we be? It's an age when
we have to shake hands and call them brothers
when they may be Ku Klux Klan. Now, that's one
thing that we don't know how to do. But we have to
ignore the differences.

I don't think she much wants to talk. Her manner is

friendly, responsible to John's fans, true to her
manner about human relations... and she cannot
help but seem platitudinous. When she talks of the
dangers of intellectualism, the need to come
together, the contribution we can all make, a
nobody such as myself feels his heart sink. In my

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brief allotted time I find no fresh slant on the views

she and Lennon talked out in their interviews with
David Sheff in 1980.

Then is there something you regret in becoming

Westernised?
I don't particularly think I'm Westernised, or unOriental. If you go to Japan you'll see that there are
people walking in jeans, an older generation
comparable with here... the world's getting smaller
and smaller. If you talk to an average Japanese
you'll find they share the same films, you know...

The same faintly oblivious idealism, the same faith

in the human fate which might be touching or naive
in another: in this woman, capable of great rage
besides her kindly serenity, it is almost plausible.
This is an old spectre, this energy and truth and
reason and salvation through the healing graces of
rock.

Isn't there a fundamental difference in the

emotional make-up between East and West?

"One of the most beautiful things about music is its

universal language," she says, impervious to clich.

I don't think so, really. John and I discovered we

had very similar qualities if we were to think in
terms of nationality Britain and Japan both being
a composite of islands as opposed to people
who come form continents.

It was a test the Lennons put themselves through

over and over in their muddled collection of records.
Styles were tried like cocktails freeform, rock 'n'
roll momentoes, dream-soaked ballads and as
their lives went bright or dim they scored them into
music.

I wondered if you had to grow into the idea of

"romance", which is a Western concept.

Double Fantasy and Milk And Honey teach no

lessons that can't be learned from the daily round of
human contact, from musicians like Ornette
Coleman, Bunny Wailer, Tom Verlaine. The
difference is in their backdrop of 'John And Yoko'
the enormous shadow of two lives a listening and
looking world kept peering into. We seem to know
them so well. A Liverpudlian guitar player, a big,
rough, tender man; his wife, that Japanese woman.

I think Orientals are famous for romance. The

concept of committing suicide together! Romance is
so universal.
Did you find that any of your memories about your
husband had been wiped by the trauma of his
death?
It didn't happen to me. It would be a logical thing to
happen because it's so painful. In my case I
couldn't bear facing Sean for a week or so. Sean
was very much a part of John and they were very
much buddy-buddies and I could hardly bear to see
him. I almost wanted Sean to drop out of my life. I
had to face that and it was an excruciatingly painful
process. He'd be looking at me and it was, well, it's
me and you now. We got over that one and we're
good friends now, thank God. (Smiles) I didn't try, it
just happened.

*
WHAT ELEMENTS of Japan would you most like
your son to be aware of?
We went to Japan before we came here. I don't
know, whatever he can pick up on is fine. I don't
expect him to find anything I found in Japan, and I
don't know what I found there.

Because of the position you're in, and because

youre constantly having to relive the past in some
way, do you find nostalgia distasteful?

Are there any particular qualities about Japan that

are native to you which you've put into the making
of music?

If it is, then I'm going through a lot of distaste. Going

to Liverpool or coming to London is nostalgic. I don't
mind that. I'm not afraid of that. Some people think I
shouldn't even be living in the Dakota, but I insist on
that because it feels comfortable. Everything
around me is just the way it was. There may be a
few more cupboards or something, but, you know...
it's where he was.

Ummm... maybe. The way I sing, or something,

might be Japanese. I wouldnt know. I like to think of
me as an artist who explored all possible uses of
the voice.
Not just your voice. Any particular Eastern
disciplines. Some of your lyrics are very like haikus.
It's possible. But I'm not conscious of it.

308

Will you ever make music that doesn't involve your

husband as closely as your recent records have
done?

In spite of your closeness to your husband there's

always been something outlandish and solitary
about you. Do you feel solitary inside?

Artists I think have no control over what they do in

the future. It's something that comes out and it's not
a planned thing. I don't know. Your guess is as good
as mine. I don't intentionally try to sever my ways of
doing things from John. If it's different it's because it
was different, not because I intended it.

I'm sure that if you start talking about your life you'd
say yes, I have lonely moments. There's no human
being that doesn't sometimes feel lonely. (Pause)
Well, we felt lonely together, in the sense that most
of the things we were thinking about we couldn't
share but were always wanting to, things we felt
people weren't ready for. Regardless of the fact that
we tried to share as much as possible with the
world there were elements that isolated us from the
outside world. The very concepts that we held cut
us off.

How do you think your concept of love has changed

since his death?
I think that when John and I were together we came
to love each other and there was a certain
exclusivity there. Now I think that my love, because
the intensity of the love we had is taken from me, I
feel love towards people who send me letters to
wish us health. I have feeling very genuine
feelings, which even surprise myself towards
John's fans. I feel a warm feeling towards them
because we went through the same loss, I suppose.

Together we felt isolated, and now I still have that.

It's sad that we can't talk about that. But aloneness
is different from loneliness. The loneliness is
created from nothing you can share. Sometimes
you're too impatient to share it. Those early records
we made created repercussions, shall we say.
Things that we discovered that you want to share
with the world, sometimes you have to wait. In
those days we wouldn't wait, you know. As we went
on we wised up about it.

Do you feel resentful in having to share him in that

way?

With Double Fantasy we felt we were trying to

share it then, not something for ten years. It's still
positive, but maybe it was a bit too early. The way
the critics wrote about it made us understand that
they didn't understand it at all, what we were trying
to do. So we thought, well, maybe we're still playing
that game ten years or five years early. So many
times we felt ourselves to be in that position. It's like
in the H.G. Wells story about someone who's
moving at great speed and the world is like slowmoving... it's that loneliness. That's the kind of
loneliness John and I felt together.

No, I feel that (sigh)... now that he belongs to the

world I feel more responsible about sharing things
that I have in my apartment that were meant to be
shared and which I wasn't sharing. It takes time. It
took three years for me to bring out Milk And
Honey, for whatever reason... things that he
expected to communicate because he was an artist.
Things I can't sort out because it's painful for me
and because I'm a very busy person too. It's a slow
process and a difficult one, because I don't want to
present anything to the world that he wouldn't have
liked. That's how I look at it. It's not so much
resenting sharing him but now he belongs to the
world and I have that responsibility.

Are you looking forward to growing old?

Do you ever feel you're having to run his memory

like a business?

I'm very concerned about survival because of Sean.

I think about it a lot, because if I don't survive he'll
be an orphan. Growing old... I never think about
that. I don't think I grow old. 'Grow Old With Me' is
John's song, not mine! He was looking forward to it.
He was always talking about, won't it be great when
we're 80 and don't have to struggle any more,
sitting in a rocking chair, getting letters from Sean. I
couldn't see it that way. Somehow I couldn't
visualise us old.

What? I don't think that at all. What makes you think

that?
Doing things like this interview.
If John was alive he would have been doing the
same thing. Artists just creating a song and putting
it down on plastic isn't enough in today's world. You
have to communicate to get it around. Because we
believe in sharing it, because what we created has
its own life this is what we'd have been doing
anyway.

How long would you like to live for?

I promised Sean that I would live until when it
doesn't matter to him, until he thinks it's alright for

309

me to go. At least until he's 21, although whenever I

say that he screams and says no, it'll have to be
when, he's ready to die!

ACCORDING TO LABOR Department projections,

John Lennon biographers will outnumber Elvis
Presley impersonators by mid-October.
Ray Coleman, the first London journalist who
Beatles manager Britan Epstein persuaded to
interview the group on their home turf in Liverpool,
is among the most unashamedly admiring of them.
That may well explain why he enjoyed the
enthusiastic cooperation of Lennons infamous Aunt
Mimi, Lennons first wife, elder son and various
former art college classmates.

*
TIME'S UP. Peter Anderson asks if he can take a
couple more photos, "because you look much more
natural when you're talking, more relaxed". Yoko
Ono ums for a moment but accedes. She slips on
the visor again. Peter tries to get her to smile. I ask,
casting around for humour what makes you
laugh?

Given how eager so many people were to help, and

how richly detailed the text of Lennon is, however,
its remarkable how many tricks Coleman misses.
For instance, he fails to relate (as Peter Brown and
Stephen Gaines do in their definitive but widely
vilified Beatles biography The Love You Make) how
the implacably rebellious Lennon once managed to
urinate down his trouser leg undetected during a
browbeating by his school headmaster.

"I don't know," she says, nearly smiling.

Nonplussed, I can't think of a response. I suppose
not, I say.
"I think you suppose too much," she says mildly, still
nearly smiling.

He provides strangely defanged versions of familiar

anecdotes. Brown and Gaines had Lennon
magnanimously allowing Epstein to act out his lust
for him during a brief holiday in Spain. In Colemans
book, the two men are just good friends. Similarly,
although Coleman does mention that the
compulsively sardonic Lennon once suggested
Queer Jew as the title of Epsteins autobiography,
Brown and Gaines say he made the comment in a
crowded elevator.

Yes, I suppose I do.

I suppose also that if we are to truly absorb what
Lennon and Ono say in their last records, we have
to forget about 'John And Yoko'. "In reality/We were
just a boy and girl/Who never looked back". All that
communication, energy, love: they tried so
desperately hard about it. There is no gospel to
plough through here, no baleful religion. It's mostly
human sense. (A heart) play for a better life, no
matter how sad its outer skin. I don't think there's
anything more they could have done.

A revelation by former art college classmate and

girlfriend Theima Pickles that Lennon preferred girls
who spurned his sexual advances outright to those
who led him on a bit first scarcely seems adequate
compensation.

"You see, people always ask me about plans and

about the future. My life was... each time I turn the
corner it's a totally unexpected thing. I'd be busy
adapting to something totally new. I can't say
anything about the future. I see our future in a
sense of a beautiful future that we'll share. We'll be
less hurting to each other. Maybe..."

One gets the impression, incidentally, that, with

even Pickles having been grilled at length, the next
generation of Lennon biographies will feature
interviews with some of the amputees and spastics
Lennon allegedly delighted in tormenting during his
art school days.

"There's nothing new under the sun. All the roads

lead to Rome. And people cannot provide it for you.
I can't wake you up. You can wake you up. I can't
cure you. You can cure you."

The present book is by no means without

fascinating, albeit tiny, revelations. We learn, for
instance, that as the leader of a group whose
provincial origins and unpretentiousness were sold
hard, Lennon greatly exaggerated his "scouse" (that
is, coarse Liverpudilian) accent; that, just as
Beatlemania was becoming global, Lennon was
considering shearing off his moptop because of a
severe case of dandruff; and that Epstein had to do
much fancy talking to persuade his indefatigably
iconoclastic protg to omit a particular adjective

Richard Cook, 1984

A Strangely defanged portrait of John Lennon
John Mendelssohn, San Francisco Chronicle, 20
June 1985

310

from his famous suggestion to The Beatles Royal

Command Performance audience that, instead of
clapping, they simply rattle their jewelry.

love, they spent the night recording the album Two

Virgins, creatively co-mingling, first.
That album, and the three that quickly followed
Life with the Lions, The Wedding Album and Plastic
Ono Band (Yoko's companion piece to Lennon's
1970 masterpiece of the same name) have long
been dismissed as more examples of John's Yoko
problem, unlistenable mistakes. But their re-release
this month, following the recent Royal Festival Hall
retrospective of Ono's visual art, continues an
unexpected reappraisal of her work. Listened to
now, these records no longer sound like the product
of disordered minds. The first three mix screams,
radio-tuning, pop, a baby's heartbeat, silence and
speaking. Leaving out no aspect of their creators'
lives, they sound as natural as breathing. One of
the first collisions of the avant-garde with pop,
they're a revelation.

Coleman is especially strong only on Lennons last,

so-called "househusband" years in New York,
during which he metamorphosed into a
spectacularly devoted father and husband and
an unlikely mother hen, one who forbade dinner
companions to speak until theyd chewed each
mouthful at least 20 times.
The author reminds us constantly that, just beneath
the adolescent Lennons dedicatedly loutish
exterior, there existed a person capable of
remarkable kindness, generosity and affection, as
witness the letters to first wife Cyn, reproduced here
for the first time.
Ultimately, though, Coleman falls as far short of
convincing us that to know John Lennon was to
love him, as he asserts in his foreword, as he does
of providing appreciable new insights into his
greatly over-biographized subject.

"John felt that he was stuck in the rut of the life that
he'd created," Ono remembers now. "I was feeling
the same thing. I was top of the hill of the avantgarde and there was nowhere to go. It was like
rolling down the hill, rolling together in the mud. I
was elated." Ono is talking in a hotel room in
London, the city where she and Lennon met. Now
64, her old image, like that of her records, is
rubbished by meeting her now. Dressed in a neat
black suit and shades, she is accommodating,
friendly and unaffected. One of the most irritating
things about old footage of her, even for the least
prejudiced observer, was her giggling, supportive,
rarely articulate presence next to Lennon, a
somehow exclusionary force. She was irritating, in
other words, because she acted as if she were in
love. In the years since his death, those
mannerisms have been replaced by cool
intelligence. Now you can see why Lennon loved
her.

John Mendelssohn, 1985

Yoko Ono: Starting Over
Nick Hasted, The Independent, 24 June 1997
YOKO ONO was a lightning rod for the Sixties' most
vicious currents. John Lennon was a man she'd
barely heard of, a man she fell in love with. But with
that act, the world heard of her.
The peace and love generation rained all the hate
and prejudice, all the reactionary bile it could
muster on her head. She was The Woman Who
Split Up The Beatles. She was the outsider who had
wrecked a sacred institution, the scapegoat for a
moment that left a generation bereft. She was hated
for being Japanese, hated as a woman. She was
called ugly in the press, as if she had no feelings at
all. And she was thought to be "weird", a talentless
parasite. That was as far from the truth as anything
else.

She remembers their first creative efforts with

affection. "We just got together and did something
reckless," she says. "We didn't know what would
happen next, but we wanted to try things out. We
kept exchanging ideas." It's what keeps the records
alive, unpretentious, human. Two Virgins, for
instance, features Ono's trademark rhythmic
screaming. At the height of one such avant-garde
yowl, Lennon can be heard heckling: "That's right,
dear. Spit it out." "I know, I know," Ono says.
"Instead of just letting me go like that, John had to
do something to step on me. And, of course, I'd do
the same." Were they aware of how ridiculous a lot
of their work then seemed? From the records to the
bed-ins and the bag-ins, the derided
"advertisements for peace" with which they marked
their marriage?

In fact, Yoko Ono had spent the 1960s at the heart

of New York's tiny but influential avant-garde world.
She was a driving force in the period's conceptual
art. She created the downtown scene that would
spawn untold numbers of artists when she turned a
loft into cheap performance space, and invited her
friends. It was her art that Lennon loved first, a
conceptual piece at a London exhibition, a ladder
that you climbed to find a pulley revealing a
message, which said "Yes". When the two made

311

"Yes, of course. With the bag-ins, we wanted to

point out the fact that world peace was important,
but we were giggling about it too. We felt we were
giving fun to the world. But you know how a joke is
not a joke. What we didn't think about was the effect
of it. What we did then, which we didn't realise, was
to make our beds, literally. We're saying peace and
love, and we're sitting there, giggling a bit. But our
lives from then on really became devoted to social
change. Even the way John's life ended so quickly
had a lot to do with what we did then." She halts, in
pain at the memory of Lennon's shooting in front of
her. "And also, in hindsight, you can even say that
the fact that he...he passed away in that way might
have promoted some awareness of world peace. I
will never know."

"Except ourselves," she says immediately, as if that

were enough.
In the midst of such charged emotions, no one paid
much attention to the records Ono made then, or
the more conventional, often searingly feminist work
she recorded on her own later on. Ono's life in the
Seventies, as far as the world was concerned, was
one of soap opera rifts and reconciliations with
Lennon and exile, as Lennon's late-Seventies
withdrawal to the role of house-husband was
matched by her own concentration on their
business affairs. Then he was shot, and she
became the administrator of his memory, the
tireless widow. But Ono never forgot the
experiments they'd recorded at the start. Coming
from the avant-garde, she knew that, for
recognition, you sometimes had to wait. In the
years since, their importance has slowly become
apparent. Listen to Patti Smith, PJ Harvey,
Courtney Love and others and you can hear Yoko's
inquisitive howl. With the current reissues (which
will include her whole catalogue) and the Royal
Festival Hall's retrospective of her visual art, it
seems as if she is at last moving back out of her
husband's shadow. It isn't something that concerns
her.

What Lennon and Ono had also failed to consider,

in the flush of their creative enthusiasm, was just
how much hatred their antics would arouse. Ono
especially was subjected to unrestrained
viciousness. The documentary Imagine shows
respected media figures looking at her and saying
"You've got to live with that," as if she wasn't
human. You can see Lennon's face freeze in cold
fury. Ono just looks shocked as if what's been said
is slowly penetrating a mind numbed by disbelief. "I
became wiser for it," she says. "I don't know if
people will believe me if I say I was this naive, but I
did not think of the racial aspect. I did not think of
the female aspect, either. Later I realised that the
attacks stemmed from some kind of strong feeling
against us. At the time I thought, 'This is a
misunderstanding, what's going on?' It was almost
like I was in Alice in Wonderland All these things
were happening to me, and I wasn't aware of why
they were happening. I was just moving through
them, like strange rooms."

"When John passed away, there was this incredible

urge to have John's picture on his own. I didn't
mind. I kept releasing John's image, John's songs,
John, John, John. Because that is what people
wanted, and I felt thankful that people wanted that.
It was fine. It was like John and Yoko was over,
because he passed away. Now I'm just going with
the flow, with the fact that they're starting to have
some interest in my work as well. But I'm not
pushing it. We both had a very independent side.
We were never meshed. That might be interesting
to people one day. I think the truth comes out when
people are ready for it"

A photo on the back of Life with the Lions shows

Ono in 1968, looking lost, almost falling, leaving a
London hospital after a miscarriage, Lennon holding
her up, holding off the police and reporters jostling
them. It looks as if the world is closing in on her.
She looks pained for the second time at the
memory, then admits that her life then was
sometimes like the photo. Did she insulate herself,
develop some kind of second skin? "Oh, no. I'll tell
you what happened. I was in Harvard summer
school back in the Fifties. I was walking on campus
one day, and there were so many students, guys,
just looking at me. I got so nervous that I tripped on
myself, and fell flat. It embarrassed me, and I went
zoom, out of my body, way up. After that, when
something was happening that was very intense, I
had a way of moving my spirit a little bit above it.
Part of me would pull deeper into myself. The other
part went further away." It must have happened a
lot. It seems that no one wished her well then.

Nick Hasted, 1997

John Lennon: Imagine (Apple/EMI)
Jon Savage, Mojo, April 2000
Straight reissue of classic album, with digital
remastering treatment.
RELEASED IN October 1971, this was John
Lennons second post-Beatles album: a highly
successful pop move (Number 1 in both the UK and
the US) and one pinnacle of his collaboration with
Yoko Ono (the next being reached with Onos
Approximately Infinite Universe). It contains both
the best and the worst of the man the idealist

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and the ranter, the righteous and the vindictive

anger and as such remains more patchy than its
iconic status might allow.

Imagine mixes contemplation, hope, pain, anger.

An accurate measure of the man?
Very much so. He couldnt help but show himself in
all facets of his character. That was very sweet, the
fact he was so honest. Plastic Ono Band was very
truthful and gritty, and showed his many sides, but
here the arrangements, the whole presentation had
more to do with accessibility.

In common with most guitar music in that nonrocking year, Imagine is mainly mid-tempo, which
might account for its current popularity with the
Britrock set. Its a pace which serves the ballads
well but which makes non-specific plaints, such as
'Its So Hard', dreary. The sound thanks to Phil
Spector and musicians like King Curtis, Klaus
Voormann and Alan White is sinuous and spacy,
with George Harrisons slide guitar a stand-out; the
tinge of 50s reverb plugged it straight into 1971s
retro pop climate.

Did a good vibe permeate the sessions?

Yes, it was beautiful. It was the 60s, love, love,
love; we were sincerely in love and we believed in
it. It was early summer, we were in Ascot, in the
house that we loved. But I think the pain from The
Beatles was still there. The other three were very
strong mates for John, so I suppose he was always
thinking about them, too. And that comes across,
you know, just the little mention about this and that
(laughs).

So you take your choice between the pantheistic

love songs or the pissed-off plodders. I favour the
former: 'Oh My Love' and 'Oh Yoko!' Are both
simple and affecting, with cloudy haiku imagery;
'How?' is an impressively muted statement of
emotional paralysis; 'Jealous Guy' a sincere male
apology (how many of those do you hear?); and the
title track, despite its institution as a coconut shy for
cheap cynics, carries its pop (and therefore vague)
utopianism with gorgeous music and still cogent
sentiments. Of the rockers, 'Crippled Inside' is skiffly
and sharp, 'I Dont Wanna Be A Soldier Mama' and
'Gimme Some Truth' are pleasingly vitriolic if one
dimensional anti-authoritarian rants (given some
authenticity by the recent FBI/M15 revelations).

Was singing "imagine no possessions" in a country

mansion a rich mans fantasy?
I dont think so, because possessions doesnt
necessarily mean of material things. Its to do with
the possessiveness of people more than materials.
You dont have to take it that literally.
Jon Savage, 2000

Which leaves 'How Do You Sleep?', a great

performance with a highly unattractive lyric, which
roots the record for all its idealism in the sour
dregs of the post-Beatles hangover. This is a timely
reissue, but one which makes me wish that rock
music could temporarily forget The Beatles and get
contemporary again.

Memories Of John Lennon

Chris Charlesworth, Rock's Backpages, 2001
THE FIRST TIME I heard John Lennons voice was
in mid-January 1963 in my fathers white Triumph
Vitesse car, travelling from Skipton to York, going
back to boarding school at the end of the Christmas
holidays.

*
Yoko Ono talks to Mark Paytress.

Dad had a red portable Roberts radio which was

wired up to a car aerial and it was sitting on the
back seat as we drove along. The same radio sits
by my bedside today. John was singing Please
Please Me and as I listened to this extraordinary
sound I remember thinking then that whoever it was
that was making this noise was just fantastic,
absolutely brilliant. It was the best pop song Id
heard in years. It just sounded different and new
and everything about it was just perfect. I was a
Beatles fan from that moment onwards and Ive
never stopped being a Beatles fan.

John once called the Imagine album "Plastic Ono

Band with sugar-coating". Does that make it
inferior?
Not at all. That was a very Lennonesque way of
putting it! He wanted 'Imagine' to be a song, an
important message, that would circulate in a wider
world. Its not just an artsyfartsy thing. He was
talking about the whole album, but I think 'Imagine'
was the message, the album was there to push that
song.

The first time I saw John Lennon was on December

21 that same year, on stage at the Gaumont

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Theatre in Bradford. It was the first of two special

previews of The Beatles Christmas Show,
performed as a concert. Also on the bill were The
Barron Knights & Duke DMond, Tommy Quickly,
The Fourmost, Billy J. Kramer & The Dakotas, Cilla
Black and Rolf Harris.

weather was like, what the government was like,

how much a pint of milk cost and even what the
royal family was doing. I got the impression that he
seemed to be very isolated; or rather he had
chosen to isolate himself. It was almost as if he was
homesick, though he would later deny that. He was
just curious about what was going on back home.
After a few drinks, I plucked up courage to request
a formal interview. He told me to ring Tony King in
the morning and, over the phone the following day, I
arranged another meeting with John for the
following Monday, October 22. It took place at
record producer Lou Adlers Bel Air mansion where
John was staying with a beautiful Japanese girl
called May Pang, whom I would come to know
better as the years went by.

My mum had obtained tickets to the show because

shed been to many shows there and was on the
Gaumonts mailing list. I went with my dad who also
seemed to like The Beatles, though not with same
fervour as myself. I think he was just curious to see
what all the fuss was about. I sat through all the
other acts and listened to the screams. There
werent many boys in the audience, if any. I recall
that Rolf Harris had to come on just before The
Beatles closed the show because unlike everybody
else on the bill they used their own drums and
amplifiers and they had to be set up behind the
curtains. During the delay Harris was completely
drowned out by the screams but he asked for it by
drawing sketches of the four Beatles on his
charcoal pad. The Beatles were only on for about
25 minutes and they were also drowned out by
relentless screaming. I couldn't hear a word they
sang or played, even though I was quite near the
front, on Paul's side, but it was the most exciting
thing I'd ever seen in my life, an unbelievable
experience. The next day all I could think about was
getting a guitar.

At this time in his life John had temporarily

separated from Yoko Ono whod apparently
encouraged him to set up home with her assistant,
May, in LA. Lou Adlers house was a single storey
spread set well apart from the neighbours, and as I
walked through the house to meet John on the patio
the following Monday I noticed a dark red Gibson
Melody Maker guitar leaning against a sofa. It
seemed like a good omen for what turned out to be
one of the best interviews I ever did for MM. The
only problem was the noise from low flying aircraft
on their way to LA Airport.
John and I talked for ninety minutes by the side of
Lou Adlers pool. We both sipped cokes and
smoked English cigarettes. It was a wide-ranging
conversation with talk about his new record, his
love for America, his relationship with Yoko, his
immigration problems, his thoughts about recent
Beatles greatest hits packages, his lack of live
appearances, his views on the current music scene
and, of course, his relationship with the other exBeatles.

The first time I met John Lennon almost ten years

later, on Friday, October 19, 1973, in the private bar
upstairs at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset
Boulevard in Hollywood, California. He was with a
smooth operator called Tony King, who was
unashamedly gay, totally charming, and whom I
knew because he used to work for Elton John. Tony
was at the bar buying drinks and he told me he was
now working for John Lennon who was sat in a
discreet corner with two others. Did I want to meet
him, asked Tony. "Of course I want to meet him," I
replied. "Doesnt everybody?"

I first asked John about his new album, Mind

Games. "Its finished," he said. "Im out here in LA
to sit on Capitol, to do the artwork and to see things
like radio promotion. The albums called Mind
Games, and its, well... just an album. Someone told
me it was like Imagine with balls, which I liked a lot."
He told me that Yoko wasnt involved in making the
album and that the two of them had decided to keep
their careers separate for a while. "Now that she
knows how to produce records and everything
about it, I think the best thing I can do is keep out of
her hair. We get a little tense in the studio together,
but thats not to say we wont ever do another
album... its just the way we feel at the moment.
Were just playing life by ear and that includes our
careers. We occasionally take a bath together and
occasionally separately, just however we feel at the
time. Yoko has just started a five-day engagement

Tony led me over to where John was sitting

drinking, talking, smoking. He was wearing dark
blue jeans and a faded blue denim shirt. He
seemed much smaller than Id imagined him to be
(isnt that always the case?), thinner too, with those
small round glasses perched on his narrow, pointed
nose. Although it covered his ears, his hair wasnt
particularly long, guite smartly cut in fact. Tony
introduced us and John seemed pleased to meet a
writer from Melody Maker, especially one lately
arrived from London. His voice, that light Scouse
accent, was unmistakably Lennon and I was
entranced. He began quizzing me about life in
London, what was happening on the London rock
scene, how Paul (McCartney) was, what the

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in a club in New York, and I aint about to do five

days. Shes over there rehearsing and Im letting
her get on with it her own way."

John also talked about his new project, an album of

rock and roll oldies with Phil Spector: "Phil and I
have been threatening to do this for years. I want to
go in and sing some Ooh eeh baby type songs that
are meaningless for a change. Whenever Im in the
studio, between takes, I mess around with oldies. I
even used to do it in the Beatle days, so now Im
finally getting round to doing a John Lennon sings
the oldies album. This will be my next album. I hope
people wont think Ive run out of ideas, but sod it, I
just want to do it."

The separation between John and Yoko was the

longest there had ever been, but John was quick to
deny the inevitable rumours that they had parted for
good. "We have been apart more than people think,
for odd periods over the years, and now I know
people are calling from England suggesting weve
split up. Its not so."

Conversation turned to the recent double Beatles

(1962-66 and 1967-70) compilations. "George
(Martin) controlled the choice of the material on
those albums more than any of us. They sent me
lists and asked for my opinion, but I was too busy at
the time. I think it was the pressure of the bootlegs
that finally made us put them out after all this time.
Did you know that theres a bootleg out now of the
Decca audition which The Beatles did? I have a
copy of it, but Im trying to find the tape. Its
beautiful. Theres us singing To Know Her Is To
Love Her and a whole pile of tracks, mostly other
peoples but some of our own. Its pretty good,
better than that Tony Sheridan thing. Every time I go
on TV here somebody tapes it and within a week its
in all the shops. In a way I dig it because its good
for your ego, but I know Im not supposed to
because its against the business. I got copies
made from this Decca audition and sent it to them
all (the bootleggers)! I wouldnt mind actually
releasing it."

John next talked about the sessions for the Ringo

album, which brought together three ex-Beatles
almost four for the first time since the split. "Yeah,
the three of us were there and Paul would most
probably have joined in if he was around, but he
wasnt. I just got a call from Ringo asking me to
write a track so I did. It seemed the natural thing to
do... For the track I was on piano, Billy Preston was
on organ, Ringo was on drums, George was on
guitar and Klaus Voorman was on bass."
John said that he talked to at least one of the other
ex-Beatles every two weeks: "Ive talked to Ringo a
lot recently because hes just moved into my house
at Ascot, which is nice because Ive always got a
bedroom there. I havent talked to Paul since before
he did the last tour with Wings, but I heard Red
Rose Speedway and it was all right.
"I had a ticket for The Rolling Stones on the East
Coast but at the time I was in Los Angeles, so I
never got to see them. I havent seen the Stones
since the Rock and Roll Circus which was the film
that never came out... people are saying the Stones
are getting too old to appear now but thats bullshit.
Mickll never be past it. I saw the show on TV they
did over here and it was fantastic. It was a master
performance and thats what Mick is, a master
performer."

I mentioned to John that I had obtained a copy of

the bootleg album The Beatles Live At Shea
Stadium 1965. "Yes, Ive got that one," John replied.
"I think Ive got them all. Theres one of a Beatles
show at the Hollywood Bowl which was an abortion,
and theres others from everywhere we played,
obscure places here in the States. It seemed
someone was taping it everywhere."

About a return to live concerts... "Another thing that

puts me off playing live the fact that youve got to
do the same thing over and over again every night,
and the audience wants to hear the songs youre
associated with. I remember I sang Imagine twice
in one day when I was rehearsing it and that bored
me. Ive nothing against the song, in fact Im quite
proud of it, but I just cant go on every night singing
it. Id try and vary it, but then I dont like to see that
myself. If I go to watch an artist Id expect to hear
the things I know. I understand it from both points of
view. Actually I have trouble remembering the lyrics.
I sang Come Together at Madison Square
Gardens for a TV show and really I sang She Got
Hairy Arseholes instead of what it should have
been, and it was never noticed."

My final question, inevitably, was: "Any chance of

us seeing the four Beatles on a stage or recording
together again?"
John grinned and glanced down at my tape
recorder. The 90-minute tape had almost run out.
He made as if to switch it off but I stopped him,
grabbing his hand and moving the recorder of his
reach. "Theres always a chance," he said. "As far
as I can gather from talking to them all, nobody
would mind doing some work together again.
Theres no law that says were not going to do
something together, and no law that says we are. If
we did something, Im sure it wouldnt be
permanent. Wed do it just for that moment. I think
were closer now than we have been for a long

315

time..." The tape ran out before John could say any
more.

As we were waiting for the elevator Keith decided

he wanted to take a pee but seemed unwilling to
return to Johns suite and disturb him. So he peed
down the Pierre Hotel laundry shaft instead.

THE INFORMAL manner in which my first interview

with John Lennon was arranged set the tone for all
my subsequent dealings with him. Just before
Christmas 1973 Melody Maker editor Ray Coleman
told me to relocate to New York and in the early
summer of that year, having decided that LA was no
place for him, John too would relocate to the Big
Apple. The next time I found myself in his company
was on Thursday, June 13, 1974, after a Who
concert at Madison Square Garden that evening,
the third in a series of four they played there that
week.

ON SATURDAY, September 14, 1974, the first

Beatlefest a festival for Beatles fans - was staged
in New York at the Commodore Hotel. False
rumours suggested that John, in heavy disguise,
attended but May Pang was there, sent by John to
acquire interesting Beatles memorabilia. I was there
too and when I spotted May she asked my advice
on what to buy. She returned to John with some
original pictures of The Beatles in Hamburg, taken
in 1960 by Jurgen Volmer which John would later
use for the front of his 1975 Apple album Rock N
Roll. I knew that John was keen to collect Beatles
bootlegs but since I didnt know what he already
had, I wasnt sure what to recommend to May. But I
reasoned that John wouldnt mind having more than
one copy of a bootleg, so she invested in several
that I thought John might like.

John and May were now living in an elegant suite

high up in the swanky Pierre Hotel on Fifth Avenue
and my pal Keith Moon decided to visit them there.
Keith, his assistant Peter Dougal Butler, and
myself rode in a limousine from the Garden to the
Pierre, instructed the driver to wait and headed up
in the elevator. John seemed pleased to see Keith.
Theyd been pals back in London in the Sixties. In
truth, Keith was a Beatles groupie, eternally in awe
of them, and also a good pal of Ringo whose son
Zak had taken drumming lessons from him.

I saw John a few more times socially over the

coming months, at a Grammy Awards party, in
Ashleys bar, once in the Oyster Bar at the Plaza
Hotel when he was with Harry Nilsson, whom Id
met and interviewed previously, and again at a
small private party at an apartment on the Upper
East Side. I remember watching John autograph an
Italian Beatles album at this party, and instead of
just signing his name he added dialogue in bubbles
coming from each of the Beatles mouths on the live
shot on the front. Georges bubble read: "Anyone
fancy a curry after the show?" while Pauls read:
"Come on lads, we need to rehearse more." Ringos
read: "What song are we playing?" and John wrote:
"Im leaving to form my own group" in his bubble.

Keith, being Keith, suggested to John that we all

have a drink, assuming, wrongly as it turned out,
that John would have a huge bar stocked with
booze. In the event, all he had was a bottle of
expensive red wine, a very fine vintage red wine
indeed, given to him by former Beatles manager
Allen Klein. John was a bit spooked that hed got
this bottle and mentioned that he was, at present,
involved in a lawsuit with Klein who might therefore
have good reason to poison him. John suggested
that someone in the company should taste the
wine. He said, "Well Keith, you cant taste it
because youre the drummer with The Who, youre
doing a show tomorrow night and we dont want you
to die, and you need your assistant. Im John
Lennon, the famous Beatle, and I cant die. Im in
love with May Pang, shes my companion at the
moment and I dont want her to die, therefore the
only person left to taste the wine is you Chris... so
here you are." The bottle was duly opened, the wine
was poured into my glass and I sampled it as the
others all stared at me. To this day, that was the
finest glass of wine Ive ever had in my entire life,
so rich, full-bodied, just so fine. I said to everyone,
"Its absolutely beautiful," and it was duly shared
out, but once the drink had gone, Keith was not
keen to overstay his welcome and was eager to
move on, so we left.

Ashleys bar and restaurant was a regular haunt of

mine, and its proprietor Ashley Pandel and I were
firm friends. John was there one night with his
friend Peter Boyle, the actor, and Boyles
companion Lorraine Alterman who wrote for Rolling
Stone and also contributed to Melody Maker. Yoko,
whom I never met, had evidently been with them
earlier but had left before I arrived, and John invited
me to join their table. He was on good form that
night, cracking jokes and signing autographs for
fans and at one point in the evening he turned to
me and said: "Have you noticed that its always
men with moustaches and beards who ask me for
my autograph?" I said I hadnt but that Id watch out
in future and, sure enough, it seemed he was right.
Only men with moustaches and beards asked John
for his autograph. "It was always the same," he
said. "Me and George got the guys with beards

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wanting to know the meaning of life, while Paul and

Ringo got the women!"

an excuse. In March 1975 I wrote a story for MM

entitled "Johns No. 1 Dream", and reported that
Johns negotiations to remain in America would
reach a climax within the next three months.

Inevitably, perhaps, a short while later a girl came to

ask John for his autograph. Much to our
amusement, though doubtless to her amazement,
John grabbed her around the waist and sat her
down on his knee. "Where are you now
McCartney?" he shouted. "Ive got a girl at last."

I talked to Johns lawyer, Leon Wildes, who said

that he had: "... information that shows that the
Government deliberately ignored his application,
actually locking the relevant document away in a
safe. This was because of a memorandum which
was circulated by an unknown Government agency
to other Government agencies which stated that
John and Yoko were to be kept under physical
observance at all times because of possible political
activities." Leon said that he was currently trying to
find the source of this document and if he did it
would "break the case wide open and prove that
there has been a miscarriage of justice".

It was a long night. I recall John and I discussing

reggae music and the emergence of Bob Marley as
a world superstar. John insisted that The Beatles
had recorded reggae music long before 'Obla Di
Obla Da' on the White album, citing the solo in 'I
Call Your Name' on the Long Tall Sally EP as an
example. I went back to listen to it later and he was
dead right.

In the event it would be another year and three

months before John was awarded his green card.
Only then would he be able to travel outside of the
United States in the certainty that hed be allowed
back in on his return.

We closed the place and, because John fancied a

waitress who was clearing up, stayed for an after
hours drink which turned into several. The waitress
joined us, as did my friend Ashley, the proprietor.
Peter Boyle did some wonderful impersonations,
including absolutely stunning portrayals of Marlon
Brando and Al Pacino in The Godfather. We even
persuaded John to sing a Beatles song
unaccompanied - and he chose You Cant Do
That. Eventually we all left together in Johns silver
limousine and headed for the waitress apartment in
Greenwich Village. While John remained closeted
with her in the bedroom the rest of us helped
ourselves to her coffee and gradually filtered away.
It was 6 am when I left and John was still there.

*
THE NEXT interview I arranged on the phone with
John took place later that same month at the
Capitol Records offices on 6th Avenue. The main
purpose of this interview was to discuss his soonto-be-released RocknRoll album. Before our chat,
a buoyant John talked on the telephone to no less
than 35 different disc jockeys simultaneously across
America. "I like Stand By Me and Be-Bop-A-Lula
is one of my all-time favourites," he said, before
going on to discuss the problems he had in making
the album. "Theres been more trouble with this
album than soft mick," he stated, using an
expression that Im sure 99% of his listeners had
never heard before.

Somewhere along the line I felt sufficiently

emboldened to ask John for his telephone number
so that if I wanted to interview him I could simply
ring him up directly instead of going through PRs or
his record company. The only problem was that
John didnt know his own phone number, probably
never had. "Yokos always changing it," he told me.
But he did agree to phone me if I sent him a
telegram with my number on it and thereafter if I
ever wanted to get in touch with John Lennon I
simply sent him a cable. "Hello Chris, its Johnny
Beatle here," was the manner in which he chose to
announce himself whenever he called.

The album certainly had a chequered history: "... I

just finished Mind Games when I started the new
album and I just wanted to have some fun. It was so
soon after Mind Games that I didnt have any new
material. I wanted to just sing and not be the
producer. I thought, Whos the one to do it with?
and I thought of Phil Spector. We went down to the
Record Plant and started cutting and, well, it got
pretty crazy... it really got wild at times. But we
managed to cut seven or eight in the end before it
collapsed... which is the only way to put it.

One of those calls involved a quick chat about his

immigration situation. For years the US government
had been trying to expel John, ostensibly because
of his marijuana possession conviction in 1968. Of
course, the real reason was because of his radical
politics, in particular his vocal opposition to the
Vietnam war. He was a hero to the youth of the US
and the Nixon administration considered him a
potential troublemaker, so the dope bust was simply

"Next thing Phil had apparently had an auto

accident. Only he knows whether he did or didnt,
but thats what the story said. That was the end of it
then, because hed got the tapes and I didnt get

317

them back until two days before I went into the

studio to cut Walls And Bridges. I went on to do the
Harry Nilsson thing (Pussycats) and I tried
everything to get them (the Rock N Roll album
tapes) back, even just hanging around LA to see if
Phil would get better. I couldnt think what to do, so I
did the album with Harry while I was waiting. When
I got the tapes, I couldnt get into them because I
was all geared to Walls And Bridges. When I did get
into them, I found that out of the eight, there were
only four or five that were worth using. The sessions
had twenty-eight guys playing live and a lot of them
out of tune, which is too much, even for rock and
roll. So I didnt know whether to forget it or carry on,
but I hate leaving stuff in the can. I thought about
putting out an EP remember them? But they dont
have them in America, and thought about a maxisingle. In the end I decided to finish it off and
produce the rest myself.

ON TUESDAY, July 27, 1975, John finally won his

five-year battle against the immigration authorities,
when his American application for a green card
was approved. Effectively, this allowed him to
remain permanently in the US and, most
importantly, leave and re-enter the country without
any problems. John was also able to apply for full
American citizenship in 1981.
I attended the 90-minute hearing at the downtown
New York offices of the US Immigration and
Naturalisation Service, where Judge Ira Fieldsteel
officially handed John the green card. Ironically, it
was Fieldsteel who had handed down the decision
ordering John to leave America on March 23, 1973.
When the verdict was announced, John embraced
Yoko and the packed courthouse burst into
spontaneous applause. The celebrities present who
testified for John included the American news
reporter Geraldo Rivera, the actress Gloria
Swanson, the sculptor Isamu Noguchi and the
writer Norman Mailer, who described John as "one
of the great artists of the Western world". Close
friends of the Lennons, Peter Boyle and John Cage
were also in the courthouse.

"I did ten tracks in three days in October, all the

numbers that I hadnt got around to with Phil. I had
a lot of fun and mixed it all down in about four or
five days. My one problem was whether its sound
weird going from the Spector sound to my sound
from twenty-eight guys down to eight. But they
match pretty well I think. So there it was, I suddenly
had an album."

This momentous day in the life of John Lennon

began with the judge reading a brief resume of the
history of the case, which had begun on August 31
1971 when John last entered America. He had
remained in the country ever since, refusing to
leave in case he was not permitted to return.

I mentioned to John that Paul would profit from the

album because hed bought Buddy Hollys song
catalogue and John had covered Peggy Sue.
"What a clever move that was," he replied. "I hope
he gives me a good deal. I dont care who gets the
money. With Paul its cool, cos were pals, and
even Kleins all right really. Im not gonna get much
money from this album anyway."

John, wearing a white shirt, black suit and tie,

cowboy boots and sporting a short-cropped haircut,
was called to give evidence, answering questions
from his attorney Leon Wildes:

John seemed happier with his past than at any time

since 1970. "Ive lost all that negativity about the
past and Id be happy as Larry to do Help! Ive just
changed completely in two years. Id do Hey Jude
and the whole damn show, and I think George will
eventually see that. If he doesnt, thats cool. Thats
the way he wants to be."

"Have you ever been convicted of any crime

anywhere in the US?"
John: "No."
"Have you ever been a member of the Communist
Party or any other organisation that may seek to
overthrow the US Government by force?"

John also announced that he was now back with

Yoko. "Im happy as Larry," he beamed, "and she
is... I hope. Weve known each other for nine years.
I met her in 1966. We had a sort of breakdown last
year, one way or another, but we called each other
often even when I was going crazy out on the West
Coast, and I probably said a lot of balmy things to
her which Ill regret."

John: "No."
"Do you intend to make the US your home?"
John: "I do."
"Will you continue your work here?"

John: "Yes. I wish to continue to live here with my

family and continue making music."

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Wildes then asked John if there is anything he had

to add in connection with his request to be granted
permanent residency.

emphasised Lennons contribution to the culture of

New York and praised him as being a "gentleman of
integrity".

John: "Id like to publicly thank Yoko, my wife, for

looking after me and pulling me together for four
years, and giving birth to our son at the same time.
There are many times that I wanted to quit, but she
stopped me. Id also like to thank a cast of
thousands, famous and unknown, who have been
helping me publicly and privately for the last four
years. And last, but not least, Id like to thank you,
my attorney, Leon Wildes, for doing a good job well,
and I hope this is the end of it."

The final witness was Gloria Swanson who, despite

her advancing years, took the stand in perfect
mental and physical health. She said: "For many
years I have been actively interested in the physical
fitness of the youth of New York. My husband met
John Lennon in a health food store in this city, and
we found we had feelings in common on this
subject. We feel that good food is essential to
physical well being and we are anti-junk food. I
hope very much that he will help us in this sphere.
We must educate the country and the Lennons will
help to do something about it."

Leon Wildes then called the first of several

witnesses to speak on behalf of John. The first was
Mr. Sam Trust, President of ATV Music Corporation,
which owns the rights to Johns compositions. He
says: "There are two very positive reasons why Mr.
Lennon should be allowed to remain in the US. The
music scene in the US is in the doldrums right now,
and the current resurgence of interest in The
Beatles and their material proves that they are the
most powerful source of music in the last 30 years. I
believe we can look forward to many new
innovations in music if Lennon is allowed to remain
in this country. The second point is that Lennon is a
tremendous revenue generator. The US will be the
scene for the reception of that revenue if he is
allowed to remain."

After a short deliberation, the Judge returned to

enquire whether or not John was likely to become a
state charge (i.e. draw welfare benefit or its
equivalent). The packed courthouse broke into a
subdued round of sniggers. Johns attorney rose
from his seat to answer this question: "On the
contrary, your Honour. Mr. Lennon was a member of
The Beatles, and has substantial earnings every
year. It is therefore most unlikely. He is also the
owner of several valuable copyrights, properties
and such like."
Mr. Wildes sat down and, almost immediately, the
Judge spoke again to deliver this short sentence: "I
find him (John) statutorily eligible for permanent
residence."

Next up was the writer Norman Mailer: "I think John

Lennon is a great artist who has made an
enormous contribution to popular culture. He is one
of the great artists of the Western world. We lost
T.S. Eliot to England and only got Auden back... it
would be splendid to have Mr. Lennon as well!"

Johns five-year fight was over.

Leon Wildes stood up and said: "Your honour, this
is one decision that I wont appeal against."

Next on the stand was the broadcaster, lawyer and

close friend of the Lennons, Geraldo Rivera. He
was involved with John and Yoko on the 1972 One
To One Concert at Madison Square Garden, which
raised $90,000 for the Willowbrook School, a home
for mentally retarded children in New York. To help
the cause, John and Yoko donated a further
$50,000 from their own money. For his testimony on
behalf of John, Geraldo continues on this point:
"This money liberated at least 60 retarded children
from the pits of hell and set them up in small
residences where they could be cared for on a oneto-one basis. I believe that what was started by
John and Yoko and other artists in 1972 was a
turning point in the care of the mentally retarded,
and if there ever was a person who deserved to
stay in this country it is John Lennon."

Following the hearing, John, Yoko, their friends and

an army of reporters and cameramen were ushered
into another room where an immigration official
hands John his "green card". The card had already
been prepared, which suggested that Johns fate
had been decided prior to todays hearing.
Outside the building, surrounded by the large
crowd, a happy and relieved looking John said: "Its
great to be legal again. Ill tell my baby. I thank Yoko
and the Immigration Service who have finally seen
the light of day. Its been a long and slow road, but I
am not bitter. I cant get into that. On the contrary,
now I can go and see my relations in Japan and
elsewhere. Again I thank Yoko, Ive always thought
theres a great woman behind every idiot."
As the Lennons continued to pose for the army of
photographers and television crews, with the "green

Leon Wildes then read a letter from the Bishop of

New York, the Rt. Rev. Paul Moore, which

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card" proudly held aloft, I pushed through the

crowd, shook Johns hand and mentioned to him
that his green card was actually blue. He laughed. I
wasnt to know it but these were the last words I
would ever speak to him.

essentially a man of peace, died in the manner he

did. I have become very cynical about Americas
gun culture, amazed and appalled at the stupidity of
a nation whose government sanctions, even
encourages, the manufacture and sale of
implements by which its citizens routinely and
unlawfully kill each other. Nothing exposes the
institutional corruption of American politics more
than the ease with which arms manufacturers,
through their stooges the National Rifle Association,
can bribe the countrys legislators to block
measures designed to control the sale of their
loathsome products. Although I sympathise with all
the victims of Americans gun madness, especially
the families of those children in schools mowed
down by lunatics with guns, these strong feelings of
mine really stem from what happened to John, a
man whom I liked to think of as a friend, at least for
those few years in New York.

*
THE FOLLOWING January I sent another telegram
to John requesting an interview. This time he
responded by sending me a postcard, declining the
request. He wrote: "No comment, was the stern
reply. Am invisible" and signed it, as he almost
always did, with a tiny self-portrait. I still have that
postcard but I never communicated with John
Lennon again.
Like many people in Britain, I was in bed when I first
heard that John Lennon had been murdered. I was
living in Shepherds Bush in London with my
girlfriend Jenny Torring whod risen before me on
the morning of Monday, December 8, 1980. She
was listening to the radio when she heard the news
and she came rushing into the bedroom to wake me
up. At first I didnt believe her, then when I heard the
radio it sunk in. I was quite numb. I threw on a few
clothes and went out and bought some
newspapers. Jenny went off to work but I didnt go
out all morning. I just sat there listening to the radio.
At lunchtime I went to the Anglesea Arms pub
across the road for lunch and sat on my own. Two
men at the bar were discussing Johns death and I
felt like telling them that I knew him once. Then I
didnt because I figured they wouldnt believe me.

I have read a great deal of rubbish about John in

the years since his death, much of it emanating
from the mendacious pens of Geoffrey Giuliano and
the late Albert Goldman, but none of it in any way
alters my firm conviction that the John Lennon I
knew was a good-natured man of integrity and
talent who tried to use his exalted position to right a
few wrongs and spread what he saw as a gospel
beneficial to mankind. He was no saint, its true, but
he never pretended to be either.

Chris Charlesworth, 2001

A day or two later a reporter from the Sunday Mirror

rang me up and asked me to help with their
coverage of Johns death. It quickly became
apparent to me that they were keen to dredge up
something controversial about John. Unlike almost
everyone else on the planet whod followed Johns
life the Sunday Mirror staff didnt seem to know that
he had left Yoko briefly in 1973/74 and seemed
keen to emphasise this in their story. I told them it
was old news but they went ahead anyway, as if it
was some sort of scoop. Similarly, they seemed
surprised when I told them that there were times
when John and Paul disagreed, and this too was
stressed in their coverage. I told them nothing they
couldnt have found in their own clippings file if only
theyd bothered to look but they seemed to think
that because Id met him I was a veritable oracle in
all matters Lennon. They paid me too. I like to think
that John would have found it amusing. I certainly
did.

How I Almost Met the Late John Lennon

John Mendelssohn, Rock's Backpages, 28 June
2002
LEGEND AND VH1 have it that when Elton John
made his Los Angeles debut at the Troubadour in
August 1970, he blew everyone away, and all the
other pimply hyperboles.
Well, I wasn't blown. Elt was extremely Earnest and
Serious and Artistic in those days, in keeping with
Bern's patently awful lyrics, and it was only at
show's end, when he sent his piano bench flying
with his ample tuchis and pretended to be Jerry Lee
Lewis that he was any fun at all.
But Robert Hilburn, the nicest man in the world, and
the fifth or sixth dullest writer, had only recently
become the LA Times' rock critic, and needed a star
to hitch his wagon to, and August is as slow a
month in LA as in Paris. The next thing everybody

Twenty years later the killing of John Lennon seems

to me to be the single most tragic event in the
history of rocknroll. It is a cruel irony that John,

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knew, Elton John was, according to the LA Times,

the greatest thing since penicillin.

might have been trampled. (If only we'd let nature

take its course!)

I personally found Elton John's publicist's

performance very much more noteworthy. Norman
Winter was the embodiment of the mid-century little
Jewish con-man publicist come to life. He'd tell
anybody anything, would our Norman, with his
gorgeous blue eyes and liberal use of Yiddish
vulgarisms, which served to corrode whatever small
credibility his lovely assimilated surname might
otherwise have enjoyed.

The old you-scratch-my-back-and-I'll scratch-yours

paradigm, incidentally, had been replaced, in this
era of rampant record company masochism, by
you-scratch-my-back-and-I'll-throw-up-on-yours. We
writers were part of the solution and the record
companies, by virtue of being for-profit capitalist
enterprises, part of the problem. It behooved us
morally to be as boorish as possible!
Within a year or two, Norman Winter and others like
him would essentially be pushed into the sea (or at
least over the hill into the dread San Fernando
Valley) by a new generation of groovy, bearded
publicists who addressed everyone as "man" and
abused the same substances we writers did.

It was Norman's conception that eccentric

headwear was the key to appearing hip. To Elt's
epochal Troubadour debut, he wore, with his 120
percent polyester casual attire, a cowboy hat
approximately the same circumference as the
Troub's small stage. While Elt soulfully intoned
Bern's woeful doggerel, Norman hunted down every
writer between the Mexican border and Point Mugu
and, nodding feverishly, giving the hat a real
workout, exulted, "Far fucking out!" It was almost
endearing.

Years later, Lennon annoyed and horrified me by

putting on the payroll (as his spokesperson and
principal sycophant) little Elliot Mintz, who'd first
come to infamy as a contributor to the alternative
weekly The Los Angeles Free Press, and then had
a phone-in radio chat show on which he annointed
himself The Voice of LA Cool. Deeply sickening, a
grownup version of the little twerp at junior high
school even the other little twerps wanted to
pummel into unconscious the smug little
smartypants who earned five times as much at his
bar mitzvah as any five of his classmates combined
Mintz reminded of no one so much as Ron
Ziegler, press secretary to Richard Nixon, with his
insufferable patronizing smirk and self-importance.
No hell below us? Above us only sky? One saw
Mintz on television smirking that smirk and hoped
otherwise.

About a year later, on the strength of being well

dressed and pretty and famous, I became
romantically entangled with the lissome blonde
universal-object-of-desire (think the unfortuante
Sharon Tate, if you're old enough, or Cameron Diaz,
if you ain't) who considered herself Norman's
associate, but whom Norman, in that way of his,
considered his secretary.
She pulled some strings and got me on the list of
writers to be flown up to San Francisco to see
someone that Norman, in that way of his, had
promised he would make the next Elton John. Don't
ask me for a name. American record companies still
believed in those days that the old you-scratch-myback-and-I'll scratch-yours paradigm remained
intact; that if you wined and dined and entertained a
writer sufficiently, he or she would write a cover
story about your preposterous artiste. Thus, this
junket didn't include just airfare to San Francisco,
meals, and a hotel room, but a walking tour, led by
Norman himself, that took us past the Miyako Hotel
in Japantown. Rounding the corner, whom to our
wondering eyes should appear, as big as life (if not
actually very big maybe 5' 8") but John Lennon
and friend! After a long moment's delighted
incredulity, we writers, uniformly cool, urbane, and
sophisticated, all pretended that we didn't notice the
great man.

Having since gone on to be the public voice of such

slightly lesser cultural icons as Bob Dylan and Don
Johnson, El only last year had the pleasure and
privilege of denying that the former had plans to
celebrate his 60th birthday publicly.
Vital information! You can't keep a good man down!
John Mendelssohn, 2002
Linda McCartney: Silly Love Songs
Barbara Charone, Sounds, 3 April 1976
ON A GREY and overcast winter afternoon, two
men stand in the foyer of EMI Abbey Road Studios
discussing plans for renovation. They are
surrounded by imposing, lifesize black and white
photos of the famous: Elton John, Cliff Richard,
Andre Previn, Queen, Paul and Linda McCartney.

Not so Norman, whose expression said: Imagine

what John Lennon might achieve as a member of
the Norman Winter stable o' stars! Had not a couple
of us writers grabbed Norman's little arms, Yoko

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As the men converse, an eerie silence spreads

through the building. Faint strains of melody are
heard in a distant studio. While the men formulate
plans to build an additional room off the foyer for
artists to socialize, Paul McCartney is busy working
on his own kind of construction inside studio
number two.

hammering home the point once more. "One more

time," McCartney joyously yells out.
Working on what eventually became 'Silly Love
Songs' from the just released Wings At The Speed
Of Sound album,
Linda McCartney took time out from recording on
that grey and overcast winter afternoon to shed
some light on several Wings misconceptions.

Gathered round a small cassette recorder, Paul and

Linda McCartney intently listen to their at-home
voices build each other. Occasionally tapping a foot
to the lazy beat, Linda sways while lending
additional harmonic support. Paul mentally rewrites
the song, changing bits as the cassette gathers
speed, visions of the final vinyl product dancing in
his head.

Sitting in a room adjacent to studio number two, a

kindly employee evacuates his cramped quarters,
happy to be of assistance to Linda. Wearing rose
coloured glasses, a denim jump suit and blue
mohair sweater, Linda radiates strong confidence.
Ten years before she would have found it
impossible to believe she'd be sitting in this room
adjacent to studio number two. Ten years before
Linda McCartney would not have believed she'd
ever marry Paul McCartney or join Wings. Times
change.

Drummer Joe English restlessly hits a snare drum,

anxious for another chance to do the song justice.
Wearing a blue jean jump suit and loose fitting
Hawaiian print shirt, Paul McCartney turns the small
cassette recorder off, ready for another take.

"I suppose at first most people wanted to put me

down," Linda says in reasonably measured tones
that combine a curiously American/British accent.
"But I have got better. The whole thing started
because Paul had nobody to play with. We were up
on the farm in Scotland and he started
romanticising about what it's like onstage. He made
it sound so easy I just said 'yeah'. I must have been
out of my mind," Linda good naturedly recalls. "I
never thought could I learn piano, could I sing."

As the basic rhythmic track is still being perfected,

Linda joins the rest of Wings upstairs in the control
room, peering down from the glass partition
victoriously every time a particularly good take is
reached. Guitarists Denny Laine and Jimmy
McCulloch scan newspapers on control room
couches, apprehensively awaiting recording time.
Downstairs in the studio, McCartney sits at the
piano, leans into the microphone and begins to sing
a song that differs greatly from the scratchy tune
that had come out of those small cassette speakers
minutes before. Coaching English on several takes,
McCartney joyously shouts encouraging
instructions to his drummer over a practice vocal.

Through a backdrop of apprehension and selfdoubt, feeling encouraged by public reaction to the
Beatles demise, Paul and Linda recorded a low-key,
fragmented effort. McCartney was released in 1970.
They patiently spliced together bits and pieces of
melody, eventaully emerging with one truly great
song 'Maybe I'm Amazed'.

"Latin beat in four bars," McCartney energetically

instructs. "Now bring it down, keep that up."
Pounding the piano in time to a heavy rock
percussive foundation, McCartney leans into the
microphone and sings "the world doesn't need
another silly love song but here I go again..."

"McCartney was very much an at home effort,"

Linda recalls. "We didn't even have a mixer. It was
sorta plug into a four-track machine and hope it
works.

As the familiar voice is thrown around the control

room, Laine and McCulloch look up from their
newspapers. As the song begins to blossom, Denny
and Linda add imaginary harmonies to the tune. In
just over an hour, the song has changed
considerably.

"When the Beatles finally broke up and Paul was

saying 'when the curtain opens and you're up there
it's great'. He wasn't saying let's make a record. He
just wanted a friend with him. It wasn't like 'hey
you've got great talent, I'll put you onstage.'
During the final Beatle years, McCartney yearned to
return to the stage, missing the excitment of live
performances and audience contact. From the
beginning, Wings were destined to be a permanent
recording band.

"Keep on rocking," McCartney screams over the

practice vocal as English gains momentum,
beginning to hit steamroller punctuation. They bring
the song down to a melodic interlude before

322

"The whole point of Wings was to play onstage. We

wouldn't have got a group together just to record.
Paul's whole thing is the road. Even with the
Beatles, even before Abbey Road Paul was saying
to me 'I've just got to have a sing, just get a few
people together and go on the road.'

"At first people don't want you to change," Linda

reflected. "People are slow to change. Look at all
that garbage John and Yoko had thrown at them
and now people are happy that they're back
together. People take so long to accept something. I
can accept criticism of Wings but their vision of
Wings is so limited. The thing has to grow."

"So he went in one day when all this fighting was

going on and said to John, 'let's go on the road and
do some unannounced gigs.' John thought he was
daft. But," Linda is quick to shift tones, eager to
portray a clear picture, "I'm not saying that Paul is
an angel either.

Wings was allowed the opportunity to grow and

mature with the addition of Denny Laine, a veteran
Moody Blue capable of adding vocal and musical
support to McCartney's melodic foundations. With
American drummer Denny Siewell , Wings were a
quartet. Together they recorded Wildlife which
lacked the variety, excitement, song quality, and
production of Ram.

"If they had talked the thing out they would have
seen what they thought about Paul wasn't true and
what he thought about them wasn't true. It simply
wasn't the three of them against Paul. It was four
people who had to live. There were just too many
personality problems."

"Wildlife is another album we could have done

better," Linda now admits. "Some of the songs are
very good but we only did it in about a week.

Public opinion blamed McCartney for breaking up

the Beatles which no doubt hurt his pride and
damaged his confidence. Stranded without a band
the only other alternative was to make records.

"It's funny, the band was so new but we didn't take

care, Laine has been with us a long time now so we
can relax and look at the thing instead of rushing
into the studio. It wasn't really a group when we did
Wildlife."

"Paul's biggest problem will be living down all that

'Paul's not heavy enough, Lennon's the heavy one'.
Listen folks," Linda says in an understandably
passionate defence. "Paul is a very heavy rock 'n'
roller. I remember when I first met him I'd say 'you
haven't got enough character in your face'. But I'll
tell you, there's so much behind him that people
don't see."

With the important addition of Laine, McCartney

suddenly had his artistic foil, someone to bounce
ideas off. Suddenly McCartney was no longer
alone. Laine provided that necessary stimulus to
creativity. Despite the fact that McCartney could
play all the instruments, he desperately seemed to
want a band again. And he desperately seemed
eager to return to the stage.

Much of the problem however, was McCartney's

own fault. His heavier, rockier profile was obscured
on the first three Wings albums. Not until
McCartney rallied with his stongest solo effort Band
On The Run did cynics hear the kind of rhythmic,
harmonic and cleverly arranged album they had
always been expected from an ex-Beatle.

So it was in early 1972 that Wings began a

successful, low-key, unannounced hit and run
university tour. Wings were becoming a band.
"Paul was just feeling himself out then," Linda says.
"He'd never been that alone, he'd always worked
with other people. You know Paul isn't God," she
says seriously. "The Beatles were not gods."

Ram was an excellent stepping stone towards

strengthening McCartney's artistic reputation which
seemed to be fading into a muddy sea of one line
melodies and snatches of musical inspiration. What
the general populus expected of Paul McCartney
became more prominent. Ram was a deserving
shot of confidence.

Throughout periods spent alone and confused,

Linda provided much more than a harmonic vocal
addition to the albums. She provided
encouragement which eventually made Wings a
reality.

"But Ram was made during that period when

everyone was very negative towards Paul," Linda
says slightly defensive. She begins mumbling
something about John Lennon but quickly stops
herself in mid-sentence. Both Paul and Linda seem
hesitant to stimulate any renewed fighting now that
peace had been established.

"If you encourage a person they'll blossom. If you

don't they'll doubt themselves. Sure I encouraged
Paul, especially in the beginning. Wives do that,"
Linda says logically. "Paul was going through a
pretty hard time, getting a lot of press by default.
'Oh Paul did it, it's Paul's fault'. That whole period
affected us. It just wasn't like that."

323

Sitting in this room adjacent to studio number two

with that infectious 'Silly Love Songs' pounding
through the walls with uncontrollable energy, Linda
is pulled into a delightful burst of fond memories of
the past. She eagerly recalls early days spent
listening to the Moody Blues in New York, longing to
meet Laine and never imagining she'd actually be in
a group with him.

Much to her father's dismay, she quit the flunkie job

at Town And Country shortly afterwards, and
decided to become a professional rock 'n' roll
photogrpaher. Meeting Mick Jagger no doubt was
more entertaining than staying prisoner in an empty
office at lunchtime. Two years later she would be a
successful photographer and wife to Paul
McCartney.

"I think I was the only person in New York to have

that first Moody Blues album," she laughs. "I
remember they did this incredible Coca-Cola
commercial. I always thought it would make a great
single. I really wanted to photograph the Moody
Blues but I never got up the nerve."

Linda easily admits she's no virtuoso and talks

animatedly of severe cases of stage fright during
the first few Wings performances. She has,
however, suffered her fair share of exaggerated
criticism and cruel jokes. Their lifetime ambition
does not include producing an equivalent to the
'Sonny & Cher' show.

Instead she stuck exclusively to the confines of the

fifth row, eagerly taking in Murray the K rock 'n' roll
spectaculars. She was a genuine pocket radio high
school kid who lived for rock 'n' roll. At night she'd
sneak out of the house and take the subway
downtown where the excitement of live music
captivated her soul.

From the beginning Linda McCartney has sung

harmony on Wings albums, greatly contributing to
the overall successful results of Ram and Band On
The Run. She plays little piano on record, much
more onstage and is always eager to improve. She
takes Wings seriously and presents an interesting
overview of the group that McCartney himself
seems hesitant to probe.

"I always went to shows at the Brooklyn Paramount

where they'd have 20 acts on 24 hours a day. Alan
Freed was the MC but sometimes they'd get Fabian
or Bobby Darin to MC. I remember seeing Chuck
Berry sing 'Schooldays' for the first time," she
laughs and begins singing the song.

"Red Rose Speedway was such a non-confident

record. There were some beautiful songs that would
sound much better now. There was 'My Love' but
something was missing. We needed a heavier
sound," Linda says rhythmically. "We needed more
of what we are now. Originally the album was going
to be a double as we had about 30 finished songs.
But we had this manager at the time who kept
yelling 'Now you want a single out' and all that
rubbish. It was a terribly unsure period."

Raised on a steady diet of fifties rockers, she

mysteriously succumbed one day and bought the
Beatles first album. The Eddie Cochran roots were
similar.
"I never thought I'd be involved with rock 'n' roll,"
Linda says seriously. "I didn't even think I'd be a
photographer. I just loved the music. I never saw
myself with any connection."

Reasons for lack of group stability and confidence

stemmed from internal difficulties. By this time
Wings were five with the addition of former Grease
Band guitarist Henry McCullough. Desperately in
need of musical stimulation, Wings were proving
themselves more of a hinderance than a help to
McCartney's path of artistic survival.

Eventually she gave up Alan Freed's musical

marathons and headed west to Arizona where she
began to develop an eager interest in photography.
Yearning for the Sunday New York Times, she
quickly gave up the sunshine and the desert,
returning to the urban energy of New York city.

As Linda is quick to admit "Paul is not the kind of

guy that likes to get rid of people. He always wants
to give them another chance." Yet Paul's obvious
nice guy posture was hurting his critical reputation
with one disappointing album after another. 'Big
Barn Bed' was cute, up tempo stuff and 'My Love'
was pretty yet the music in between sounded too
commonplace and mediocre.

Eventually she secured a job at Town and Country,

a good housekeeping, domestic magazine, as the
office flunkie. While the rest of the staff cavorted
round town at lunchtime, Linda stayed in the office
answering the phones. One day, however, an
invitation arrived in the post to come meet the
Rolling Stones. Armed with a Pentax, she went
down to a yacht parked at 75th Street.

"Paul got very nervous having to give everyone in

the band a part to play," Linda admits. "Sometimes
he wouldn't want guitar on a track but Henry didn't
like sitting around the studio. Because of that Paul

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started putting things on tracks on the Red Rose

Speedway album just to keep everyone happy,
things he normally wouldn't put on the track."

helped McCartney retain his fading hero stance.

Still frustration hampered Wings solid gold success.
Finally, recording an album that begged for stage
adaptation, Wings had no band to promote their
well received effort. Eager to return victoriously to
the road McCartney searched for musicians to
compliment Wings good health.

Extraneous and unecessary musical decoration

disguised possible clever musical indulgences.
Despite the group conflict, Wings toured Europe
and Britain in 1973 sticking to small halls and low
profiles. Still groping for inspiration, McCartney
found obvious joy returning to the stage,
purposefully bending some of his songs into funkier
shape.

Diminutive guitarist Jimmy McCulloch was the first

addition, making Wings a quartet once more.
McCartney had originally wanted Jimmy but curbed
his desires for fear of breaking up Stone The
Crows. When that band disintegrated, McCulloch
did some sessions with Linda in Paris under the
name Susie and The Red Stripes. He later played
on an album Paul produced for brother Mike
McGear and subsequently joined Wings.

McCartney, however, still seemed to wear his exBeatle tag awkwardly. His curious omission of the
past in concert drew more attention by it's absence.
An encore of 'Long Tall Sally' was the only
concession to the past then.
Shortly after that summer tour, McCullough and
Siewell quit Wings on the eve of their planned
departure for Nigeria to record what became Band
On The Run. With Wings suddenly reduced to a
trio, the future looked bleak. Ironically McCartney
rallied with his most impressive recording
performance yet.

The most important position still needed to be filled.

Percussive choices came down to Roger Pope,
who later joined Elton John's Band and Geoff
Britten who joined Wings briefly. Nashville
rehearsals in the summer of '74 were not working
successfully.
"It just didn't gell," Linda recalls another stepping
stone. "It was horrible because we really wanted it
to work because we really wanted so much to go
back onstage. It was another depressing period. We
had started Venus And Mars but it just wasn't
working."

"That period was almost a relief for Paul," Linda

continues the narrative, glad that darker hours have
passed. "He finally had people with him who cared,
those who showed up at the airport. We didn't even
know if Denny was coming!
"Most of that album was written at home in
Scotland. I remember Denny, Paul, and I sitting
round the kitchen table singing 'ho hey ho'," she
hums a bit of 'Mrs. Vanderbilt'. "Band On The Run
was just the three of us. We'd start with basics and
Paul would build on it.

Yet the end of their problems arrived with the

addition of horn player Tony Dorsey who helped
Paul add brass to several tracks. The locale shifted
to New Orleans, Britten was fired in the nicest
possible way, and Dorsey recommended a young
American drummer who was currently rehearsing
with Bonnie Bramlett. 24 hours later Joe English
was thrown straight into the making of Venus And
Mars.

"I don't know why Band On The Run is better than

Venus And Mars. I guess maybe it's Paul's
drumming. I remember Keith Moon asking me who
played drums on that album. I just can't say why
that album was a hit. I remember hearing a bit of
'Jet' and not liking it that much. But then Paul
started to build on it. He wanted that one to be
totally mad.

"There's a lot of room for us to move," Linda says

pleased with the addition of English. "Onstage Joe
added the thing that was lacking with all the other
drummers. That's why Wings never stayed together.
It's not Beatle Paul, it's a band."

"Don't forget," Linda winks, "Paul's had a lot of

practice in the studio. He's done some very trippy
things. Every now and then he remembers how
much he loves it."

Proof of Linda's words quickly reverberated round

the room adjacent to the studio. Those 'Silly Love
Songs' had now reached full maturity, coming
through the walls with gutsy clarity. "This one's
gonna be great," Linda enthused about a song
she'd been living with for over a week.

With Band On The Run his ability to recall previous

studio brilliance was cleverly exposed. Band On
The Run painted a vibrant, healthy self-portrait that

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Several months later when Wings At The Speed Of

Sound was unveiled on a curious public, those 'Silly
Love Songs' contained the album's best moments.

Paul McCartney: Pipes Of Peace (Parlophone)

"Family man?" Linda questions all those who

complain about Pauls' domestic status. "Most
people are family people. That's not soft. Every man
must have a home especially if you come from a big
family like Paul's. There's nothing wrong with a
family life."

CONTRARY TO current feeling here at the NME

and elsewhere, I personally nurture no antagonism
towards Paul McCartney, nor regard him with any of
my colleagues contempt.

Penny Reel, NME, 5 November 1983

It is the fashion in recent years, especially since

Lennons assassination and compounded further by
the walruss damning testimony of his erstwhile
partner, for Beatle biographers and others to portray
the carpenter craftsman McCartney as something
other, less than quite human: a calculating
opportunist, charming bully, smug cad generally,
and least forgiveable of all as a man who earns far
too much money, an estimated staggering 200
million per annum. But such envious considerations
weigh little with this reviewer.

Yet much of Wings' criticism stems from these

family roots. On tour, they travelled round Britain on
a mobile coach taking their three children with
them. Just because the McCartney's do not indulge
in public displays of rock 'n' roll excess, does not
make them less worthy than Led Zeppelin.
"It's like James Dean died and suddenly they
romanticise him. So OK maybe they want Paul
dead before they can say 'hey man he lived a rock
'n' roll life' but he doesn't have to get out of his head
in public every night for rock 'n' roll. There's nothing
wrong with having a bit of life with music," Linda
says reasonably.

I even think that the much maligned but hugely

successful Ebony And Ivory does more to promote
racial harmony than all the copies of City Limits
stacked together and consigned to this year's
bonfire, with the thuggish Reagan as the guy natch.

Their attitude towards the tax situation typifies the

McCartney's determination to do as their feelings
dictate.

Nevertheless, I am altogether less than enamoured

with the man's music. Though not going quite so far
as Lennon in pronouncing "the only good thing you
did was Yesterday," yet I have not heard anything
really outstanding from Paul McCartney since Hey
Jude, though at a push I'd say that the second side
of Abbey Road, the Wings single Jet and perhaps
Mull Of Kintyre are not entirely without merit as
well.

"Money should not govern your life," Linda says

flatly. "Besides I love our farm. I always said if we
lose everything what's the worse that could
happen? I like cooking so we'll open a little
restaurant.
"We were going to open a club in London called
Death of Variety cause the music scene is so bad.
I'd run a little restaurant," Linda says quite pleased
with the thought. "There's so much to do but you
can't do everything. Right now Wings is the main
thing."

This latest album is of similar small consequence. A

dull, tired and empty collection of quasi-funk and
gooey rock arrangements featuring the likes of
Stanley Clarke, Michael Jackson, Andy MacKay,
Ringo Starr, with McCartney cooing platitudinous
sentiments on a set of lyrics seemingly made up on
the spur of the moment.

Right now the main thing is finishing up 'Silly Love

Songs'. The song has gotten even better.
McCartney has come into the control room to have
a listen, standing eagerly behind the engineer,
watching him twist and twirl knobs into perfection.
English practically kicks the console board while
listening to the playback.

I wonder what effort of thought can have gone into

the composition of lines like "there is a pain inside
my heart/you mean so much to me/girl, I love you,
girl, I love you so bad" on So Bad or the even
worse dazed couplet "I know I was a crazy fool for
treating you the way I did/but something took hold
of me and I acted like a dustbin lid" from the twee
The Other Me. Belief is suspended on songs as
trite as these and neither are they redeemed by the
accompanying music as each essay blends into
one bombastic surge of slick vacuity.

"Shit hot rocking," McCartney mumbles, his obvious

enthusiasm contagiously infecting the room. Wings
agree wholeheartedly.
Barbara Charone, 1976

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The LPs one decent moment is the opening title

track, a Beatlish soiree surely destined as a
Christmas single in an attempt to cream off some of
Lennons monopoly of seasonal anti-war sentiment,
with an enderaring chorus stating "help them to
learn/songs of joy instead of burn baby burn/show
them how to play the pipes of peace". Even here,
however, a note of insincerity in the vocal finally
defeats the lyrics objective.

Part of McCartney's agility as a communicator has

been the paradoxical mastery of revealing nothiing
whatsoever of himself to journalists. This was
particularly notable during the interviews he gave
for Give My Regards To Broad Street, an almost
unprecedented barrage of publicity in which it
seemed that the more people he spoke to, the less
he said. This was perhaps connected with a
comprehension of the transparent unsubstantiality
of the work. "Broad Street? " he says now. "You
don't stop things just because they're not good; if
you've done a bit of work, you put it out. I mean, if
Picasso's painted a thing "

The theme is echoed later in the less melodic Tug

Of Peace - itself a reference to McCartneys Tug
Of War title - wherein he rather smuggle proposes
"your troubles cease when you learn to play the
pipes of peace".

Today, however, on this Friday afternoon, Paul

McCartney is immensely forthcoming. Possibly this
is a reflection of the confidence he feels in his new
LP, a work that stands almost on a par with Band
On The Run, his finest solo record and one which,
in many ways, seems to have a direct conduit to
post-Sgt. Pepper Beatles albums.

For the rest, he is joined by the tedious Michael

Jackson on the current Say, Say, Say and side
twos self-congratulatory opener The Man; a
doodling pointless instrumental alongside Stanley
Clarke called Hey Hey, plus a condescending little
rocker expiating on the Average Person. Have you
ever met anybody who regarded him or herself as
an "average person"?

The interview has a relaxed, conversational tone

with no sense of formally structured questions and
answers. In the cold light of print, his replies can
occasionally take on a tone that seems almost petty
in its self-justification, but such an emphasis is
completely absent when he's delivering these words
to you in person.

Thus Paul McCartney: the piper at the gates of

dusk.
Penny Reel, 1983

The principle strength of the new LP is the quality of

the songs, six of which McCartney co-wrote with
Eric Stewart, the former 10cc singer and writer of
such classics as I'm Not In Love, a song that is
almost a parody of a McCartney love ballad.

Paul McCartney: An Innocent Man?

Chris Salewicz, Q, October 1986
Paul McCartney curls up on the couch and
relives the Beatles story for the first time since
the death of John Lennon. "He was one great
guy, but part of his greatness was that he wasnt
a saint."

The numbers were written, he says, in the manner

in which he would work with John Lennon, sitting
side-by-side, watching each other search for
appropriate chords.

Paul McCartney is 44. He was 20 when his first

composition appeared on record. Today he's just
returned from remixing a second single from his
new LP Press To Play, his 27th solo or group studio
album in 24 years.

*
You've been in the studio all night re-mixing tracks
from the new album for single release. How do you
feel about the new LP?

He's sitting on a sofa on the second floor of the

building in Central London from which he directs his
activities. Outside, on this sunny early afternoon, lie
the neatly trimmed lawns of Soho Square; inside a
forest of deco mahogany woodwork, a De Kooning
on the wall and a chrome and neon-garlanded
Wurlitzer jukebox of quite archetypal proportions
and splendour. He's wearing fawn moccasins,
yellow socks, and a blue and white striped shirt and
trousers and, despite the omnipresent grey hair, he
looks in immensely good shape for someone who
was still in the studio at three in the morning.

I like it. I have a lot of trouble saying, I think its

great. I wish I was just a fan and I could genuinely
like it without seeming wildly immodest. I can't be
objective yet. It's going to take me a couple of
months. I can listen to McCartney, I can just listen
to that. I like that one; it's growing on me. It's a
touchy subject. You've done a thing and there it is,
it's your presentation. You mean to get every bit of it
right.

327

So how do you react to criticism?

humour and I'd do it all again. I'd go through it all

again, and have him slagging me off again just
because he was so great; those are all the down
moments, there was much more pleasure than has
really come out. I had a wonderful time, with one of
the world's most talented people. We had all that
craziness, but if someone took one of your wedding
photos and put 'funeral' on it, as he did on that
manuscript, you'd tend to feel a bit sorry for the guy.
I'll tell you what, if I'd ever done that to him, he
would've just hit the roof. But I just sat through it all
like mild-mannered Clark Kent.

When I see bad reviews, it'll hurt me. I am giving

myself a bit easier time in life these days. I've gone
through so much criticism, and not just from critics.
From people like John, over so many things, that
like a fool I just stood there and said, Yeah, you
must be right. All those things I was said to be the
cause of, I just accepted that I was to blame. I'm
beginning to see it a bit differently now. I'm
beginning to see a lot of what they say is their
problem, not mine.

This was hurting you, presumably.

John was going through a lot of pain when he said

a lot of that stuff, and he felt that we were being
vindictive towards him and Yoko. In fact I think we
were quite good, looking back on it; many people
would've just downed tools in a situation like that,
would've just said: Look man, she's not sitting on
our amps while we're making a film. That wouldnt
be unheard of. Most people just say, We're not
having this person here, don't care how much you
love her.

Not half.
When did you actually get a perspective on it?
I still haven't. It's still inside me. John was lucky. He
got all his hurt out. I'm a different sort of a
personality. There's still a lot inside me that's trying
to work it out. And that's why it's good to see that
wedding-funeral bit, because I started to think. Wait
a minute, this is someone who's going over the top.
This is paranoia manifesting itself. And so my
feeling is just like it was at the time, which is like,
He's my buddy, I don't really want to do anything to
hurt him, or his memory, or anything. I don't want to
hurt Yoko. But, at the same time, it doesn't mean
that I understand what went down.

But we were actually quite supportive. Not

supportive enough, you know; it would have been
nice to have been really supportive because then
we could look back and say, Weren't we really
terrific? But looking back on it, I think we were OK.
We were never really that mean to them, but I think
a lot of the time John suspected meanness where it
wasn't really there.

I went at Yoko's request to New York recently. She

said she wanted to see me, I said I was going
through New York and so I stopped off and rang
her, and she said she couldn't see me that day. I
was 400 yards away from her. I said, Well, I'll pop
over any time today; five minutes, ten minutes,
whenever you can squeeze me in. She said. It's
going to be very difficult. I said. Well, OK, I
understand; what is the reason, by the way? She
said, I was up all night with Sean. I said, Well, I
understand that. I've got four kids, you know. But
you're bound to have a minute today, sometime.

He was presumably fairly paranoid.

I think so. He warned me off Yoko once: "Look, this
is my chick!" Just because he knew my reputation.
We knew each other rather well. I just said, Yeah,
no problem. But I did feel he ought to have known I
wouldn't. That was John; just a jealous guy. He was
a paranoid guy. And he was into drugs heavy. He
was into heroin, the extent of which I hadn't
realised, till just now.
It's all starting to click a bit in my brain. I just figured,
Oh, there's John, my buddy, and he's turning on
me. He once said to me, Oh, they're all on the
McCartney bandwagon. Yet things like that were
hurting him, and looking back on it now I just think
that it's a bit sad really.

She asked me to come. I'd flown in specially to see

her, and she wouldn't even see me. So I felt a little
humiliated, but I said, OK, 9.30 tomorrow morning,
let's make an appointment. She rang up at about
9.00 and said, Could you make it tomorrow
morning?

I saw that thing in The Observer the other week,

about the manuscript of the Apple Beatles
biography and the vitriolic comments John made in
the margins.

So that's the kind of thing. I'm beginning to think it

wasn't all my fault. I'm beginning to let myself off a
lot of the guilt. I always felt guilty, but looking back
on it I can say OK, let's try and outline some things.
John was hurt; what was he hurt by? What is the
single biggest thing that we can find in all our

I think that shows the sort of pain he was going

through. Look, he was a great guy, great sense of

328

research that hurt John? And the biggest thing that I

can find is that I told the world that The Beatles
were finished. I don't think that's so hurtful.

sue The Beatles. So obviously I became the

baddie. I did take The Beatles to the High Court,
which was a highly traumatic period for me, living to
front that one out. Imagine, seriously, having to front
that one out.

I'll tell you what was unfortunate was the method of

announcing it all. I said to the guy at the office.
Peter Brown, of book fame, I've got an album
coming out called McCartney. And I don't really
want to see too much press. Can you do me some
question-and-answer things?

How did you feel through all that?

Crazy, just insane. So insecure. Half the reason I
grew the beard.

So he sent all those questions over and I answered

them all. We had them printed up and put in the
press copies of the album. It wasn't a number. I see
it now and shudder. At the time it was me trying to
answer some questions that were being asked and
I decided not to fudge those questions.

People often put hair on their faces to hide.

It's often a cover-up. And I had this big beard and I
went to the High Court and actually managed to
save the situation. But my whole life was on the line
at that point. I felt this was the fire, this was the
furnace. It had finally arrived. And we used to get
shakes in our voices in court. We used to get the
Nixon shakes, something we'd never ever had
before. So we went through a lot of those problems.
But the nice thing was afterwards each one of them
in turn very, very quietly and very briefly said, Oh,
thanks for that. That was about all I ever heard
about it.

We didn't accept Yoko totally, but how many groups

do you know who would? It's a joke, like Spinal Tap.
You know, I loved John, I was his best mate for a
long time. Then the group started to break up. It
was very sad. I got the rap as the guy who broke
the group up. It wasn't actually true.
But legally you had to do that to get out of the
contract with Allen Klein, didn't you?

But again, John turned it round. He said. But you're

always right, aren't you? See, there was always this
thing. I mean, it seemed crazy for me because I
thought the idea was to try and get it right, you
know. It was quite surprising to find that if you did
get it right, people could then turn that one around
and say: But you're always right aren't you? It's like
moving the goal posts.

Yeah, legally I had to. I had to take the other

Beatles to court. And I got a lot of guilt off that. But
you tell me what you would have done if the entire
earnings that you'd made and it was something
like The Beatles' entire earnings, a big figure,
everything we'd ever done up to somewhere round
about Hey Jude was about to disappear into
someone's pocket. The guy I'm talking about, Allen
Klein, had 5 million the first year he managed The
Beatles. So I smelled a rat and thought, 5 million
in one year, how long's it going to take him to get rid
of it all?

I mean, it occurred quite a few times because I'm

pretty ruthless, ambitious, all that stuff. No more
than anyone trying to break into showbiz, but I can
be pretty forceful. If we've gotta make a record, I'll
actually sit down and write songs. This could be
interpreted as being overpowering and forceful.

So I started to resist, and I was given a lot of

pressure. The others said, Oh, you're always
stalling when I kept refusing to sign Klein's
contract.

I'd heard that you were the driving force of The

Beatles, but that John would be more interested in
doing anything but what The Beatles were
supposed to be doing.

But the others suspected you of looking after

number one by wanting to bring in your wife's family
as managers.
Obviously everyone worried that because it was my
father-in-law, I'd be the one he'd look after. Quite
naturally, they said, No, we can't have him. So in
the end it turned out to be Klein. And I said, Well, I
want out of this. I want to sue this guy Klein.

Yeah, I remember doing Let It Be and we sat

around the table in Apple and I came up with this
idea that we should get it on film. I remember John
said, Why? What for? I explained a bit more. He
said, I get it. You want a job! Yeah, that's it! But it
seemed strange to me that he didn't. He seemed
quite happy languishing out in St George's Hill in
Weybridge.

They said, You can't, because he's not party to any

of the agreements. So it became clear that I had to

I always wanted to make the group great, and even

greater. When we made the Let It Be album, and it

329

was a bit crummy, I insisted that we made Abbey

Road because I knew what we were capable of. I
didn't think that we'd pulled it off on Let It Be and
then with the Phil Spector remix, we kinda walked
away from that LP. In fact, the best version of it was
before anyone got hold of it: the Glyn Johns early
mixes were great but they were very spartan; it
would be one of the hippest records going if they
brought it out. Before it had all its raw edges off it,
that was one of the best Beatles albums because it
was a bit avant-garde. I loved it.

The other example that really pissed George off

was when we were making Hey Jude. To me it had
to have a sparse opening and it was going to build.
So I started off 'Hey Jude' (sings) and George went
'durnurnawnaww' (makes guitar noise), and then
'Don't make it bad', and he'd go 'Derdlederlederdle'
and he was answering every line through the whole
song and I just said, No, man, I really don't want
that, it's my song. The rule was whoevers song it
was to say how we did the arrangement for them.
That pissed him off, and I'm sure it pissed Ringo off
when he couldn't quite get the drums to Back In
The U.S.S.R., and I sat in. I remember sitting for
hours thinking, Should I say this thing? In the end it
always came down to, You should have said
something, so it's very hard to balance that. In the
end I have to say that sometimes I was overbearing
and sometimes they liked it.

So then it was Abbey Road we were doing and I got

some grief on that because it took three days to do
Maxwell's Silver Hammer. You know how long
Trevor Horn takes to do a mix for Frankie Goes to
Hollywood? It takes two days to switch on the
Fairlight! I had a group in the other day, spent two
days trying to find the ON switch! That's what we're
into these days, you know.

Do you have much to do with them now?

I'm sure I did piss people off at the time, much as I
tried not to. It just seemed to me when we had a
session booked it was a cool idea to turn up. Like
Sgt. Pepper: George turned up for his number and
a couple of other sessions but not for very much
else.

I'm just starting to get back with them. It's all

business troubles. If we don't talk about Apple then
we get on like a house on fire. So I've just started to
see them again. I had a great day the other day
when George came down to visit me and for the
first time in billions of years we had a really nice
time. George was my original mate in The Beatles.

George was supposed to have resented you for

always getting on his back.

More than John?

He did resent it. Two examples; one on Abbey
Road. I was beginning to get too producery for
everyone. George Martin was the actual producer
and I was beginning to be too definite, and George
and Ringo turned around and said, Look, piss off,
we're grown-ups and we can do it without you fine.
People like me who don't realise when they're being
very overbearing, it comes as a great surprise to be
told.

He lived near me in Upton Green and I lived in

Ardwick Road, and it was like half a mile away, so
we took the same bus to the same school the
500, which was the express and then we got
guitars at about the same time. We went through
the Bert Weedon books and learned D and A
together and we were quite big buddies then, so
that was something I'd missed for all these years.
We'd got all professional and Beatles and
everything, and you lose that obviously, and he just
came down the other day and we didn't talk about
Apple and we didn't touch an instrument. It was just
back as mates, like on the bus. He's very into trees
and planting and horticulture, as I am more now,
and so we talked about planting trees. It was great
to actually relate as two people and try and get all
that crap out the window.

So I completely clammed up and backed off: right,

OK, they're right, I'm a turd. So a day or so went
by and the session started to flag a bit and so
eventually Ringo turned round to me and said,
Come on produce, and so it was like you
couldn't have it both ways. You either had to have
me doing what I did, which, let's face it, I hadn't
done too bad, or I was going to back off and
become paranoid myself, which was what
happened.

But that seems to be part of the process; he seems

to be emerging more now anyway.

A lot of Wings was to do with that; I'd been told that

I was so overbearing. If the guitarists in Wings
wanted to play a solo a certain way, I wouldn't dare
tell them that it wasn't good.

We're all kind of coming to. We all brushed off this

whole Beatles episode and sort of said, Well, it's no
big deal. Obviously it's a big deal it was a huge
deal if there ever was a big deal, that was it! So I
don't think half of us know what happened to us,

330

really. I can never tell you what year anything was;

literally they all go into a haze for me, the years and
stuff. I keep seeing pictures of myself shaking
hands with Mitzi Gaynor and I think, I didn't know I
met her. It's that vague. And yet I look as straight as
a die in there.

nice of him not to nick it anyway, wasn't it? I did

know Miles very well. He was my mate. We had
many a wondrous stoned evening in his place
listening to all sorts of stuff.
That was another of the interesting things. I think
that I've got a certain personality and if I give charity
I don't like to shout about it. If I get into avant-garde
stuff, I don't particularly shout about that either. I
just get on with it. So way before John met Yoko
and got avant-garde, I was like the avant-garde
London bachelor with Miles in my pad in St. John's
Wood. I was making 8mm movies and showing
them to Antonioni. I had all sorts of theories of
music we'd put on a Ravi Shankar record to our
home movies and it'd synchronise and John used to
come from Weybridge, kind of looking slightly goofy
and saying 'Wow! This is great! We should do more
of this!'

Were you on speed or something?

I don't think so. I think it was just that life was
speeding; you just met Mitzi Gaynor for five minutes
and then you'd go and meet Jerry Lewis's kids. It
becomes very difficult after a while to know if you
met 50 of them. I keep seeing weird photos of me
with people that I didn't even know I'd met. It's quite
embarrassing. Bowie's got that problem too; he's
got huge periods of his life where he just does not
know what happened.
When the money started to come in, were you
aware of that or were you just living your life and
you'd hear suddenly you were worth so much?

I used to sit in a basement in Montagu Square with

William Burroughs and a couple of gay guys he
knew from Morocco and that Marianne FaithfullJohn Dunbar crowd doing little tapes, crazy stuff
with guitar and cello. But it didn't occur to me in the
next NME interview I did to rave about William
Burroughs. Maybe it would have been good for me
to do that.

We used to ask them, 'Am I a millionaire yet?' and

they used to say cryptic things like 'On paper you
are' and we'd say, 'Well, what does that mean? Am I
or aren't I? Are there more than a million of those
green things in my bank yet?' and they'd say, 'Well,
it's not actually in a bank we think you are. It was
actually very difficult to get anything out of these
people and the accountants never made you feel
successful.

It's like Yoko met me before she met John. She

turned up for a charity thing, she wanted
manuscripts, any spare lyric sheets you had
around. Ours tended to be on the backs of
envelopes and to tell you the truth I didn't want to
give her any. They were very precious to me and
the cause didn't seem so great. So I said, Look, my
mate might be interested, and I gave her John's
address, and I think that's how they first hooked up,
and then she had her exhibition and stuff and then
their side of the story started to happen.

I remember we had the whole top five in America

and I decided I wanted to buy a country house. I
wasn't asking for the world. In those days it would
have cost about 30,000, top whack, and so I went
to the accountants and they said, 'You'll have to get
a mortgage' and I said, 'What do you mean, a
mortgage? Aren't we doing well yet? We've got the
whole top five in the biggest market in the world!
There's gotta be some money coming in off that!'

I feel as though I have to justify living, you know,

which is a bit of a piss-off. I don't really want to have
to sit around and justify myself; it's a bit humiliating.
But there are lots of things that haven't come out.
For instance, when they bust up their marriage, she
came through London. He was in LA doing Pussy
Cats with Nilsson and having a generally quite
crazy time of it all, fighting with photographers and
haranguing the Smothers Brothers, all because he
genuinely loved Yoko and they had a very, very
deep, strong relationship, but they were into all
sorts of crazy stuff, stuff I don't know the half of. A
lot of people don't know the half of that. Hints of it
keep coming out in books but you never know if you
can believe them.

They always try and keep you down. So you didn't

actually get much of a feeling of being very rich.
The first time I actually saw cheques was when I left
Apple, and it wasn't me that saw them, it was Linda,
because we'd co-written a few of our early things.
There are lots of stories about you and money.
Miles, once the editor of International Times, who
was a friend of yours in the mid-60s, told me about
finding your MBE and a bunch of 20 notes stuffed
into a sock drawer in your bedroom at the Asher
house.
Yeah, I've heard that story too. I never remember
actually having a wad of money like that. Still, it was

You mean occultism?

331

All sorts. I certainly did get a postcard from Yoko

saying 'Go round the world in a South-Easterly
direction. It'd be good for you. You're allowed to
stop at four places.' George Martin got one of those
and he sort of said, 'Would it be alright if I go to
Montserrat?', and she said, 'No.' Actually, John did
the voyage. John went in a South-Easterly direction
around the world, but we all kind of went. Sure,
sure, we'll go round the South-East. There are so
many memories that come flooding in and it's like a
psycho session, the minute I get on this stuff. I'm on
a couch and I'm just trying to purge it all.

roses every fucking day, you have to work at it like a

bitch! Then you just might get her back. And he did.
I mean, if you hear it from John's point of view, it'll
just be that he spoke to Yoko on the phone and she
said to him, Come back.
I always found it interesting that he got married a
month after you.
I think we spurred each other into marriage. They
were very strong together which left me out of the
picture, so then I got together with Linda and we got
our own kind of strength. I think again that they
were a little bit peeved that we got married first.

Linda and me came over for dinner once and John

said, You fancy getting the trepanning tiling done? I
said, Well, what is it? and he said, Well, you kind of
have a hole bored in your skull and it relieves the
pressure. We're sitting at dinner and this is
seriously being offered! Now this wasn't a joke, this
was like, Let's go next week, we know a guy who
can do it and maybe we could all go together. So I
said. Look, you go and have it done, and if it works,
great. Tell us all about it and we'll all have it.

Was it the kind of thing where there are two blokes

who are good mates and one of them finds a girl
and then the friendship breaks up?
'Wedding Bells' is what it was. 'Wedding bells are
breaking up that old gang of mine'. We used to sing
that song, Gene Vincent did it. It was like an army
song and for us the Beatles became the army. We
always knew that one day 'Wedding Bells' would
come true, and that was when it did.

But I'm afraid I've always been a little bit cynical

about stuff like that thank God! because I
think that there's so much crap that you've got to be
careful of. But John was more open to things like
that.

Trouble is, in trying to set the record straight I don't

want to blame John. I did this thing recently with
Hunter Davies and they pulled out the one line,
'John could be a manoeuvring swine'. Well, I still
stick to that, but I'd better not say it to The Sun
because I'm just going to get hauled over the coals
again.

Anyway, I was telling you about the marriage breakup thing. Yoko came through London and visited us,
which was very nice. Linda and I were just married
and living in this big old house in St John's Wood.
She came by and we started talking, and obviously
the important subject for us is: what's happened?
You've broken up then? I mean, you're here and
he's there.

I'll tell you exactly why I said that. We had a

business meeting to break up The Beatles, one of
the famous ones that we'd been having we're
still having them 17 years later, actually. We all flew
in to New York specially. George came off his
disastrous tour, Ring of flew in and we were at the
Plaza for the big final settlement meeting. John was
half a mile away at the Dakota and he sent a
balloon over with a note that said 'Listen to this
balloon'. I mean, you've got to be pretty cool to
handle that kind of stuff.

She was very nice and confided in us but she was

being very strong about it. She said. No, he's got to
work his way back. I said, Well look, do you still love
him?, and she said, Yes. So I said, Well, would you
think it was an intrusion if I said to him 'Look, man,
she loves you and there's a way to get back'
sounds like a Beatles' song and I said 'Would
that be OK?'

George blew his cool and rang him up: 'You fucking
maniac!! You take your fucking dark glasses off and
come and look at us, man!!' and gave him a whole
load of that shit. Around the same time at another
meeting we had it all settled, and John asked for an
extra million pounds at the last minute. So of course
that meeting blew up in disarray. Later, when we got
a bit friendlier and from time to time there would
be these little stepping-stones of friendship in the
Apple sea I asked him why he'd actually wanted
that million and he said, I just wanted cards to play
with. It's absolutely standard business practice. He

She said she didn't mind and we went out to visit

him in L.A. in that house where all the crazy things
went on and I took him into the back room and said,
This girl of yours, she really still loves you. Do you
love her? And he said he did but he didn't know
what to do.
So I said. You're going to have to work your little
ass off, man. You have to get back to New York, you
have to take a separate flat, you have to send her

332

wanted a couple of jacks to up your pair of nines.

He was one great guy, but part of his greatness was
that he wasn't a saint.

kid know of life and religion or anything? He'd just

been whipped up.
It's like Phillip Norman's book Shout. It's shameful
the way it says that George spent the whole of his
career holding a plectrum waiting for a solo. To
dismiss George like that is just stupid, nothing less.
George was a major influence musically. Trouble is
with all these guys, when they come to interview
you they come with a clipboard of facts that they've
got from the files. That's how Willie Russell wrote
his play, John, Paul, George, Ringo and Bert.
That's how I've become known as the one who
broke up the Beatles.

You got an awful lot of shit for saying "It's a drag"

after he'd been killed.
Yea. I think why some politicians are so successful
is that they have a little bleeper box in their heads
and before they say something they run things
through and they can see it as a headline. If it
doesn't look good they edit it. I have that
sometimes, but in moments like that all my bleepers
go out the window. I just came out of the place and
somebody just stuck the proverbial microphone in
the window of the car, which I'm mad enough to
have open because, you see, I'm quite outgoing
and I was telling the fans 'Thank you, it's alright'.
You know. Fab Macca, thumbs aloft, wacky to me
that's just being nicethat's just ordinary. I'm not
going to carry any can for that kind of shit, for me
that was OK Sticking my thumb up isn't some
armour against the fans, it's just a perfectly
straightforward way of being friendly with people.

The only thing I'm thankful for is that now the truth
is starting to come out, and when I see that
wedding changed to funeral, I start to realise that it
was John's problem, not mine.
What was his problem, do you think?
Heroin, a slight problem.
When did you know he was doing heroin?

But, anyway, I said, It's a dra-a-ag.' If I could've I

might've just lengthened that word 'drag' for about a
thousand years, to get the full meaning. Hunter
Davies was on television that night, giving a very
reasoned account of John, and all the puppets
sprang right up there. I thought it was well tasteless.
Jesus Christ, ready with the answers, aren't we?
Aren't we just ready with a summary? Mind you,
Hunter admitted to us years ago that he already
had our obituaries written. They're on file at The
Times and they just update them, which is chilling
to learn.

When he was living in Montagu Square with Yoko

after he'd split up with Cynthia. He never actually
told us, no one ever actually saw him take it, but we
heard. I was very lucky to miss that whole scene. I
was the first one on coke in the group, which
horrified the whole group, and I just thought, No
sweat. The minute I stopped, the whole record
industry got into it and has never stopped since.
I knew the time was up when I saw Jim Webb Up
Up And Away! offering me a toot. I thought,
Hello, this is getting way too popular.

The question is, which is the more sensitive: my

thing or his thing? He was the one I rang up about
'manoeuvring swine' too, so it shows what a buddy
he is, he immediately put it in print.

When was this that you were doing it?

In LA, it was Sgt. Pepper time, it was my circle of
friends: the William Burroughs, the Robert Frasers,
the Rolling Stones crowd, and we'd use it to wake
up after the pot. But that was quite shortlived and I
hated it. I soon got the message that it was a big
downer.

That incident reminded me of John saying 'We're

bigger than Jesus', which was a Maureen Cleave
article for the Evening Standard. John and Maureen
were good friends and in context it was actually
John saying to the church, Hey, wake up! We're
bigger than you.

There's a story that sums up all that drugs thing.

When I went out to LA at the time of that Pussy
Cats album I was offered angel dust. I said, What is
it? and they said, It's an elephant tranquillizer, and
I said to the guy, Is it fun? He thought for a
moment and said, No it's not fun. So I said, OK, I
won't have any then. That sums it up, you know.
You had anything, man, even if it wasn't fun! You
sort of had to do it peer pressure.

But you take it out of context, you send it to Selma,

Alabama, you put it on the front page and you've
got little 11-year-olds thumping on your coach
window saying, 'Blasphemer! Devil Worshipper!'
and I'll never forget the sight of a little blond kid
trying to get to us, and he would have done it, if
he'd have got to us. I mean, at 11, what does this

333

I was given a lot of stick for being the last one to

take acid. I wish I'd held out now in a way, Although
it was the times. I don't really regret anything
actually. I remember John going on The Old Grey
Whistle Test and saying, Paul only took it four
times! We all took it twenty times!! It was as if you'd
scored points...

the monitor, shouting, 'No, this plug doesn't go

here! ' I thought, Hello, we have problems. The
worst moment was watching it on telly later.
The event itself was so great, but it wasn't for my
ego. It was for people who are dying and it raised
over 50 million, and so it was like having been at
the battle of Agincourt. It's something you'll tell your
grandchildren about. I know Paul Simon slightly
regrets that he didn't do it. He was asked, but he
had other things to do. I very nearly didn't do it; Bob
just badgered me into it.

Real twenty pints a night stuff, isn't it?

It really is!! That's it, exactly! Very northern. It's the
same thing. If you get it right with one crowd; of
people, it's wrong with another crowd, so you can't
win, basically. But it was great times and I really
don't regret it. I love a lot of what we did; we had
screwed-up moments too, but who doesn't?

That's your mother invoked in Let It Be, isn't it?

Yeah, well, I had a lot of bad times in the '60s there,
and we used to sort of probably all the drugs
lie in bed and wonder what was going on and feel
quite paranoid. I had a dream one night about my
mother. She died when I was 14 so I hadn't really
heard from her in quite a while, and it was very
good. It gave me some strength. In my darkest hour
Mother Mary comes to me. I don't know whether
you've got parents that are still living, but if you
do I get dreams with John in, and my Dad. It's
very nice because you meet them again. It's
wondrous, it's like magic. Of course, you're not
meeting them, you're meeting yourself, or
whatever

Like Geldof there's this guy who does great stuff,

but that doesn't mean that he's a saint. In fact, it's
often the opposite with these people; it just means
that they've got Go Power.
I love the story where they finished the USA For
Africa record and Geldof is buzzing and Michael
Jackson and his family were having a light meal at
about three in the morning. They're all devout
Jehovah's Witnesses and they were all sitting there
and Bob walks in and says, 'You lot fucking disgust
me!!' The jaws just drop.
He didn't make himself too wildly popular. I think
that's why he got a bit elbowed in the States. They
never mention him. It's the American guy they
always mention. I don't even know what his name
is. Ken something. They all thank him. They never
say, 'And by the way, he got the idea off this mad
Irish bog bandit'.

What about Lady Madonna?

How did you feel at Live Aid? The first time you'd
been on stage for ages and it all went wrong.

Was your mother a very strong force in your life?

Lady Madonna's all women. How do they do it?

bless 'em it's that one, you know. Baby at your
breast, how do they get the time to feed them?
Where do you get the money? How do you do this
thing that women do?

Well, I loved her, you know, yeah.

When the mic went? I felt very strange. It was very
loosely organised and I turned up not knowing quite
what was expected of me, other than that I had to
do Let It Be. So I sat down at the piano, looked
around for a cue to go, and there was just one
roadie, and I looked at him for a signal. I started
and the monitor was off and I thought, No sweat,
this is BBC, this is world television, someone's
bound to have a feed, it's just that my monitor's off.

Was it very traumatic when she died?

Yeah, but I'm a bit of a cover-up. There are many
people like me in the world who don't find it easy to
have public grief. But that was one of the things that
brought John and I very close together. We used to
actually talk about it, being 16 or 17. We actually
used to know, not in a cynical way, but a way that
was accepting the reality of the situation, how
people felt when they said, 'How's your mother?'
And we'd say, well, she's dead. We almost had a
sort of joke, we'd have to say, It's alright, don't
worry. We'd both lost our mothers. It was never
really spoken about much; no-one really spoke
about anything real. There was a famous
expression: 'Don't get real on me, man.'

Then I wondered if the audience could hear

because I knew some of the words of Let It Be
were kind of relevant to what we were doing.
Anyway, I thought, This is OK, they can hear me,
they're singing along. I just had to keep going, so it
was very embarrassing. The terrible thing was that
in the middle I heard the roadies come through on

334

How did you feel about all the stick Linda got?

had a completely different perception of the whole

thing. I met a nurse recently who was a Wings fan! I
mean, forget me, forget The Beatles, she was an
actual die-hard Wings fan. I didn't think they
existed.

I feel sorry for her. She got a lot of stick, more than
we admit to.
It presumably affected your relationship in some
way?

A lot of the younger people coming up didn't really

know the Beatles history. There are people who
don't know what Sgt. Pepper was. We find it a bit
difficult to understand. It's like not knowing what
War And Peace is.So it's OK. I was never very
pleased with the whole thing, but I'm warming to it
now. I'm starting to look at it through my own eyes,
and saying, Wait a minute. What did we do? Where
did we go wrong? Most people would give their right
arm for the Wings career, to have hits as big as
Mull Of Kintyre, My Love, Band On The Run,
Maybe I'm Amazed.

It made us stronger, really; the thing I'm beginning

to understand now about Linda was that we were
just two people who liked each other and found a lot
in common and fell in love, got married and found
that we liked it. To the world, of course, she was the
girl that Paul McCartney had married, and she was
a divorcee, which didn't seem right. People
preferred Jane Asher. Jane Asher fitted. She was a
better Fergie.
Linda wasn't a very good Fergie for me, and people
generally tended to disapprove of me marrying a
divorcee and an American. That wasn't too clever.
None of that made a blind bit of difference; I
actually just liked her, I still do and that's all it's to do
with.

But it came to an end when you were busted in

Japan. How did that happen?
It happened because we got some good grass in
America and no-one could face putting it down the
toilet. It was an absolutely crazy move. We knew we
weren't going to get any in Japan. Anybody else
would have given it to their roadies, but I didn't want
them to take the rap. It was lying on top of the
bloody suitcase. I'll never forget the guy's face as
he pulled it out. He almost put it back. He just did
not want the embarrassment. But it's a hysterical
subject and I'd prefer to skirt round it these days,
because I don't want any of the pressures that go
with it, so I'm telling everyone, stay clean, be cool.

I mean, we got married in the craziest clothes when

I look back on it. We didn't even bother to buy her a
decent outfit. I can see it all now; I can see why
people were amazed that I'd put her in the group. At
the time it didn't seem the least bit unusual. I even
had quotes from Jagger saying, 'Oh, he's got his old
lady up onstage man.'
A lot of people give her stick for playing with one
finger, but as a matter of fact they weren't
polyphonic, the Moogs, in those days. You can only
play them with one finger; you can play them with
five if you like, but only one's gonna register, so it's
things like that all added to the picture, and by the
time she did the '76 tour with Wings, she was well
good at stuff and actually I was quite surprised, I
mean, she was holding down the keyboard job with
one of the big bands in the world. From knowing
nothing! I mean, the balls of the girl!

I'm pretty straight. I know what crazy is.

Chris Salewicz, 1986

George Harrison Surfaces

With A Cheery Hello
Charles Bermant, The Globe and Mail, 26 September

But along with the public condemnations, there

were always millions of people who liked her. Our
shows always did OK, and our records occasionally
did OK. Occasionally we'd have a whopper burger
that'd suddenly make it worthwhile. Then we'd have
our big whopper failures, but as long as you
measure them against your successes, it's alright.

1987

GEORGE HARRISON has emerged to call

attention to his future, but willingly discusses his
past.
As a Beatle Harrison was all hair, knees and teeth,
physically and musically overshadowed by Lennon
and McCartney. Today he looks heavier and
healthier, his medium-length, styled hair is offset by
a salt-and-pepper stubble. And his warmth is
overwhelming. "I couldn't live in a house full of
journalists and have them ask me questions all the

How do you feel about the Wings output?

I was never very happy with the whole thing but I'm
actually starting to think that it was a bit churlish of
me, because I'm meeting a lot of people now who

335

time," he said. "But there are occasions like this

when I come out and say hello to people."

others). This involvement also gives him a decided

advantage in making videos, the musicians' new
medium.

Hello is in honor of Cloud 9, his ninth record of new

material since the Beatles dissolved in 1970. While
the new album is unlikely to shatter preconceived
notions about him, it reflects a new spirit of
collaboration.

He can't offer specifics about the album's first video,

although it is scheduled to be shot Wednesday in
Los Angeles. A sense of humor is insured by
director Gary Weis, whose credits include Saturday
Night Live, Paul Simon's You Can Call Me Al, and
The Rutles' All You Need Is Cash, a satirical
documentary that skewed the Beatles' history.
Harrison played a small part in All You Need Is
Cash, offering access to nuances that other
potential Beatles chroniclers did not have.

"It's handy to have someone to bounce ideas off of,"

he said. "I really miss that part of being in a group,
where you can come up with all of your own ideas,
and you have other people's ideas and they all mix
together and they become even a different idea. I
wanted to find an outside producer, someone I
really admire who would respect me and my past
and not try to turn me into something I'm not."

"The great thing about The Rutles is that it was

done with love, even though it was a send-up," he
said. "There was a good eye for detail. At the same
time, it sent up documentaries, the style and those
boring questions that they ask."

This "someone" turned out to be Jeff Lynne,

conductor of Electric Light Orchestra and a parttime purveyor of ersatz Beatles music. A mutual
friend, Dave Edmunds, brought the two together,
and they talked casually about making an album for
a year and a half. When Harrison finally decided to
record, Lynne was talked into a commitment, and
the recording took place in London from January to
August.

If The Rutles provided a whimsical glimpse of The

Beatles myth, Harrison feels the many "serious"
biographies offer a more myopic and subsequently
less accurate view.
"A lot of the stuff in the books is just wrong
factually," he said. "They are written out of malice,
or from people with axes to grind for one reason or
another. And they've perverted certain things for
their own gain. Not many are actually factual and
honest. You probably know more about the Beatles,
from reading those books, than there actually was.

The album features a combination of Harrison

stalwarts and British rock royalty. The drumming is
shared between Ringo Starr and Jim Keltner. Eric
Clapton and Elton John play on three songs each.
With the Beatles, Harrison's guitar playing was
subtle, sharp and short. On Cloud 9, there are still
no long solos, but it seems that every open space is
filled by a slide guitar lick.

"Basically the Beatles phenomenon was bigger than

life. The reality was that we were just four people as
much caught up in what was happening at that
period of time as anybody else."

Harrison feels that his best songs come from an

unexplained source. 'Here Comes the Sun' and
'Blow Away' were written in minutes. 'Savoy Truffle'
found its inspiration from the inside of a chocolate
box. And the new album's 'Just For Today' has its
lyrical basis in an Alcoholics Anonymous pamphlet.

The release of Beatles albums on compact disc

motivated many people to buy CD players. One of
those was Harrison, who has mixed feelings about
the enhanced sound.
"I still prefer the old versions, how I remember them
on vinyl," he said. "There's a lot of stuff that you can
hear now that's good. In some cases, there's a lot
of stuff that you shouldn't hear that's now
noticeable. On Sgt. Pepper I keep hearing this
horrible sounding tambourine that leaps out of the
right speaker. It was obviously in the original mix,
but it was never that loud."

"So many just come out of the blue," he said of his

songs. "I see something that will trigger a song, I
just sit down for an hour or two hours or however
long that it takes and come out with a little cassette
or bit of plastic and say 'listen to this.' I don't know
where it comes from, the ability to be able to piece
together bits of nothing and make it into something
that's worth listening to."

The good news about the CD's aural depth is

countered by the fact that about 30 Beatles
releases are not included, from Harrison's own 'The
Inner Light' to hits like 'I Want to Hold Your Hand'
and 'Hey Jude'.

While he has not been musically prolific (Cloud 9 is

his first album in more than four years), he has
become more visible as a movie producer (Life of
Brian, Time Bandits and Yellowbeard, among

336

"I'm sure they'll come out," he said. "I suppose you

could put them in the sequence they were recorded,
as we advanced and our technique progressed,
then you'd hear them in proper order. Or you could
put all the singles on one and the B-sides on
another. But it's none of our business any more,
when our contract expired we lost any control we
had over the Beatles' product."

Sutcliffe has a moist paper hanky about his

person.
Paul McCartney sat, guitar on knee, alone in front
of an audience of 10,000 or so. He paused a
moment while they quietened and settled. Then,
"Yesterday," he sang. The crowd stirred. "Love was
such an easy game to play." There was an odd
noise, a sort of groan from a mass of voices. It
seemed to come rolling down from every corner of
the auditorium. "Now I need a place to hide away."
Close to the stage someone said, very loudly,
"Rubbish?" and in the penumbra of McCartney's
spotlight it was obvious that the front rows were
turning away.

This loss of control resulted in the use of

'Revolution' as part of a Nike commercial. Harrison
said the Beatles could have made commercials
from the beginning, but thought it cheapened their
music.
He also sheds some light on how 'Revolution'
ended up as a sneaker theme. "From what I
understand, they were just going to use the song,
re-record it with Julian Lennon, but Yoko got really
pissed off at that idea because I don't think she
likes Julian. So she insisted that it be the Beatles
version.

"Yesterday..." he sang, then paused, his face

suddenly stricken. "Thingy thingy thingy lalala." All
he could see was people's backs and, in the black
distance, the glimmer of cigarette ends and the
occasional flare of a lighter moving steadily
towards the exits. He jumped off the stool, spun
round and yelled, "Right, lads, Long Tall Sally!
That'll get 'em! One, two, three!" But the crowd kept
going. Soon the sound took on an eerie echoey
quality...

"But she had no right to insist that. It's in the

Beatles' and Apple's interest not to have our
records touted about on TV commercials, otherwise
all the songs we made could be advertising
everything from hot dogs to ladies' brassieres."

And then he woke up.

Aside from Sessions, a collection of out-takes once

intended for legitimate release and available as a
bootleg, there is no vault filled with rare Beatles
material. Harrison said everything the Beatles
finished was released.

"True!" says McCartney, half an hour before he's

due onstage at the Rotterdam Ahoy stadium.
"That's my nightmare and I've had it several times
over the years. Actors have their own version of it:
they walk on stage and go (strikes a mockShakespearean pose), Sirrah! Er. Bloody hell, what
the fuck is this? Macbeth? Hamlet? Eek! My dream
used to be with the Beatles, but now it's with my
current band.

"What never came out was stuff that wasn't

supposed to be a record," he said. "That is to say if
we were rehearsing things and someone happened
to leave the tape running. It's not supposed to
represent the Beatles or the music. But people want
to scrape the barrel for anything they can find."

"Still, it hasn't actually happened yet. I have missed

me words once or twice, mind. I was watching one
girl in the front row the other night, during I Saw
Her Standing There, Lyon it was, and I went
[sings], I'll never dance with another and she went
'with a number' and I thought, Wro-ong, na-na! But
in the second verse I went 'I wouldn't dance...' and
the guy I was looking at went 'She wouldn't
dance ... ' and I thought, Bloody hell, he's right!"

Charles Bermant, 1987

Paul McCartney: The Support Group

Phil Sutcliffe, Q, February 1990
They are a bona fide rock'n'roll family unit, in
the magnanimous if somewhat fanciful
view of their proprietor. And his band back him
up with a mixture of show-stopping enthusiasm
and hushed respect. But be warned: The Paul
McCartney Tour bringing you many Beatles
songs never previously performed live! is
inciting scenes of teenage dementia and
causing grown persons to weep. Even Phil

"Yesterday," he sings and the Rotterdam crowd

sighs, all but melts. "Love was such an easy game
to play." They are entranced. There's a murmur of
voices singing along, very quietly. It rises to meet
McCartney's the sound matching rapt
expressions on faces tracing reverence, personal
memories, and the here-and-now of a beautiful
song. A few people are in tears, men and women of
a certain age. It's no cause for embarrassment. This

337

is The Beatles. For a few moments they are

drowning in their past. Their whole lives are passing
before their eyes. "Oh, I believe in yesterday..."

the hair on the back of your neck's going to stand

on end at least once a night. Last night it was Let It
Be."

The sombre cello and violins quietly state the

closing line. A silence hangs in the air for a second,
then the whole place roars. Amid that roar a familiar
guitar pulse builds in a crescendo until McCartney
spins back to the mike and, "Jojo was a man who
thought he was a loner..." The Ahoy erupts, 8,000
people bouncing up and down. And then, no, it
couldn't be, nobody's ever heard this played live
before, have they? "Once there was a way to get
back homeward" The final minutes of Abbey
Road. Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight and,
of course, The End.

"The Beatles stuff is sacred; it is to me anyway,"

says Mclntosh, sprawled across a sofa, trying to
relax. "I don't want to take too many liberties.
There's no point in being clever-clever. I stick to the
basic parts and where there's a solo I play that
different every night except on Can't Buy Me
Love, that is. The original solo is double-tracked
and me and Paul play it together on stage."
"That was the big question for me," says Whitten.
"Was I going to be Chris Whitten or Ringo Starr?
Paul always said, Do what you like, put some of
yourself in. But I mainly keep the classic Ringo fills.
Most people don't realise he was the ultimate
simple, tasteful drummer, very innovative. The
Beatles were always trying something new, they
just wanted to be off the wall all the time.

"And in the end the love you take/Is equal to the

love you make," says Wix, the one-man keyboard
orchestra in the McCartney back line. "That's the
last sentence of the last album they ever made, it's
the last line of our show, and it sums up everything
the Beatles were about. I walk off two feet above
the stage after that."

"What's strange for us is that we do a Beatles song

and everyone's going crazy, then we switch to This
One after Eleanor Rigby, or Put It There after
Can't Buy Me Love and at first they're a bit
dubious, but then it's, Hey, this is all right! We're
winning them over. Flowers In The Dirt does stand
up. Paul pulled it out of the bag, we sweated blood
over it and it's worthy of being huge which it isn't
so far, although it was critically acclaimed. I've got
no axe to grind, I'm not on a royalty and my career
isn't on the line, but my little mission is to turn more
people on to it."

Eking out the time between soundcheck and show

in their brick-walled, moquette-upholstered dressing
room, the band are edgy. Wix, Robbie Mcintosh
(guitar), Hamish Stuart (guitar/bass) and Chris
Whitten (drums) take turns on the toilet and make
dutifully laddish comments about "seeing an old
friend off on a long voyage" and the pong generated
by the previous occupant. Chosen for their affability
rating as well as their redoubtable skills, they were
gradually assembled throughout the recording of
Flowers In The Dirt.

"The Beatles songs mean so much to people,

though," says Stuart. "You can see it in their faces."

"Abbey Road was the first album I ever bought,"

says Wix, who is 33. "I know it note for note and
that end medley is my favourite section. I used to sit
there with the headphones on and imagine being
onstage playing it."

"It's hard to know whether you're still hitting the

spot," says Whitten. "When you're talking about
people's lives being touched by this music, it would
be easy to miss the point, wouldn't it? We've got a
duty to be 110 per cent every time. There's a funny
thing happens some nights. You finish Abbey Road
and there's a silence and for a moment you think
you must have completely blown it but it's
because the whole crowd's sort of stunned. It must
be that feeling of it's one time only and now it's
over."

"Yeah, when the thought of doing Abbey Road

came up, Wix and Robbie were frothing at the
mouth trying to persuade Paul," says Whitten.
"They knew all the Beatles songs first time, all the
chords, all the changes, all the words, especially
Robbie. In fact, they had to remind Paul of a few
things because he hasn't played a lot of them since
he recorded them."

That Tuesday morning it had been eight o'clock

when the day began at the McCartneys' farm on
the European tour, whenever there was a clear day
between gigs, they and the band flew home. Linda
and Paul were both up to cook breakfast and make
a packed lunch for 12-year-old James before
rushing him off to catch the school bus. There was
time for a chat with their daughter Stella, 18 and in

"I learned them when I was in a Top 40 covers

group in Scotland in the late '60s," says Stuart,
unlike the others a former frontman himself, as lead
singer with Average White Band in their '70s
heyday. "It's funny, I always used to do Paul's parts,
but now I'm singing John. You're guaranteed that

338

her "A" level year. Then they went out to take the
air, ride their horses, maybe a bit of wild West
Sussex cowboy fun rounding up their sheep for
dipping.

concerned parent, not an ecological expert and,

yes, he realised that jet planes were ecologically a
bad thing but all the planet's environmental
problems couldn't be solved at once.

"It's everything to me," says Linda. "Your own bed,

get up and make a [breaks into New York Cockney]
noyce cuppa tea, get the house in order, see the
horses that's what I'm about."

A little locally-angled anecdote about The Beatles

buying capes in Amsterdam is told, everyone
laughs, and McCartney moves off into the adjacent
room to do three TV interviews in the next half hour.

At 3.20 that afternoon the McCartney BA111, a fullsize airliner converted to an 18-seater for the mogul
charter trade, taxis up to the unimposing terminal
building at Rotterdam's strictly third division airport.
The media welcome is anything but modest,
though. Every newspaper, magazine, TV and radio
station in the Netherlands seems to be represented
on the tarmac.

It's 5.30. Time for the soundcheck. Musos' playtime

they cruise through Marvin Gaye's What's Going
On, Gerry & The Pacemakers' Don't Let The Sun
Catch You Crying, standards Summertime and
Don't Get Around Much Anymore, their own
revamp of a music hall comic song If I Were Not
Upon The Stage and hardly anything from the
concert set. Well aware she's not in this league,
Linda wanders about the stage with her camera.
When they're done, she goes back to her
keyboards and doodles a very quiet, slow Poison
Ivy with Hamish Stuart picking along.

The passenger door opens and the McCartneys

pause at the top of the steps while the flashguns
open fire. In such circumstances it's hard to act like
anything other than visiting potentates, which they
do momentarily, until Paul starts into the
thumbsaloft while Linda laughs and thrusts out
straightarmed V-for-peace signs like karate moves.
Within seconds the whole party is swept away,
Dutch customs evidently taking not the slightest
interest: the artists into three Cadillac stretch
limousines, the artisans into a minibus.

There's an hour and a half left for McCartney to

sample the tour catering (veggie of course), check
out the latest edit of the video for the Figure Of
Eight single, maybe shoot a little promo film for the
benefit album put together by The Beatles' producer
George Martin (raising funds to repair the damage
Hurricane Gilbert did on Montserrat, where he owns
Air Studios), or even do another interview.

By 4.15pm the band are strolling through the Ahoy's

backstage labyrinth. Paul and Linda walk arm in
arm, greeting members of the crew they'd last seen
in Lyon on the Sunday night. "Stand by your beds,"
says Paul to one bulky roadie who has turned
sharply his way as if about to stand to attention and
salute. McCartney seems slightly uneasy that he
might be seen as some kind of dignitary or a
commanding officer inspecting the troops.

"Aaaaah!" McCartney roars, a small gesture

towards vocal exercise from a devoutly untrained
singer. "Right, monkey," says, doing his Northern
aldermanic voice. To talk, he's stepped into a bare
ante-room nobody has claimed, because his own
dressing room is cluttered with friends and aides of
various sorts.
It's only when you get within six feet of him that the
minor facial bags and sags of what he calls "a
sailor's life" become apparent. His rolled
shirtsleeves reveal very hairy forearms, thick as a
brickie's from 30 years on bass. He wears slim-fit
black Levi's the road has already reduced the
over-cosy girth he sported during the summer. He's
eating vegetable curry, at this stage of a
hardpressed evening sure sign of an iron-clad
stomach, and he makes a convincing enough denial
of any nervous attacks as he approached his first
live shows (apart from Live Aid and the Prince's
Trust) since 1976.

Then, somewhat mysteriously, he drops out of sight

only to reappear minutes later at a backstage press
conference. Such faintly magical manoeuvres are a
speciality of the tour security expert, a mild, almost
professorial German-American with a background
in Vietnam, Bruce Lee movies and hunting the
Baader-Meinhof Gang.
So McCartney faces the press, as ever with winning
smile, although it's already the tour's fourteenth city
in its eighth country, concerts 25 to 28. Everywhere
he goes he works hard on the same old questions:
The Beatles' break-up was very painful but now the
wounds have healed, that's why he wants to do the
songs again; Elvis Costello was a stimulating
collaborator, not a replacement for John; he was
campaigning for Friends Of The Earth as a

"I was expecting to be terrified," he says, "but I

wasn't too bad at all. Funny, really."

339

However, "pull the other one" is what members of

his inner team and, indeed, everyone who
witnessed his "public rehearsal" at the Playhouse
Theatre in London back on July 27 will say to that.
McCartney and the band played and sang
encouragingly well, but between numbers... strong
men winced and regretted the lack of sufficient
hands to cover their eyes and stick fingers in their
ears at the same time. McCartney babbled
asides to the band, lame jokes, terminally
interminable rabbit and then, worse, seeing her
angst-ridden husband smitten with verbal diarrhoea,
wanting to help but not knowing how, Linda joined
in piling on the agony. There were fears abroad that
McCartney's always showbizzy view of "stagecraft"
had, with the passing years, slipped completely out
of wack.

But McCartney isn't only the living legend

entertaining the multitudes with some of the
greatest music ever written Mr Thumbs Aloft is
also the boss. For instance, it's well known on the
tour team that some of the band were not at all
happy when a memo came round informing them
that their presence was "requested" on the flights
home. They understood the McCartneys'
preoccupation with seeing their children and, often,
it would have been convenient for all of them, but it
sounded too much like an edict.
"I was asked if I wanted the band to travel with us
and what I said was, As a general vibe, at risk of
sounding like a tourist guide, I'd like us to stick
together," says McCartney. "The Beatles were the
four-headed monster, as Mick Jagger, I think, once
called us. Together all the time. Someone hears a
great record and you all hear it, someone tells a
great joke and you all laugh at it, you get more in
tune with one another. Otherwise a band can
become a little club and you can find yourself
excluded."

Thankfully, though, to the admitted relief of those

"sources close to", and without discussion other
than (it is thought) "domestically", the McCartneys
have simply calmed down and shut up. The show is
now friendly but ultra-tight patter pared back to
neat, short announcements every three or four
numbers, the front rows showered with sweat rather
than verbosity (wardrobe has been astonished by
McCartney's prodigies of perspiration; run those
Levi's through a mangle after the show and you
could irrigate a smallholding). McCartney's usual
confident reflections on handling an audience are
no longer in danger of sounding absurd.

This last point in particular was the subject of

mature consideration by the band. They soon
realised who was most likely to suffer this exclusion
from "band vibe" McCartney himself and why,
and decided to accept the stressful travel
arrangements with the good grace and
magnanimity for which, in a sense, they had
originally been chosen.

"I always feel I've got to talk to the audience," he

says. "They're a bunch of people in the same room
as me and I'm not gonna ignore 'em. And then you
see a friendly face or a father with a kid on his
shoulders or a couple kissing and you think,
Brilliant, that's cool. There are lots of young girls in
the audience, too. They throw flowers." His earnest
expression becomes a slow smile. "I don't know
whether it's friendship or lust... but I'm spoken for
and it's more than my life is worth to even consider
it. Well, you get to a point where it's neither here nor
there."

But although McCartney finds it hard to talk about

the more complex aspects of being the proprietor,
he does admit to applying Scouse bluntness quite
liberally when the outside world isn't watching.
"When something goes wrong I don't see any point
in retiring to my caravan muttering," he says. "I just
tell 'em. Like when we were recording for the tour
video at a soundcheck and my right-hand man,
John Hammel, came onstage to plug in a guitar and
it started crackling, I told him to fuck off.
[Demonstrates very loudly] Fuck off, John! My
daughter, Stella, was there and she said, That was
a bit strong, dad. But there comes a point where
you realise it's just too twee to be embarrassed
about being the boss. It's real life. Anyway, if you
repress it, one day you'll burst, flip out. Linda says
I'm lucky that way because I get it all out."

Of course, these days fond, and doubtless

cathartic, Beatles reminiscences are never far from
his lips.
"It's like one of the lighting guys said to me, some of
the songs we did are musical icons," he says. "The
orchestral rise in Day In The Life, the mumbling at
the beginning of Sgt. Pepper, or the first notes of
Hey Jude. They place you in history. You think, Oh
God, I remember where I was when I first heard
that. Even I do it. It's The Beatles, all that
excitement. And then for me it's like reclaiming them
as mine after all this time."

In fact, the impression is that they have survived

and remain plainly indispensable to one another, in
their late forties often still walking around
unselfconsciously hand in hand, because they have
always been ready to argue the toss with one
another. They're at no pains to hide disagreements.
For instance, Linda says she wishes that, onstage,

340

Paul would make far more than a brief

announcement about FOE.

"I heard someone yelling, Go straight into the

song!" says Stuart. "Then we were in the first
chorus and suddenly I see it starting to wobble its
way across the arena, no smoke, no lights."

"Yeah, she would tell you that and good on 'er,"

says McCartney, "but I have to do it my way. You
know, just because she's my missus I don't do
everything she tells me what's the time?"

"I didn't know whether to laugh or cry," says Linda.

"It's a dumb idea."

Ten past eight.

"Yes, my dear, your views are well-known and will

be given full consideration," says McCartney. He
takes a consoling swallow of Martini. "Still, we've all
been through worse than that, haven't we? You
should have seen some of the things that happened
with my biggest band."

"Bloody hell, I'm on in five minutes. See ya."

While the last chords of The End still shimmer in
the PA, the band embark on what they call "the
runner" though it hardly seems the appropriate
term as they shuffle wearily away down the tunnel
to the exit, huddled into stripy wool dressing-gowns
like inmates of an old folk's home being shepherded
to their beds. For those few moments they are
drenched in the fatigue of 135 minutes non-stop, 29
songs, the highs and lows, the sheer intensity
involved in playing pieces of history.

"Magic moments," says Stuart.

"Dean Martin!" says McCartney.
"No. It was Perry Como."
"You sure? I must be thinking of Catch A Falling
Star. Good old Dino, eh?"

Quickly, they come out of it. McCartney and Stuart

let go a few trial whoops and hollers. Linda dives
into a cupboard and comes up with plastic cups and
some bottles. Champagne for the majority, Martini
for her husband. There had been a lot of talk
backstage about it being the best gig yet. Whoo!

"That was Perry Como, too."

McCartney shakes his head and takes another
swig.

"George Martin gave his seal of approval," Wix is

telling someone quietly. "George Martin. I mean, I'm
playing the parts he wrote. I had a real twinge in
Yesterday. I was thinking, Oh no, he's going to
hate all these synthesizers. But he didn't. He just
wanted to know how it was done. "

Someone goes into the whistling "break" on Magic

Moments.

Pretty soon, though, the back-slapping euphoria

collapses into laughter about The Plane. Not the
real one they shuttle home on, but the "spectacular"
special effect they have been planning to introduce
since the first date in Oslo: an actual-size facsimile
of a Harrier jump-jet covered in peace slogans
which, just before the band go into Back In The
USSR, is supposed to swoop out of a hangar at the
rear of the stadium, belching smoke and ablaze
with lights, to bomb the crowd with petals. After
many an afternoon fiasco this had been its first
public outing and the dread words Spinal and Tap
are on everyone's lips. From the moment the jet
engine sound effects thundered out of the PA,
humiliation had been on the cards.

"What?" says Linda.

"Now that does take me back," says McCartney.

"Walking round the lake in Sefton Park, whistling
Magic Moments, cruising for girls."

"Before your time, my dear," he says, grinning at a

ring of grinning faces, the band. "Hey, after the gig
it's the best time, eh?" Then, "Well, it's a good
night out, isn't it?"
Phil Sutcliffe, 1990
Paul McCartney
Mat Snow, Mojo, November 1995
WHATEVER PAUL McCARTNEY is on in 1995,
they should dump it in the water supply. Talcumpink of complexion and trim of figure, only a curious
russet tinge to the hair on both his head and, more
curiously still, his forearms hints at his 53 years.
Otherwise he retains the legendary combination of

"It was [Hughie Green routine], And now, for The

Plane, opportunity knocks! But where the fuck was
it?" says McCartney.

341

old school self-promotion and unflappable

professional pride.

But what if John was on, the three of us and John,

like a real new record? If only we could pull off the
impossible, that would be more fun, a bigger
challenge, just (adopts Irish brogue) the full monty. I
talked to Yoko about that and she said she had
these three tracks, including Free As A Bird.

Far sharper than his dope-pixillated reputation,

McCartney talks in the manner of one downloading
the word to a point one inch in front of your nose.
Yet he ensures you go home warmed by an
individually tailored Paul Moment; in my case, I
walk into his London office music room to familiar
strains vamping and hollering alone at the piano
Macca in Kansas City mode, just for me. Like the
man says, Wow.

Do you remember Free As A Bird as a late-'70s

demo?
I don't know its history. Someone like Mark
Lewisohn will know that exactly. I don't know the
history as well as people who analyse it and study
it. I just live it. Yoko said, "I've got a couple of tracks
I'll play you, you might be interested." I'd never
heard them before though she explained that
they're quite well known to Lennon fans, as
bootlegs. I fell in love with Free As A Bird I said,
"I'd love to have a go at that."

Why after all these years did you re-activate The

Beatles?
It was actually when the business problems got
solved. The first thing we started talking about after
the dust had settled was maybe we could do
something together, maybe we don't have to live
our lives completely separately from here on in. We
know each other, we're now friendly. Just for the joy
of getting together and doing something.

I played these songs to the other guys, warning

Ringo to have his hanky ready. He was very up for
it, George was very up for it, I was very up for it. I
actually originally heard it as a big orchestral '40s
Gershwin thing, but it didn't turn out like that. Often
your first vibe isn't always the one. You go through a
few ideas and someone goes "bloody hell" and it
gets knocked out fairly quickly. In the end, we
decided to do it very simply.

We thought it might be a good idea, while we had

some memory left, to try and remember the stories
ourselves, to check them against each other and
get something definitive down, to set right some of
the odd books and little rumours that have come
about. We're all alive and compos mentis so maybe
we should have a go just for a laugh, and if it
doesn't work, we'll knock it on the head. It was
going to be called Long And Winding Road. Then
our old mate Neil Aspinall at Apple started to put it
together. He said it could be an anthology, the
whole thing, CDs tracing the whole Beatles story.

There were all kinds of technical difficulties 'cos it

was just a mono cassette with John's voice and
piano locked into one track. Technically it was very
challenging, so we gave that to the technical
challenge team, headed by Jeff Lynne. The lyrics in
the middle weren't finished which was even more
exciting for me 'cos then that was really like working
on a record with John, as Lennon/McCartney or
Lennon/McCartney/Harrison 'cos we all chipped in
a bit on this one.

So the project arose as a reason for you to be

together?
Yeah, it was like "what shall us do now?". Then the
exciting thing became to work with an old demo of
John's. That really put the icing on the cake.

When we'd done it, I thought, We've done the

impossible. Because John's been dead and you
can't bring dead people back. But somehow we did
he was in the studio. I invented a little scenario:
he's gone away on holiday and he's just rung us up
and he says, "Just finish this track for us, will you?
I'm sending the cassette I trust you." That was the
key thing, "I trust you just do your stuff on it." I told
this to the other guys and Ringo was particularly
pleased, and he said, "Ahh, that's great". It was
very nice and it was very irreverent towards John.
The scenario allowed us to be not too, Ahh, the
great sacred fallen hero. He would never have gone
for that. John would be the first one to debunk that
"A fucking hero a fallen hero? Fuck off, we're
making a record." He was much too practical for
that kind of stuff.

I'd been to a New Year's party in Liverpool with my

family and the feeling was so good and friendly that
I decided to ring Yoko and Sean and wish them
Happy New Year. She was a little surprised to get a
phone call from me because we've often been a bit
adversarial because of the business stuff. But we
got chatting. I rang her a few more times after that,
we got quite friendly and this idea came up. I said,
"Look, the three of us were thinking of doing a little
instrumental for the film, just to get together." But as
the thought of the three of us actually sitting down
in a studio started to get nearer and nearer, I got
cold feet about it. I thought, Does the world need a
three-quarter Beatle record?

342

So it was great, and then a year later we did

another one. It took us another year to get the
steam up to go and do it again.

When it came to watching all the footage for the

TV Anthology, did anything change your
opinion of your personal history?

Was this Real Love?

Looking at it was an amazing replay of your own

life, the official version of my life. It was a bit
shocking to see my personality so clearly portrayed,
because you don't know it people always know
you a little bit better. For me, to see me doing quite
so much (sings) "Besame, besame mucho", I'm
going, "God in heaven, what is he on?" But I was
only 22, 23 or something. I know why I did it the
best jobs we got around that time were in cabaret
clubs. So there was a call for this other edge, and I
stepped into the breech. So the biggest shock was
to see I was even cornier than I thought I was. It's
difficult to admit that for a while I was like, Oh
God, I wish they'd just take all that out and just put
in She's A Woman, Kansas City, Long Tall Sally,
all the Sgt Pepper stuff, Fixing A Hole but, of
course, that's not the truth. So that came as a bit of
a shock. It probably wouldn't come as a shock to
other people; in fact it didn't. Other people said,
"Yeah, but we know you're the one who does all
that shit!" No I don't!

This was Real Love, so we had two. That was

February this year, Free As A Bird was February
last year. So we had these two tracks that had been
a really great pleasure to work on, really cool
working with the other guys, no crazy thing about
the three of us have got to make a great new sound
or something, because it was the four of us. It really
was just The Beatles. Often in the studio one or two
of us wouldn't be there. Often if I was working on a
thing I would stay late to do the bass. So it wasn't
something we weren't used to. It was a laugh we
had a great laugh.
Did you consider doing it in any particular
Beatles style?
The great thing is we were locked with the demo.
You couldn't really change it much. So the style was
set by John which is how it used to happen in The
Beatles. I wrote Let It Be and that set the style
unless someone wanted to lift the tempo or
something. It was pretty much whoever wrote it set
the style. So, no, we didn't go, "We'll go for Beatles
circa 1967". It was Beatles now.

I suppose I've been fighting it myself. Because you

wear shades, you've got holes in your jeans, you
slouch around smoking a joint it's cooler than if
you wear a suit and cigar. I'm a bit embarrassed but
I have to own up it's a lot of what I did.

Only George Martin was missing...

Monday, June 14, 1965 was a busy day in three

entirely different styles: you recorded lead
vocals on I've Just Seen A Face, I'm Down
and Yesterday. Do you remember that day?

Yeah, George Martin was talked about I was

originally keen to have George do it because he'd
done the rest of the Anthology. I thought it might be
a bit insulting to not ask him to do this. But George
himself is backing out of production because of his
hearing. All that loud music we listened to hasn't
done our ears any favours over the years and he
being that much older and on the point of retiring
really I don't think he would have been that keen. I
talked to him about various things and he said, "Oh
Paul, you don't want me to produce; get someone
else. My hearing's not as good as it was." He's very
noble that way. He actually cares; he's got a lot of
integrity. Plus the fact that George Harrison was
keen to make sure we had someone really current
with ears. He knew Jeff Lynne. I was a bit worried
there might be a bit of a wedge...
Because he and Jeff had formed a partnership?

I don't really remember that day but because of

doing the Anthology I've just seen that, and the
most surprising fact to me was that I was 22. 'Cos
now 22 seems very young to be that accomplished
or that together. That was the way we did it. We
came into a recording scene that already existed
with the likes of Cliff Richard, The Shadows. EMI
was like the BBC. Come hell or high water, you'd
start at 10.30am and go to 1.30 that was your first
three hour session. Then you were given an hour
for lunch they didn't pay for your food at all, very
different from modern recordings where it's all laid
on. You went round the pub cheese roll, half a
lager, whatever it was back for the afternoon
session. You were expected to do at least a couple
of songs in that three-hour session.

They've worked together a lot; they've done Cloud

Nine, The Wilburys. But in fact it wasn't like that, it
was great; Jeff worked out really well. When
George Martin heard it he was very pleased with it,
so that was nice.

It was just the rate that people worked at. We know

a guy, Wally Riddley, a good friend of ours, the old
school, who used to do a whole album in that three
hour session live, maybe two takes on anything
he wasn't absolutely sure of. There were guys

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making whole albums, so it would have just seemed

really poor, feeble of us to not do at least two
tracks. That was just what they did, so you
expected yourself to come in and knock off a couple
of tracks.

session we'd get there at 10. The minute George

Martin walked in we were ready to go.
As things grew we were eventually invited into the
control room "Wow, it sounds just like a record!" I
couldn't believe it coming out the speaker with
some echo on it. Then gradually the workers started
to take over the tools; we started to get the hang of
it over the years. But originally it was still fairly Us
and Them.

Looking at it now, it seems so fast, but then it

seemed very sensible for me and John to walk in,
meet George and Ringo and George Martin, and
say, This is how it goes we would have normally
written it just the week before this is how it goes
(sings) "Is there anybody going to listen to my
story..." John would sing it, I'd play it and show
exactly how it went. Ringo would stand around with
his drumsticks. That would take five minutes, just
the length of the song. Mr George Martin might say,
"Play it one more time," and so it would take 10
minutes. But that was all. And then Ringo would
say, "OK, I know what I'll play", and George would
say, "Well, I'll use this guitar". So you'd need to sit
down for another half an hour, let's say, and play it.
Where could you go beyond that? So in half an
hour you'd done it.

Because it was four tracks it was very easy to mix. I

always remember Michelle, showing the guys how
it went, doing it and then overdubbing bass on it
because I couldn't play guitar and the bass at the
same time. Doing that took hardly any time at all,
walking upstairs, seeing the engineer with just four
little faders and we pretty much had it as a record.
You didn't need to do anything because you
recorded it as a mix; there wasn't anything hidden
later to be revealed that would get in later in the
mix, there was nowhere to hide it. It was either
there or it wasn't. We'd lift a vocal a tiny bit at one
point where the words weren't clear. You might just
lift a guitar solo, but that was all you did in the mix
and then you put it down to one little piece of
quarter-inch tape in a little slim box and that went
up on the shelf. And that is the only version you will
ever hear of Michelle. No 12-inch remixes, no
dance mixes, that was it.

So then you'd put it down, and if you didn't quite like

it you want to put a bit of overdub on Girl we a bit
of overdub, ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding.
I'd just been on a Greek holiday and I'd been very
influenced by the bouzoukis in the nightclubs, so I
suggested that Zorba-ish thing it was the year of
Zorba. Within that hour that we just talked about,
you pretty much had that take. You could have a
cup of tea, a ciggie, which was the order of the day.

There was something very complete and very

simple about that. As we go on we do more and
more takes; sometimes there'll be 17 takes, say.
You'll hear me and John singing and it's the same
every bloody time we never flag. Just the energy
of youth. You'd think, Bloody hell, how many more
times do we have to sing it? We give it full energy
every time that tape goes on. There's never, "I'll do
the vocal later." No way man, we know this could be
the one. It all must be done at this minute. For very
practical reasons 'cos like Ringo and me, the
rhythm section, the drums and bass, would be
going down to one track, irrevocably locked in
cement. If I made a mistake on the bass I couldn't
go back into that track without asking Ringo to do
his you can't unpick it. Once you've gone bock to
that one track you go over the other three.

You're all smoking like mad in the photographs.

Everybody's got ciggies, and you know what?
it's back. At the Help! sessions I did recently at
Abbey Road, everyone was smoking. I couldn't
believe it, all these young kids, imagining them all
with emphysema in 20 years' time...
And then we'd go and listen to it if they let us we
didn't always listen to the playbacks. George would
say, "Jolly good, boys, that's that one done."
Oh, OK, how was it? "Super."
In a sense, you had very low expectations.

Right up to Pepper we were doing that. Somebody

told me we only ever got into 8-track; we never did
a 16-track or 24-track recording of The Beatles.
However sophisticated we got, even Pepper, A Day
In The Life, a fairly big recording, that was four
little-biddy tracks. You had to get it right and that
meant your decisions had to come sooner.

It's just how it was. You've got to put your-self back

to that era. No, we had very high expectations but
you just didn't go in the control room. We came in
the tradesmen's entrance, unloaded our own gear
with one roadie, set all our own stuff up, tuned our
own guitars, changed all our own strings, Ringo did
his drum heads. Within 20 minutes of arriving we
were ready to go. So that meant if it was a 10.30

I just worked yesterday with Youth: the way he

works you kinda make it up in the studio and there

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never is a song until you hit a groove, like exploring

the accident. I paint a lot, so I like that, I like that
trip. I'm very schizoid about how I record. There are
two different ways. I think I like the old way better.
The new way is kind of exciting but it's so much
more indulgent and costly. Not that I'm worried
about costly but they should be.

Did you see Fats Domino when he played in

1967? I think it was at the Savile Theatre.
Yeah.
Lady Madonna was your next single...
All those things were influences. We were very
impressionable; it was a very impressionable time. I
realised the other day that I got an Aston Martin
because of a James Bond film. I hadn't twigged
that, but I must have seen the film and gone, "I want
one of them", and gone and got an Aston Martin. It's
only now I realise that it's an exact influence. Saw
the film, went and got the thing. That happened a
lot. Heard Dylan, bowled over that weekend. Went
out, John wrote Hide Your Love Away, Nowhere
Man. This was the Dylan introspective period. Lady
Madonna Fats Domino, New Orleans. It
happened like that. There's nothing like a good nick.

People say that, on hearing Pet Sounds, you

changed your way of thinking about how a
record could be made?
Yeah, it was a big influence. The instrumentation,
Brian's melodic writing and the bass lines, which
are quite imaginative. The great thing about it was a
to-and-fro thing. I was seeing this film of Don Was's
that was just on. Brian talks about that he heard
Pepper and it blew him away. But I heard Pet
Sounds before Pepper and a lot of what we did on
Pepper, in my mind, was coming from Pet Sounds. I
don't think the other guys were quite so influenced
by that record.

Where did those two perfect end-of-the-affair

ballads, For No One and Yesterday, come
from?

Did you have those orchestration ideas in your

head or did they come through
experimentation?

Yesterday came out of the blue, I've no idea where

from. I dreamed the melody. I woke up and I had
the melody in my head. It depends how far you
want to go with this; if you're very spiritual then God
sent me a melody, I'm a mere vehicle. If you wanna
be a bit more cynical, then I was loading my
computer for millions of years listening to all the
stuff I listened to through my dad and through my
musical tastes, including people like Fred Astaire,
Gershwin, and finally my computer printed out one
morning what it thought was a good tune.

Both. Me and John, or me and George, or me and

Ringo, but often it was me and John, would be
sitting around and we'd hear a Stax record,
normally at George's George had a great
collection of Stax records and you'd hear a snare
drum, and it was, "Aw, that's the greatest snare
ever". So you'd bring that record in to the engineer:
"Listen to this, you've got to get a sound like that." It
would never sound like it, but you were bringing in a
sound direction. Things like on I'm Only Sleeping,
the backwards guitar was a mistake. The tape op
put the tape on backwards and we went, "What?!"
Our ears were very open to that sort of thing. We'd
come in and say, "You know that noise when you're
listening to Radio Luxembourg late at night?" as
we often did because that was the hip station when
were in Liverpool "That sound when the guy's
talking and suddenly he goes away and he's saying,
'Radio Luxembourg...(makes whooshing sound)',
what is that?" The engineers would know what it
was, they're all trained guys, and they'd say, "That's
called phasing". We'd say, "Can we do that on a
guitar?" They say, "Well, give us a day to think
about it," and they'd cook up a little phasing
machine.

The only difficult thing was the words originally

blocked out were, "Scrambled eggs/Oh my
baby/How I love your legs". So I knew that had to
change. I had to get something that scanned like
"scrambled egg" "tomorrow night" no, that
doesn't scan... "morning light"? And all of them were
crap. And then "yesterday" wow. And that just sat,
and then "suddenly", and once I had those two
words it came.
For No One was a bit more...I was going out with
Jane Asher at the time, and I was...commenting on
the relationship, perhaps. I know I'm Looking
Through You definitely was.
Were you sending her a message?

There would be things where we'd say this had got

to sound like Dylan. John, for instance, once or
twice gets consciously...You've Got To Hide Your
Love Away is a Dylan impression in my head. I'm
doing Little Richard stuff, some of my stuff is doing
an Elvis-y thing too.

I don't know. Maybe. I don't often do that but I

think... (quietly sings a few lines from For No One).
Yeah, I probably was. That one and I'm Looking
Through You are just a young guy trying to send a

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message to his girlfriend. It's actually one of the

good things about writing songs, you can send
messages. They're easier to say in song. A guy who
stutters he can't speak but he can sing. It's the
same with emotional stuff you maybe can't just
say, in a relationship, "You're really, really pissing
me off" but if I played it to you in a song you just
might get the idea.

know how to do it. The thing that we could never

figure out was, should you know how it goes?
Should you know the end of it? I'm sure this is a
common dilemma for all playwrights should you
know the end of it or can you stream the
consciousness and let an end come? We got stuck
with that after about three pages. It was fun doing it.
I read a lot of plays when I was at school; it used to
be one of my pleasures, and secretly imagine
directing them. You had to read a lot anyway but I
used to read stuff I didn't have to read. So I got into
a bunch of stuff. Secretly, a little bit of playing a role
appealed to me. I think then I did start to do that
with some of my songs. Some of them are just
personal feelings, just getting inside of yourself;
some of them are just written about nobody I know
anything about or even emotions I know much
about.

But just when you think, Ah, there's the key to his
style, it changes. I never knew anyone called
Desmond with a barrow in the market place.
Eleanor Rigby it gets stranger and more
legendary 'cos it was The Beatles. I thought, I
swear, that I made up the name Eleanor Rigby
because I liked the name Eleanor and I'd been
working with Eleanor Bron and I wanted a good
name that rang true. I went to visit Bristol, I was
walking around and saw a shop called Rigby. And I
thought, Eleanor Rigby, great, it's such a down-toearth name and yet it's got something unusual
about it it's not Jones. I put that together. But the
guys doing the Anthology tell me that up in Woolton
Cemetery where I used to hang out a lot with John
there's a gravestone to Eleanor Rig by. Apparently,
a few yards to the right there's someone called
McKenzie. But the McKenzie is absolutely untrue
because I've never been round it.

Is it true that Sgt Pepper was conceived to be

about your Liverpool childhoods?
No.
It's one of those things that gets printed in all
the books.
Yeah, and once it's on a clipboard you're sunk. Or
these days, once it's on a hard disk you're really
sunk. It keeps coming back. It's like Linda was
Eastman Kodak she wasn't, but it's in a file
somewhere. So it's a question she always gets
asked.

In the song Getting Better, you play the antihero.

To me, doing songs is a playing thing. I'm always
delighted to realise that musicians play music,
whereas artists make works of art. I like the word
'play' because it gets rid of some of the pressure,
you know. After Ob-la-di Ob-la-da, George said, "I
would never write a song like that. You don't know
these people, do you? You just made that up didn't
you?" That's one of my pleasures, to create
fictitious characters, Desmond and Molly, like a
novelist. I like the names, names are important, like
they are to Mike Leigh the director. Vera, Chuck and
Dave. It's got to be a little tongue-in-cheek. George
Martin, in his book, feels When I'm 64 is a young
man recognising the displeasure of growing old. It
wasn't really, it was very tongue-in-cheek, "Vera,
Chuck and Dave...if it's not too dear". It's a parody
on Northern life. It's like I'm writing a little play.

The real story is that I was coming back from

America on a bit of a holiday trip. I was in a very
laid-back mode and dreaming away, and I started
imagining this idea of The Beatles as another band,
to be liberated, as liberated as I felt on this holiday. I
didn't actually relish going back into the studio and
going, "Oh, 'ere we go, Paul vocal, John vocal,
George solo, drum break for Ringo..." It just
sounded boring. So I hit upon this idea that I put to
the other guys. Would it be a good idea to get a
fictitious thing for ourselves, get fake personalities?
So we all drew up a list of our heroes, which later
became, when Peter Blake got hold of the idea, the
characters in the crowd behind us. We just got alter
egos, so when you got up to the mike to sing it was
like it wasn't me, it was as if it was a guy from Sgt
Pepper.

The very first thing John and I tried to write was a

play. Somewhere I must have it in an exercise book,
school, lined paper. It's about a character called
Pilchard who believes he's the son of God echoes
of Jesus Christ Superstar here! He never appeared
throughout the play, particularly as we only did two
pages. But the point is that we were into that before
we were actually into songwriting. So we might as
easily have been playwrights but we just didn't

It was just a device. I'm very keen on that. I don't

like blocks, writer's blocks. I paint a lot, I hate
painter's blocks. Most of my painting is to get
around the blocks because I don't want to have
angst for days, sitting up in a garret, starving myself

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just so I'll get a hallucination or something; I want to

actually enjoy it. So a lot of what I do is to not meet
that block or to get round it. Sgt Pepper was
basically that. All the stuff in front of us came from
an idea which is a bit Northern and a bit to do with
our childhood, which was to be a floral clock. I'd
seen them up north, a clock all made out of flowers
in the park. I wanted us to be above a floral clock
being given a mayoral presentation, meeting the
Lord Mayor of Halifax or something. Peter Blake
started coming in with ideas, and the guys all came
in, it got to be a think tank. Rightly so. There were
no pot plants in front, though they looked like them.
Things like Welcome The Rolling Stones, I think
Mick had given [the shirt] to Robert Fraser a fan
had thrown it on stage. It was really just a freedom
concept and then it just went on a roll after that, but
there wasn't any conscious we'll-sit-down-andremember-our-childhood.

talk about a gift of songwriting, well that was a

pretty cool gift whoever gave it me.

But whenever you're writing anything, I'm sure

every writer uses that as a trick when you're stuck,
you go, Well, what would I have done when I was
15? Got on a bus, right "got on a bus" at least
you're past that little block. You're on the bus, what
do I do on the bus? "I go upstairs and have a
smoke." Where do I sit? Either at the front and
change the indica-tor or at the back You just
remember what you did and it's material that
particular incident would become the little bit in A
Day In The Life (sings) "Had a smoke/Somebody
spoke and I went into a dream..."

I've stopped trying to justify loving solo McCartney.

Of course some of the work of the last 27 years has
been slack and misjudged. Yes, his trust in streamof-consciousness and the inspiration of the moment
("If you're working too hard on something, it
probably means it's not very good") has left a
catalogue with at least as much eccentric, cavalier
material as substantial. But if you respond to
someone, you respond. A lot of minor McCartney
means as much to me as the major. The aloof will
sigh; we expect more from a pop giant.

Mat Snow, 1995

Paul McCartney: Flaming Pie
Chris Ingham, Mojo, June 1997
According to the man himself, Paul can bash
out a song in the time it takes Linda to whip up
a soyasome supper. But is this necessarily a
good thing?
McCartney sans band again. Self-penned,
played and produced, apart from contributions
by Jeff Lynne, Ringo Starr, Steve Miller and son
James McCartney.

But there is more the gargantuan Liverpool

Oratorio has its moments, his minimalistimpressionist chamber piano piece A Leaf is a
charmer, the forthcoming Standing Stones
symphony is an intriguing prospect it's just that
these days, pop is only part of what he does. In
pop, he's changed the world already, he's had his
purple patch, and he hasn't had another genius to
run his new songs by for quite a while; that can do
things to a man's quality control.

Many people maintain that Pepper's

predecessor, Revolver, is the better album.
A few of those albums there, like every one's a little
beezer single. We were writing singles not albums
that was the other difference between now and
then. Every single song we wrote we wanted it to be
a single. Albums were second-rate, the single was
the thing. Even when John was doing Instant
Karma it's a single a newspaper rather than a
magazine.

However, though less spectacularly ambitious than

the serious work, there is much to be enjoyed here.
The indisputable melodic flair, the uplifting, doeeyed optimism, the daft rockers, all here on
Flaming Pie, an album in the McCartney tradition of
pretty good, nudging upper middle. If you're hip to
him, that's all you'll need.

I remember when John Lennon returned his

MBE to the Queen, one of the reasons he selfmockingly cited was that Instant Karma was
slipping down the charts...
Delicious boy, delicious broth of a boy. He was a
lovely guy, you know. And it gets sadder and sadder
to be saying "was". Nearer to when he died I
couldn't believe I was saying "was", but now I do
believe I'm saying "was". I've resisted it. I've tried to
pretend he didn't get killed...it's a bit sad. But
anyway, I was blessed to be in The Beatles, to work
with John. Something, somewhere...you know they

Though not reaching the coherent, miraculous

heights of Band On The Run (1973), it's miles better
than the interminable live albums or his last, the
heart-sinkingly ordinary Off The Ground ('93).
Better, too, than the aberration of Give My Regards
To Broad Street ('84) and the not-as-bad-as-you'veheard Press To Play ('86). So, it's probably on a par
with Flowers In The Dirt ('89) which, though lauded

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at the time as a major return to form (prompted, no

doubt, by the red herrings that were awkward
McCartney-McManus collaborations), now seems
no better/no worse than the slick, unfailingly
tunesome Tug Of War ('82) or Pipes Of Peace ('83).

psychedelic fade. This is all very encouraging,

Lynne appears to have helped McCartney sound
more like himself, somehow. To be continued,
hopefully.
There are three finger-pickin' solo numbers. 'Calico
Skies' is an earnest little love song which develops
into an anti-war prayer. 'Somedays' is a portentous
song of doubt, always threatening to mean
something, beautifully decorated by George
Martin's arrangement. 'Great Day' manages to
allude metrically to the Vincent Youman's 1930
standard of the same title and melodically to
McCartney's own 'Big Barn Bed' in a sweet,
throwaway piece of unfeasible optimism. They ain't
Blackbird, but they're fine.

What noses Flaming Pie ahead of the pack,

however, is a return to the engaging home-made
quality of his earliest solo work. Back in do-ityourself, down-home primitive miniaturist mode,
back on deep-groove drums and bluesy guitar,
there are echoes of McCartney (1970) and Ram
(1971) here, and all it all has an authentic ring of
auteur about it. It's not that Beatley, but it's very
McCartney.
Some of it is positively reckless, there's a
determination to follow the mood, have a laugh, see
what happens. Three songs here are little more
than jams. 'Flaming Pie' was a self-imposed
challenge to finish a track with Jeff Lynne in four
hours (like you do). Funny, surreal lyrics, a cracking
3 Legs-type vocal, a thunderous 'Why Don't We Do
It In The Road/Don't Bring Me Down' groove and
some hilarious, cack-handed barrel-house piano;
this is the track I'm playing visitors. Ringo and Paul
lock into a super-taut, muscled riff on 'Really Love
You' and McCartney makes up the song as he goes
(like Mumbo from Wild Life but with words); mad,
indulgent, but kind of happening. Only the duet with
Steve Miller on a slinky Texas 12-bar palls. Two
minutes of this good-vibe, one-take blues would
have been a treat, four minutes feels like eight.

It must be noted that the man's singing is a marvel.

The grey-around-the-edges folk-balladeering of
'Calico Skies', the falsetto blues-croon of 'Heaven
On A Sunday', the deliriously uninhibited rock-shriek
of 'Really Love You' re-confirm that McCartney's
vocal style range is without equal in pop. Sinatra's
pipes had virtually cracked at 55. What is this guy
on?
"No sleepless nights over this one," he told Steve
Miller. What with the serious stuff people keep
asking him to write, who can blame him? Making
this will have been a holiday by comparison.
The World's Greatest Living Melodist crown must
lay heavy; here McCartney is sporting his Eccentric
Primitive Miniaturist colours. Flaming Pie is a fine
reminder of how much they suit him.

Interspersing this japery is good and OK Macca fare

made better, perhaps, by co-producer Jeff Lynne's
ear for detail on over half the tracks. There are no
obvious ELO/Wilbury mannerisms and, oddly, the
ones that sound most like Lynne don't involve him
(both the strangely sinister 'If You Wanna' and
lightweight, damnably catchy Young Boy the one
he completed in a couple of hours while Linda was
tinkering in the kitchen feature orchestras of
acoustic guitars), though the dry-as-a-bone sound
and upfront vocals elsewhere betray Lynne's
welcome presence.

*
Paul McCartney talks to Chris Ingham live from
his car somewhere in the great British
countryside.
Flaming Pie: Pleased with it?
Yeah, like it a lot actually. It's always good when
you're proud of what you've done, because when
you're not you're always moaning at the record
company about how they don't put posters up, or
how they don't get plays and all that. But I sort of
don't care. Even if radio doesn't take to it, posters
don't get put up and people don't say the right
things, I've got a feeling that because I like it, I don't
give a shit. I'm not sure that's a 100 per cent true
but the feeling is there. It feels good. I'm
comfortable; there's a lot to be said for that.

'The Song We Were Singing' is a vivid evocation of

an evening with friends in the '60s; the sweet, hazy,
vocal, the trippy twang of the guitar, the struggle to
make "discuss the vast intricacies of life" scan,
the soaring, singalong chorus all combine to give
the track an enchanting, stoned elegance. 'Heaven
On A Sunday' is prime, dreamy Macca with
gorgeously textured sound. It also features his son's
debut as Dad trades his Oo You guitar licks with 20year-old James McCartney's Dave Gilmour ones.
'Souvenir' is an oddball beauty; a soulful, lazy thing
with a surprise guitar-riff-from-hell and a

Don't you feel like this after each new record?

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No, not really. You always enjoy like having a new

baby, as it were, but this one feels a bit special. It's
like Anthology, people would ask, "Are you worried?
Should you have done it? Is it right to do 'Free As A
Bird?'" I would say to them, listen, once the Beatles
and George Martin have signed off on it, I always
get a great feeling that it doesn't really matter what
anyone thinks, we're a sufficiently cool enough
gang of dudes, it's a question of sod the rest of
them. I always used to get that feeling on Beatles
albums; hey, it's the Beatles, we all like it, that's a
pretty strong opinion. It's not as easy to get that on
my solo records because it's mainly me. I don't
have the strength of the Woolwich around me. But
on this one, there wasn't much pressure because
the record people said, "We don't actually need a
record from you for a while", so I started making
music just for my own fun.

thought, No I'm gonna make sure I'm happy with

every song on this album. I don't want to waste
time. I think that's the main force. If you're just
breezing along you can think, Aah I've got forever,
it's all great you can find yourself wasting time.
And also having looked at the Beatles albums and
running your fingers down the tracklist and it's
'Nowhere Man', 'Here There And Everywhere',
'Taxman', bang, bang, every single one is a song
you remember. I thought, I'm gonna make an album
like that. I sorted a lot of songs and didn't bother
with things I was in doubt about. So the whole
episode focused me up quite a bit.

I think I've given the Anthology a decent interval, my

stuff is suddenly ready, asked Linda if she had any
photos, she had a great little selection, banged it
together and it all suddenly seemed to work and it
was, "Oh, there you go"

Yeah well, the sort of plan was to take a holiday. But

I'd just be sitting around with my acoustic, writing a
song in a power cut in America, played it to a few
people and it's, "Ooh, yeah, that's a good 'un." So I
started stockpiling a few with nothing in mind, stuck
'em on a cassette and called them New Songs.
Suddenly I had lot of them. Called Steve Miller, who
I'd known and played with once in the '60s after a
Beatle session which was aborted because of,
ahem, business differences. God, I've just come
across a big field full of sheep here. Amazing. But I
digress I'd say to Steve, "Look we don't need to
get into heavy breathing, let's just knock it off", the
way we did that track of his, 'My Dark Hour'. He'd
invited me up in his studio in Sun Valley, Idaho, did
a track. Returned the hospitality, knocked a couple
more.

You've admitted in the past to a feeling daunted by

the Beatles achievements, yet all this full-on
Beatlosity of the past 18 months or so seems to
have spurred you on.

And I've told the marketing guys, "I don't want any
sweat on this record, I don't care if you don't come
up with a good idea, we're just gonna have a
laugh." It's funny, they don't know where you're
coming from, they're so used to that 'gotta get it
right, get the right image' desperation. Whereas I'm
saying it'd be nice, but it's only a record. It really
does cool things down.
One big thing with the Beatles, once in the early
days we broke down on the motorway going back
up to Liverpool in the severe winter, somewhere.
One of us said, "Oh, what are we going to do now?"
and another said, "Well, something'll happen." And
it sounded so nave, we all laughed, "Yeah,
something'll happen." Immediately a lorry came up
and said, "Wanna lift, lads?" We all piled in. I'm a
great believer in that "something'll happen"
syndrome. It's like if you allow that space, that bit of
peace in your mind, something sort of comes in to
fill it. It's all very metaphysical.

You're working with Jeff Lynne again. He'd passed

the Free As A Bird test then?
Yeah, that was the audition (laughs). He was sort of
George's boyfriend, if you know what I mean, and,
you know, you don't want to tread on people's toes.
But I'd enjoyed working with him and found him
really easy to get on with, we always had a laugh.
And I said, "Do you want to come over for a couple
of weeks?" He said, " Well, you can't do much in a
couple of weeks." I said, "Well, we can do couple of
tracks and mix 'em."

You've said, "Songwriting's like the thumb in the

mouth." It's interesting that through a worrying time
with Linda being ill, you've made an upbeat kind of
record. Is there a connection?

What was the dynamic between you and Jeff?

Yes, I think there is. When you have a major

problem like that, it focuses what's important. I
know everyone says that but it really does. For me,
my family comes first, and a close second is music
and working. I think it stopped me pissing around. I
might have made a record and thought, Oh that's
OK. But with that and having just done Anthology I

I'd show him the song. And then first of all we'd
bang it down with a couple of acoustics so we'd
have a wash to go against, instead of a click track.
It's an old Beatle trick, really. Everything used to
have a two acoustics, at least. It was mainly me and
John showing the guys the song. That's one of

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Jeff's production tricks, too. I can't think where he

got it. A lot of people when I mentioned working with
Jeff their eyebrows raised, and I picked up what
they meant was he's going to make an ELO of you.
I actually had that worry with 'Free As A Bird'. But
then I thought, No, we'd worked around it, and even
though it was Jeff Lynne-type production I still
thought it sounded very like the Beatles. So I had a
chat with him and I said, "I don't want to get into
your recognizable sound." He was actually a little bit
surprised, I don't think he thinks he has a sound (in
surprised Brummie voice), "What do you mean?"
He's a very innocent kind of bloke. I said, "If I feel
we're getting into a bit of a Jeff Lynne formula, let's
find a trick to get around it, subvert it." He was quite
into it, actually.

love him, he's a lovely guy and I would love to do it.

It'd be fun, he's good.
Chris Ingham, 1997
Linda McCartney: How Rock 'n' Roll Saved Our
Lives
David Dalton, Gadfly, August 1998

John Lennon said in the late '70s that if the Beatles

were still making records, they'd sound like ELO.

I first met Linda McCartney at the Scene on West

46th Street. A hip little grotto in a cellar, it was run
by the cool Steve Paul. In the fall of 1965
everybody from Slim Harpo to Jimi Hendrix played
there. Brit Invasion bands came to jam after their
gigs. In a small windowless room in the back, Tiny
Tim held court. Actually, there weren't any windows
in the whole damn place.

Yeah, it was important to Jeff to meet John and

have him say, "Oh, I have some of those ELO
tracks." I liked them too. It's a bit like Oasis. Anyone
who gives such an obvious tribute to you, you either
hate it or you love it, and I love it. They're taking our
style and proliferating it, if that's the word. ELO
were good, you know, pity about the haircut.
(Pause) I'm only kidding about the haircut, you'd
better put in brackets he'd kill me. He's still got it.

That particular evening I was engaged in a common

piece of corporate surrealism: photographing a
number of overweight middle-aged men in bad suits
holding a gold record or was it an enlarged
photostat of a check? Whatever. It was the record
industry's version of an Assyrian bas-relief. The only
unusual feature this evening was the dapper and
inscrutable presence of Ahmet Ertegun, president of
Atlantic Records.

Given Ringo's and George Martin's cameos,

George Harrison remains conspicuous by his
continued absence. Is it still difficult, given your
history and the reported 'artistic tension' on the Free
As A Bird/Real Love sessions, to contemplate a
Harrison/McCartney collaboration?

In order to make the shoot look more professional,

I'd enlisted Al the Beatnik Painter from the loft
above mine to act as my assistant. Real
photographers always had assistants. But our
professional cover was blown as soon as Al started
hustling nickel bags to the Atlantic salesmen. He
was doing a brisk business.

I don't know really. To tell you the truth, when I was

working with John, it was so, I don't know, so full,
you never had a minute, so if working with George
never really came up, I got in the habit of not
working with him. I never really learned how to do it.
When we did 'Free As A Bird' there were one or two
little bits of tension, but it was actually cool for the
record. For instance, I had a couple of ideas that he
didn't like, and he was right. I'm the first one to
accept that, so that was OK. We did then say that
we might work together but the truth is, after 'Real
Love' I think George had some business problems.
Er, it didn't do a lot for his moods over the last
couple of years. He's been having a bit of a hard
time, actually, he's not been that easy to get on
with. I've rung him and maybe he hasn't rung back.
No big deal. But when I ring Ringo, he rings back
immediately, we're quite close that way. You know,
I'll write George a letter and he might not reply to it.
I don't think he means not to reply to it but it makes
me wonder whether he actually wants to do it or
not. And if you're not sure, you back off a little. But I

We did, however, impress somebody. After I'd

finished shooting the picture, a tall girl with long
blonde hair began asking me a lot of questions. Did
I do this for a living? How does one get into this? Is
it hard to learn? What kind of camera do you use?
Is that a strobe light? All asked with anthropological
zeal as if she had discovered some strange
subterranean stroboscopic ritual. The odd thing
about her was that while she looked stunningly
straight, on her this had the appearance of some
sort of disguise. She seemed to be looking for that
chink in the wall a way out.
In memory I hear myself in modified Austin
Powers saying, "Why don't you drop round the
studio tomorrow. I'll give you some pointers we
can smoke some dynamite weed and shag, behbeh."
She was dressed in a striped long sleeved T-shirt
and an A-line skirt down to the knees. This in the

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very heart of the sixties, when Pop fashion was

exploding on the street like a super nova. Mini
skirts! Silver foil sheaths! Op-art dresses!

On the other hand, anything that involved hanging

out was cool. And wasn't this just what a
photographer did? At the time, there were only four
acceptable occupations: rock star, dope dealer,
photographer or working in a boutique. I chose
photographer. I hovered nightly in dingy rock boites
awaiting the decisive moment. Although this was
alien to the way Linda had been brought up, she
caught on fast.

She looked every inch a WASP (even though she

wasn't), and she dressed with the studied bad taste
elite WASPs aspire to. They had whole stores
devoted to this strange phenomenon: Peck & Peck,
B. Altman, Best & Co. It was a bizarre cult of
exclusive dowdiness. Vassar girls dressed like this.

My specialty was the rock tableau. For the ShangriLas' 'Leader of the Pack' I got Mary Weiss to stand
in the foreground looking racked with teen angst.
(She was the only one in the group without skin
problems. Besides, she was seriously cute.) In the
background I positioned her sister Betty and the
twins, Mary Ann and Marge Ganser, whispering
conspiratorially, "Is she really going out with him?"

She was educated, smart, and hungry. And had the

wonderful name of Linda See. See was the name of
her ex-husband, an anthropologist from whom she'd
been recently divorced. She also had the most
amazing child named Heather who would say
things like.
"My mind is speaking, but my mouth can't find the
shapes," leaving us all with our jaw hanging open.

I had set up a shoot the next day with the Animals,

and I thought it might be a good idea to ask Linda
along. She would see me in my David Bailey/Blow
Up mode. This was seriously stupid. Like taking
your girlfriend along to photograph the Italian
soccer team.

Recently Linda had gone through a bad patch. She

slept a lot, snacked on Ritz crackers and hors
d'oeuvres from the deli, and existed in a fog of lowlevel depression and listlessness so acute it was
sultry. She bemoaned the pointlessness of her life.
But she did it with such tremendous energy that it
belied her apathetic state.

The Animals' current single was 'We Gotta Get Out

of This Place' and I'd decided to shoot them down
at the piers. I found a very thick length of rope used
for tying up ocean liners, and made a knot at one
end. I had the Animals straining to burst through
this circle of rope. Not a profound metaphor, but
graphic.

"What is to become of me?" she would ask as

plaintively as the Lady of Shalott. It's true that for
the life she had been brought up to lead, the
prospects didn't look too thrilling. Marriage to the
stockbroker who'd been captain of the Harvard
sculling team. Or the ad executive who still planned
to write that novel. Maybe a Scarsdale house that
would resemble a Middle-Kingdom tomb. All the
dreadful certainties and banalities of mid-century
middle-class life. She reminded me of a suburban
Sleeping Beauty. Ah, but just around the corner the
blazing path of Pop life awaited!

The image was just okay, but as I looked through

the lens it looked fantastic! I mean the way those
zen Cockney masters like David Bailey and Michael
Cooper did it. Then I figured it out. It was Linda. She
had literally magnetized the group and it had done
wonders for the composition. Streams of energy
poured back and forth between the feral Animals
and Princess Linda.

She had a job. She worked at Town & Country

magazine, the very stronghold of the bizarre twinset and pearls cult. Her parents were wealthy and
she probably didn't need to work, but that's what
you did. Another of, those peculiar customs of the
upper middle-class!

After I'd shot the picture, Linda asked if she could

use the camera to take some informal pictures of
Eric Burdon and the boys. While she was snapping
some very tightly framed shots of Eric, he confided
a passionate interest in photography. Funny that
he'd never mentioned it to me.

For my part, I had long ago resigned myself to a life

of scuffling. Al the Beatnik Taschist was my guru.
His paintings were abysmal kitsch, but the
philosophy was impeccable. Al's golden rule was
that one would never, under any circumstances
whatever, be gainfully employed. To have a job was
considered a serious breach of existential etiquette.

"You know, love, I always thought if the rock 'n' roll

thing don't work oot I'd go into the photography
dodge. Do you think you could give me lessons?"
God, that little Tyneside creep!

351

"Oh, is that right, Eric?" I said bitchily. "And I always

thought your ambition was to open a fish and chip
shop."

seen as epic figures. Schatzberg had taken the

cover photo of the Stones in drag for their single,
'Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby, Standing in the
Shadows?' The party was in his studio. Andy
Warhol, Baby Jane Holzer, Tom Wolfe le tout
New York was there.

"Yes, well, photography and fish are my favorite

pastimes." Wink wink.

I took Linda to the party and watched as she

stepped through the looking glass. She was reborn.
The rock life had claimed another victim. Rock itself
was a drug once involved in this life, one wanted
nothing else.

Linda was a quick and eager student of

photography. There wasn't that much to learn! By
the mid-sixties, photography had divested itself of
its gothic complexities. With the single-lens reflex
camera all you had to do was frame the image
through the lens, keep the light-meter needle
steady in the middle, and click. Well, there was the
mildly arcane business of the F-stops but even this
could be explained in under 40 seconds.

No camera that night, of course. This would have

been like the girl with the graphex camera at the
Copacabana. Around midnight Linda came over to
me and said, "Mick just asked me for my phone
number what should I do?"

The technical aspects weren't that demanding. The

problem was photographing obnoxious,
excruciatingly self-conscious teenage yobs. It was a
bloody pain in the neck. There was always
someone with his eyes closed or fly unzipped or
giving you the finger. Or you'd get a really great
shot of the group only to discover someone hadn't
shown up.

A rhetorical question, clearly.

With the Stones, Linda had finally met rock royalty.
The Animals and the Dave Clark Five would now be
cast in the supporting role of peasants clamoring at
the gate. She would never take their picture again.

"Pity Chas couldn't make the shoot, innit?

Uvverwise it woulda made a bloody great album
cover."

The following spring she went to England and came

back raving about all the new groups she had met.
Traffic, the Who, the Soft Machine. Oh, and Paul.

But with the lovely Linda all this changed.

Photographing a yobby group like Tommy James
and the Shondells was usually problematic. Now
their eyes were pinned on Linda.

"What's he like?" we asked. She wouldn't say.

That fall I was married on acid at the Scene by Art
Kreps, Boo Hoo of the Neo American Church and
publisher of Divine Toad Sweat magazine. The
Doors were playing that night and Linda was there
to photograph them. Afterwards in the dressing
room, Lord Jim sat as impassive as the Maya while
Linda snapped pictures of him. Her leonine
gawkiness, that incredible smile. She didn't look like
anybody else in the room all leathers and
tatterdemalion finery. She didn't look like anyone on
the scene for that matter. One thing about Linda,
she stayed in her own movie.

And then the Stones came to town. I thought I'd

learned my lesson when I introduced Linda to the
Animals, but once again I couldn't resist. After all,
the Stones were going to cruise around Manhattan
on a yacht the "Sea Panther" with various
members of the press.
Gloria Stavers, editor of Sixteen, was the doyenne
of teen fan mags and she was somehow in charge
of invitations. I worked for rival Hullabaloo so there
was no hope of my being invited. But Linda was a
different matter. I told her to call up Gloria and "tell
her you're from Town & Country she'll cream in
her jeans." Linda got on the "Sea Panther" and she
shot some great pictures, which is how the Rolling
Stones ended up on the cover of Town & Country.

"The cosmos is communing with itself," said Lord

Jim. He'd obviously done a bit of the sacrament
himself. We all thought about that for a while.
Outside, I was having a hard time catching a cab.
My arm stretched right across 8th Avenue but none
of the cabs seemed to notice. Finally I said to Linda,
"I'm having a hard time catching the little yellow
fish."

Her pictures perfectly captured the frisson of the

afternoon. The inimitable elite bohemians insolently
lounging in outfits of razorblade hipness.

"Just wait for the light," said Linda. "Then the cab'll
catch you." She was utterly unfazed always!

That night, Jerry Schatzberg was giving a party for

the Stones. In those days, hip photographers were

352

The following year I was in London. Linda and Paul

were a couple. They would show up early at the Let
It Be sessions and bemoan Yoko's "interfering."
One got the impression that John thought of the
Beatles as some sort of cosmic battering ram with
which to wipe out the last pockets of intolerance
and unhipness. But for Paul and Linda, the Beatles
were like the Firm. Sort of a family business, which
must be protected at all costs. Yoko's antics were
endangering the Empire!

king of the castle before going on with the story of

his adventures?
The Wings saga, like everything else Paul has been
involved in, is seen by himeven conceived by him
through the pastel past-tense lens of musicals
and family movies.
One of the smartest things Paul did was to get out
of London town when the walls came tumbling
down. On his Scottish sheep farm he could build
the ark that would carry him triumphantly over the
troubled waters of the '70s and '80s. Linda was the
perfect partner for him, raised on Disney fantasies
and brought up to marry a successful executive,
she fitted effortlessly into Pauls idyllic diorama, an
enthusiastic first mate in Captain McCartneys
Paulonization of the world. (For my personal
recollection of Linda see the link at the end of this
article).

I saw Linda again at the end of 1969, shortly after

she married Paul. She was walking in Kew Gardens
in London with Mary Hopkin. We talked for a few
minutes underneath the Chinese pagoda. Have you
seen this one lately? How is that one doing? Did he
ever go to Bali? Did they get married? Light gossip
and the social weather. Even though she herself
was the subject of so much gossip having stolen
Paul from the thousands of women who thought he
was meant for them! Linda did not have a bad
word to say about anyone. She never did.

Im sure that while living in a lumber yard (with a

film crew, no less) Paul, fixing a hole where the rain
gets in, probably did shout down to Linda, playing a
reggae record on the turntable, "Why dont we start
a band together?" Im sure the roadieseh,
whered they come from, then?did know of this
bloke, Denny Lane, who could play great guitar, and
so on and so on.

It was the end of an era. A terrible vortex was

forming that would lead on the one hand to selfdestruction (Jimi, Janis, Morrison) and on the other
to fanaticism (Mark David Chapman). Not all the
heroes of the sixties survived. But music had given
Linda's life meaning, and she in turn provided the
secret door through which Paul escaped the fire
storm that was about to envelop rock 'n' roll.

In order to make the band-on-the-run, rags-toriches story work, a few things have to be omitted
from the Paulist account of Wings, which goes
something like this: a bloke, let down by his best
mate and his demonic Japanese concubine, picks
himself up with the help of the plucky Linda, forms a
happy-go-lucky band that travels through Europe in
a quaintly-painted double-decker bus, stopping and
playing wherever people will have them, gets a few
lucky breaks, and lo-and-behold, what happens
nexta hit record, by crikey! Followed by a millionselling album-will wonders never cease!and
before you can say George Martin, theyre playing
to packed stadiumsat this point Linda pulls the
Paulist taffy a wee bit too thin by chiming in that she
finds stadiums "oddly intimate" (especially if youre
up there on stage with your hubby). Its a musical
about how a band (uncannily creating their own
soundtrack as they go) manages to overcome all
obstacles to become a world-wide success.

David Dalton, 1998

On the Wings of a Beatle
David Dalton, Gadfly, 2001
"DADDY, tell us how it all began, how the walls of
Pepperland crumbled, how the Blue Meanies with
their lawyers and chartered accounts came and
despoiled the land and how you and Mummy, the
Lovely Linda, rescued what you could from the
ruins and rebuilt the kingdom."
Why was it that while watching Wingspan, the
Paulumentary about Wings the other night, I had
the feeling I was listening to a fairy tale? This
impression was induced in part by the fact that Paul
was telling the story to his daughter Heather. By
fairy tale Im not implying that Pauls version of the
story is an out-and-out lie, just that the groups
genesis and history seems too much like a Just-So
Story, that, through sleight of hand, omits a number
of essential points, such as Daddy is the biggest
rock star in the world type of thing. Dont you think
children should be told that the hero is actually the

Whats left out of course is that the lead singer and

bass player in this band happens to be Paul
McCartney, the most famous pop singer in the world
(along with his dark twin, Evil John) and one part of
the most successful writing team in rock history.

353

Part of the triumph of Wings came from the wish on

the part of any number of fans to prolong the
Beatles by other means, and, initially at least, Paul
was writing what were essentially late-Beatle songs
such as 'Teddy Boy' and 'Maybe Im Amazed'. But
what really propelled the group was their
reanimation not of the hairy, magical mysterians,
but of the early, good-vibrations Beatles, the Fab
Four whod been buried under scandals and
acrimony. Older fans wanted them back and those
too young to have seen them wanted a taste of that
Hard-Days-Night magic, too.

The Beatles were the big bang in pop music, the

liquid hydrogen in-rushing sound of a new era
coming into being, when the red giant of fifties
conformism and repression collapsed and let the
sun shine in (so to speak). The Beatles are the
sonic equivalent of a culture joyously breaking
through the Berlin wall of the old regime, and
several spindly-legged, Spanish-booted feet leaping
into the future. With that cosmogenic act they set in
motion our current stop-time, pop-culture bubble, in
which everything created in its own image exists in
a cultural vacuum. No past, no future, only sampling
where the dragons of postmodernism prowl
outside the moated walls of the virtual kingdom.

This was a stroke of impudence on Pauls part

that cheeky Paul!who, being more conservative
than his pal the avant-garde-mad walrus, was never
entirely at ease with the experimental and radical
direction of the Gtterdamerung Beatles. There was
always a soft-shoe, straw-hat-and-cane side to Paul
who loved all the old sing-along pub songs and
music-hall turns, so it was easy for him go back to
all that, to resuscitate the show-biz side of the
Beatles.

David Dalton, 2001

Paul McCartney: He Loves Her Yeah Yeah Yeah
Charles Shaar Murray, The Observer, 29 July
2001
PAUL McCARTNEY has always been known for his
broad, boyish smile, but the ear-splitting grin he
sported last week while announcing his
engagement to Heather Mills was something else
entirely. This was the happiest we'd seen him since
the death from cancer of Linda McCartney, his
partner for more than 30 years, tore his world apart.

As far as '60s groups went, the Beatles were on the

cusp. One spat-attired leg was still tap-dancing to
the old music hall, pantomime tradition while the
other Chelsea-booted one was stomping in the new
rocky, rhythm and blurs of Swinging London.
To a certain extent the Beatles have become what
show tunes used to be, their songs endlessly
recycled. 'Eleanor Rigby' and 'Penny Lane', for
those of us who dont go to musicals, are like songs
from South Pacific and My Fair Lady were to our
parentsor grandparents, or great-grandparents.

McCartney and Mills met in the spring of 1999 at an

awards ceremony celebrating courage something
Mills, according to McCartney, has in abundance.
Born in Washington, just outside Newcastle, Mills's
family had little money and she suffered at the
hands of an abusive father. But Clever Heather
'she's more clever than me', says McCartney
graduated from a teenage stint as a topless model
to running her own modelling agency by the age of
18. She began to move in a rich and racy crowd,
associating with the likes of the former arms dealer
Adnan Khashoggi.

The Beatles are everywhere, on commercials, on

Sesame Street, through the ceaseless background
radiation of classic rock radio. To our children and
grandchildren the Beatles have become a sort of
imprinted sonic presence, the very innocuousness
of their ballads beamed into cribs, the jaunty
rockers and 'Yellow Submarine' singalongs become
activity music for pre-schoolers.

Then came disaster she lost her leg in a road

accident in 1993. The resilience she demonstrated
in living with this loss was the quality that drew in
McCartney. His friends say they cannot imagine him
being attracted to a woman who lacked crusading
commitment. Linda, of course, was a passionate
vegetarian, and Mills, since her accident, has
thrown herself into helping others. Earlier this year
she and McCartney visited Jaipur, India, to help
children who had lost limbs in an earthquake.

But why are the Beatles, almost forty years on, still
so ubiquitous? This would be the equivalent, in the
sixties, of kids still listening to the Charleston. My
Grand Unifying Theory is that the Beatles shifted
the paradigm. Thus, the way we relate to them is
determined by the universe they created. "Every
author as far as he is great and at the same time
original," wrote Wordsworthand he was surely
thinking of the Beatles when he wrote it"has had
the task of creating the taste by which he is to be
enjoyed."

She also offers McCartney something else he has

long prized stability. Peter Brown, former head of
the Beatles' record company, Apple, says: 'Linda

354

kept him sane. She was his anchor. He's a man

who needs one.'

At his best, McCartney is a master of popular

songcraft; at his laziest and most sentimental, he is
its slave. His father was the leader of a local jazz
band and the young Macca absorbed the theory
and practice of pre-rock pop with his mother's milk.
Whenever you hear the echoes of early twentiethcentury music hall in the Beatles' work songs like
'When I'm 64', 'Your Mother Should Know', 'Honey
Pie' or 'Maxwell's Silver Hammer' you're hearing
McCartney hankering for his childhood.

At 59 the improbably chestnut-haired Sir Paul is the

Chairman of the Board of British Pop: his decades
of achievement as both performer and composer
place him at the summit of the British music
industry's Rich List, ahead even of Elton John. His
most recent recordings may not have troubled the
charts overmuch, but his legacy remains
undimmed.

Buttressing a prolific flair for melody and powered

by an outgoing, sociable nature, this early
education made him easily the best-rounded talent
in the Beatles. He was also their most versatile and
gifted instrumentalist: there is a wonderful, if
possibly apocryphal, story that after Ringo Starr
won a World's Best Drummer award in a Melody
Maker poll Lennon was asked if he considered
Ringo to be the best drummer in the world. 'He
isn't,' Lennon allegedly replied, 'even the best
drummer in the Beatles.'

Thirty years after the break-up of the Beatles, their

singles collection, 1, put them back at the top of the
charts all over again; a follow-up, unsurprisingly
entitled 2, is currently in the works. Wingspan a
further collection, celebrating McCartney's postBeatles career with Wings, as a duo with Linda, and
as a solo artist has been less successful, but the
last few years have been both prolific and eclectic
for the ex-Beatle.
He has published a book of poetry, mounted an
exhibition of his paintings, and expanded his
musical agenda to compose a symphony and an
oratorio. By contrast, the other ex-Beatles have
been less productive and less ambitious: Ringo
Starr is currently dragging the latest edition of his
All-Starr band around the US nostalgia circuit,
appearing at recently opened Mississippi casinos
alongside the likes of Pat Benatar and Hall & Oates.
George Harrison oversaw a deluxe reissue of his
sole post-Beatles masterpiece, All Things Must
Pass. Having recently survived two bouts of cancer
and an assassination attempt in his own home, he
is rumoured to be in seclusion in India, battling a
potentially life-threatening brain tumour. And the
Yoko-licensed ghost of John Lennon continues to
stalk the media landscape, with his doodled selfportrait plastered to everything from a signature line
of Gibson guitar strings to Liverpool's recently
renamed John Lennon Airport.

Lennon could also have pointed out that McCartney,

despite playing bass in the Beatles, was also their
best guitarist, having performed several celebrated
solos including those on 'Taxman' and 'Ticket To
Ride' often attributed to Harrison. He was also the
band's most proficient keyboard player. And on his
'official' instrument the bass guitar he inherited
following the departure of original bassist Stu
Sutcliffe he is one of the half-dozen most
influential players. No wonder that for his first postBeatles solo album he ended up overdubbing most
of the instruments by himself.
Ian MacDonald, author of Revolution In The Head,
says the music is the key to understanding the man.
McCartney is, says MacDonald, a born entertainer,
the only Beatle who could or would have written,
'you're such a lovely audience, we'd like to take you
home'.

The weight of cultural history lies heavier on

McCartney than on any of his former colleagues or,
indeed, any of his contemporaries or successors. In
addition to this somewhat abstract burden, he has
recently had to face the loss of a wife from whom
he was inseparable. She was companion,
inspiration, friend and sometimes despite the oftnoted disparity in their musical gifts his
collaborator. She was also a gifted artist in her own
right, and her late Sixties photography contributed
vastly to the documentation and iconography of the
era. Unusually for their peer group and milieu, the
McCartneys managed not only to stay together
happily but to raise cheerful and gifted children, of
whom fashion designer Stella is the most
prominent.

'His straight-from-the-shoulder emotional populism,

that open-hearted and nave interest in the world
and the way other people are, informs all of his
work and emerges in the generosity of his melodic
gift,' says MacDonald. 'His tunes are so expansive,
and his melodies rise and fall with a great deal of
open-hearted emotional positivity. He really is a
man of the common people in that he's a very
strongly traditional artist. His instinct is for uplift and
inclusion, whereas Lennon's view of the world was
essentially critical.'
After the bitter split with the Beatles in 1970,
McCartney first with Wings and then as plain Paul
McCartney kept on selling records, his work
proving far more acceptable to a public who lapped

355

up the likes of 'Mull Of Kintyre' than it did to earnest

rock critics more in sympathy with Lennon's
tormented-outsider stance.

stiffening of resolve here.' I knew it was true, deep

in my veins.
"It's like we used to live with this thing every
Christmas in London, where the IRA would say,
'We're doing a bombing campaign.' And we'd go,
'How irksome, I hope it doesn't hit me when I'm
shopping.' After the New York attack, my attitude
was like, screw you man, just screw you. I've got
kids living in London. Are you gonna do a bombing
campaign? How dare you? If you want to take my
kids out well, screw you. Come and talk about it,
right in my face baby."

McCartney was never an outsider: nor did he want

to be one or to present himself as one. Even when
investigating the avant-garde likes of Stockhausen
or Burroughs or adopting courageously radical
public positions such as funding the 1967
advertisement in The Times calling for the
legalisation of cannabis or releasing a single called
'Give Ireland Back To The Irish' he was always an
unpretentious, one-of-us lad, often pictured with a
beaming grin and a raised thumb.

And does this relate to the accounts of his

childhood frog hunting published in his
autobiography, Many Years From Now?

Unlike Lennon, he stayed in the UK and paid his

taxes, sending his children to the local
comprehensive rather than an expensive
progressive private school.

"The old tortured frog syndrome? You could be

right. I didn't have to own up to that stuff but in my
tiny young mind, I knew why I had to do it. We fully
expected to have to join the army and be made a
man of that was the phrase. We all dreaded
National Service back then; luckily, with the advent
of the Beatles, all of that ended otherwise, those
of us that would have been drafted, would not have
had a band, no way.

Despite having too often strung the tightrope of his

brilliance across the abyss of his capacity for
banality, McCartney has Done His Bit. He has
survived, character more or less intact, a global
hurricane of mass adulation and attention to which
no-one of his background had ever previously been
subjected, and the death of an adored wife. He now
seems to have another chance of happiness, and it
would take a real sour square indeed to refrain from
wishing him to borrow the title of his first postBeatles greatest hits album All The Best.

"When I saw army training films of guys running into

dummies and bayoneting them, I had a vivid
enough imagination to go, OK, that's what I'm
gonna have to do, run at a guy with a big sword and
kill him.' I'd seen enough films to be terrified by that
as a kid.

Charles Shaar Murray, 2001

Normally, He's A Pacifist

"The whole idea of the frogs was: let's practice!

We'd go in the woods and get a frog; I thought, if I
can't kill a bloody frog, I'll never be a man. It was a
terrifying bloody thing. I say to people, 'Didn't you
do that too?' And they go, 'Noooo, I was at Sunday
school'."

Gavin Martin, The Independent, 15 November

2001
SIR PAUL had been up in the city to promote his
Driving Rain album and 'Freedom' single, a song
which has prompted some to suggest that he is the
first Beatle to have supported a war. Sir Paul
responded:
"Normally you're a pacifist and you don't want any
kind of war at all, but occasionally something so
atrocious happens there's gotta be some kind of
response. I'd like to see the bombing stop but what
are you gonna do, turn the other cheek? I don't
think that is possible.

What does Sir Paul think of the recent easing of the

marijuana law in the U.K.?
"I think it's a good idea, but it just happens to
coincide with a period when pot isn't something I do
as much any more. Why is that? Because Heather
doesn't. I don't want to be sitting there at a
restaurant and say, 'Hey baby, I have to run to the
bog and smoke a joint.' It just doesn't occur."

"When I started getting into thinking like this it took

me back to conversations we used to have in the
Sixties. All the guys sitting round saying if there was
a war we'd be pacifist. But I made one little
disclaimer and said, 'But if Hitler was invading, and I
had a family, I really would feel I have to do
something.' I remember people thinking, 'Oh oh,

With his new Driving Rain album, did Sir Paul

deliberately set out to create songs that are raw,
emotional, honest and soul baring?
"I dunno. That sounds true, but I'm just trying to
write a song and it's not that easy. I do draw on

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things that seem important at that time. But it's like

you have a dream: the minute you start analyzing it
all this extra significance comes out. It's one of the
reasons I love doing it: there's a mystery to it. And
I've been involved in this amazing succession of
mysteries."

"John used to say if you get to the edge of a cliff,

throw yourself off. I'd say, 'Well no, John, you throw
yourself off, and tell me how it is when you do, and
then I might follow you.' That was John and me right
there. But now I find myself accepting an offer to do
something with the Liverpool Philharmonic, and
then halfway through the sensible me kicks in and I
think, this is pretty hard. A serious choral person
asks, 'What text are you using?' I go, 'I'm doing my
own.' Everyone else has used some obscure
French medieval poet who has written great stuff,
and I'm thinking I'll make it up. It's weird, it's like
going off the edge of John's cliff at last."

How did he feel about being chastised in John

Lennon's song 'How Do You Sleep'?
"I felt deep pain. Stick it in the jugular, why don't
you, John. The funny thing is later I heard that he
didn't write that line, that John, his manager Allen
Klein and Yoko were sitting round together and
someone came up with that line. But it was very
painful, a bad period, there was a lot of deep
messages in all the stuff we did then. I was really
writing a lot of songs to John.

Gavin Martin, 2001

Paul McCartney: Back In The World, Earls Court,
London April 21st

"Then I got this great story, in one of the last

interviews John did, where he said this guy brought
him a copy of Coming Up and he was, like, 'Bloody
hell, Paul's on to something better go back to
work.' You better believe I love that story."
While recording Driving Rain, Sir Paul attempted to
recreate the working methods the Beatles used
during their Rubber Soul and Revolver sessions:

Richard English, Rock's Backpages, April 2003

ALL MY LIFE Id wanted to see the Beatles. My
sister saw them at Hammersmith in the 60s and
screamed. This was my chance. I sang and cried
throughout.
Macca was on stage for 2.75 hours, beginning the
first electric set with 'Hello, Goodbye'. Solo
acoustic, band acoustic, and second electric sets
followed. Throughout, he switched from rocker to
sentimentalist and back, playing his Hofner violin
bass; playing acoustic and electric guitars with
searing solos on the 'Foxy Lady' finale to 'Let Me
Roll It' and the encore, 'The End'; and playing grand
and upright pianos, the work on these being his
finest achievement.

"That was the time I remember getting the best

feeling of my recording career. By that stage we
were young executives, we had the suits, the gear.
We were hot."
And then there were the bad times with the Beatles:
"That was the period when the term 'heavy' was
coined. I remember Tony Bramwell of Apple came
to a meeting we were having at Apple, and it was
really intense: you could feel a weight in your soul
just sitting there...

His voice, which was sometimes croaky when he

spoke still suffering the effects of the cold he
caught in Sheffield was crisp, clear, and beautiful
throughout.

"But the Beatles thing, the more you review it, the
more insane it gets. Those guys did a lot of shit.
And I talk about them as if I wasn't in them.
Checkpoint Charlie bing! But it's beautiful, man,
so intensely beautiful, magical for me. I'm like a fan,
it's not like I can't hear what a fan hears.
Sometimes I might get a little drunk, and I hear a
moment in a song and I'm like, yesss! I try my
whole life to get that note, because sometimes I
think we were the only guys that never saw the
Beatles."
Sir Paul also discussed his latest classical work,
Ecce Cor Meum, which he began to write during
Linda's illness. Although it was performed in Oxford
last weekend, he claims it is still a work in progress
and hopes to premiere the finished work next year:

Paul wore a red jacket with a Nehru collar and cloth

buttons, and a red T-shirt and jeans. His puppy-dog
looks showed little sign of his sixty years, and he
displayed the vigour and enthusiasm of the boyish
Beatle who first hopped onto the stage 40 yrs ago.
His working-class origins permeated his persona
and lyrics, especially in three Beatles songs not
played live on tour before: 'Shes Leaving Home',
'Getting Better', and 'Eleanor Rigby'. '60s workingclass Liverpudlian social realism was dipped in
pathos, delivered from a mind inside the heart.
Tear-jerking sentimentality. Mournful, haunting.
The black spots of the gig were the add-ons. Prior
to the bands appearance, Cirque du Soleil

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performers in 18th century garb mooched aimlessly

around the stage in front of a backdrop of the
Acropolis. During the sets the psychedelic imagery
projected from backstage and the special effects,
particularly the pyrotechnics at the end of 'Live And
Let Die', were corny and didnt work. Even Macca
held his head in despair at the explosion of
fireworks going off so near to him. The add-ons
added nothing.

and mediocrity, of vibrancy and staleness...if you

will, of the sublime and the ridiculous.
The opener, 'I Am The Greatest', marks John
Lennon's return to the forefront of ex-Beatle
songwriting. With George lost in the Himalayas,
Ringo wandering down country roads, Paul's
penchant for overdone ballads, and John's often
unbridled political forays, their musical magic
seemed but a distant memory. Now 'I Am The
Greatest' signals John's turn to the positive the
gum chewing proverbial tongue-in-cheek rocker has
returned with more of the old genius and Ringo
handles the song quite well. I for one would love to
hear John performing this one, especially since his
backup vocals indicate a new spirit bursting
through.

But Paul didnt need stagecraft. His performance,

as such, was his gawkishness, his boyishness.
Pauls authenticity shone through his anecdotes
about massages on tour in New Orleans and Tokyo,
and stories about his Art School days with John. His
romantic nature expressed itself in dedications to
Heather in 'Your Loving Flame' and to Linda 'My
Love' (its already five years since her death). He
made further emotional tributes to John ('Here
Today') and George (a ukelele-accompanied
version of 'Something').

Randy Newman's 'Hold On' spotlights the Bolan

'Get It On' chunky rhythm, and Marc also adds
some tasty lead guitar work. It's obvious that Ringo
incorporates a lot of Richard Starkey influences.
There are, of course, the songs by his old Beatlemates, but we also get Bolan bouncers, country
licks, and even an English vaudevillian touch or
two. So it's no surprise to see the great Johnny
Burnette as one of his faves.

Macca's relationship with the audience was one of

generous involvement through his chattiness and
the immediacy of his presence. He encouraged and
honoured the audience during the community
singing at the end of 'Hey Jude' a high point of
feeling for me.

It's also clear when you reach 'Photograph' that

Side One is the undisputed champ of the album.
Jack Nitzsche has thrown in a lot of his past
influences here, including the Famous School of
Phil Spector castanets, lesson No. 2. 'Photograph'
is one of those rare pop records that grows stronger
with each play, and will be covered and revived for
years to come (I'll lay you 50-1 it appears on the
next Andy Williams album). The sole weak spot on
this side is George Harrison's 'Sunshine Life For
Me', which is muzak without definition.

The band played flawlessly: Paul Wix Wickens

keyboards; Abe Laboriel Jnr drums; Rusty
Anderson bass, guitar; Brian Ray guitar, bass.
The finale consisted of five Beatles Songs spread
over tw0 encores: 'The Long And Winding Road',
'Lady Madonna', 'I Saw Her Standing There'; and
'Yesterday' and 'Sgt. Peppers'/'The End'.
This was Paul at his powerful best. The impression
was not that of an intellectual or pop plutocrat, but
that of a humble genius. I wasnt taken back to the
Beatle era so much as reawakened to emotional
meaning.

Side two has similar problems. 'Oh My My' and

'Step Lightly' are both pleasant enough, but are
really more meandering than moving. But Paul
McCartney's 'Six O'Clock' would have been a
perfect chart-topper for himself and Wings, possibly
rivaling 'Yesterday' in worldwide stature.
McCartney's patented string arrangement is
refreshing to hear, offering a nice counterpart to
Richard Perry's often overdone backgrounds.
Perhaps 'Six O'Clock' is a bit too drawn out, but it
still comes off quite nicely.

To see an illustrated version of this piece, click here

Richard English, 2003
Ringo Starr: Ringo
Alan Betrock, Phonograph Record, 1973

It's of more than passing interest to note that Paul

and John are creating new masterpieces, and their
forthcoming chart battle (Lennon will release Mind
Games and Paul Helen Wheels at about the same
time) might just spur them on to new writings. And
despite the fact that George does present a tame
song or two, don't forget that he co-wrote

IT's DEFINITELY worth having, that's for sure, but

the main problem with Ringo is that it's uneven. The
Beatles rarely, if ever, made an uneven album, and
Ringo has now joined the rest of the Beatle spinoff
LPs with a product that is a pastiche of greatness

358

'Photograph' as well as the fine 'You And Me

(Babe)'. This closes the album and is a suitable
finish, combining a lot of the Beatles' 'Goodnight' on
the White Album (which Ringo also sung) and the
ending bits from the Stones' 'Something Happened
To Me Yesterday'.

The trouble with Ringo is that apart from the starspotting, it's not really that much fun to listen to. On
Beatles albums, the odd Ringo tune here and there
was a pleasant diversion, and occasionally his solo
singles like It Don't Come Easy and Back Off
Boogaloo have been great radio and juke-box
tunes, but a whole album of Ringo Starr is rather
tough going.

There are more throwbacks to the "old Beatle

days", indicating that all four "ex-Beatles" have
finally learned to live with their past. Besides the
personnel choices, Ringo features a Sergeant
Pepper-like cover, lyrical references to Sexy Sadie
and Billy Shears, even a musical takeoff of
'Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band' on 'I
Am The Greatest'. Their backward glances have
been too diffused, but now their forward vision
seems quite sharp. Look at some of their activities
over the last few years: they squabbled over
lawyers and copyrights. They took expeditions into
country music, Nigerian music, poetry, electronics,
Indian music, and general cacophony. They traded
verbal blows through their lyrics. They even tried to
outdo each other with label artwork (Ringo's littleknown B-side 'Early 1970' was probably the
sharpest commentary on their whole lot).

The dearth of good material doesn't help much

either. His Beatle buddies have e all weighed in with
songs: One each from Lennon and the McCartneys,
and no less than three by Harrison: One on his
own, one (Photograph) written in cot laboration
with Richie himself and one joint effort with Mal
Evans.
Lennon's I'm The Greatest verges uncomfortably
on self parody, and Ringo becomes the butt of the
joke, as he's the poor sod who's actually singing it.
Lines like "I'm only thirty-two and all I wanna do is
boogaloo" may well win Lennon the Marc Bolan
Memorial Prize for Unenviable Achievements in
Lyric Writing, and the Billy Shears reference
(complete with canned applause) simply give the
impression that Ringo and his helpmates are trying
to plug the musical holes in the album with large
handfuls of charm and nostalgia.

But now all these energy wasters and creativity

drainers seem to be behind them, and their future
offerings promise exciting possibilities. While
everyone is searching high and low for the next "big
thing" in music (they come along every ten years,
you know...), it would be the crowning achievement
if the "next big thing" turns up right in our own
backyard.

The McCartney's contribution is well below form,

but it's far superior to any of Harrison's. Sunshine
Life For Me is probably the best of his three, seeing
as how it features Bromberg and four-fifths of The
Band (so how come Richard Manuel stayed home
sulking?) Harrison is credited with "Backing
Voocals" on that track, which is odd since he's been
singing like that for years.

Alan Betrock, 1973

Paul McCartney: Band On The Run/Ringo Starr:
Ringo

It's rather pointless so go on, except to mention that

Marc Bolan's performance on Randy Newman's
Hold On consists of the Get It On riff or its second
cousin. Ringo is an album that should be purchased
only by those who wish to go to extraordinary
lengths to indulge their nostalgia for the Beatles.
Principally because of Ringo's limitations as a
vocalist, it's a quite frighteningly boring album.

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 19 January 1974

RINGO STARR is a wonderful person. His new
album proves it.
If he was an evil-tempered schmuck, you don't think
that John Lennon, George Harrison, Klaus
Voormann, Billy Preston, Marc Bolan, Jim Keltner,
Milt Holland, Nicky Hopkins, Bobby Keyes, Jack
Nitzsche, Robbie Robertson, Levon Helm, David
Bromberg, Rick Danko, Garth Hudson, Harry
Nilsson, Martha Reeves, Merry Clayton, Steve
Cropper, Paul'n'Linda Macca and last but not least
Mal Evans would have gotten up off their various
floors and hot-footed into the studios to help him out
on this album, do you? No way.

Mind Games, Material World, Ringo. Three down,

one to go. The ex-Beatle least likely to re-establish
his credibility and lead the field has pulled it off with
a positive master-stroke of an album entitled Band
On The Run.
From the cover, depicting Paul, Linda, Denny Laine,
James Coburn, Christopher Lee, Michael
Parkinson, Kenny Lynch and John Conte in convict
costume up against a wall, right through to the
closing reprise of the title track, Band On The Run

359

comes on as one of the best albums of '73, and,

with the possible exception of Lennon's Plastic Ono
Band album, the best solo performance of anybody
who used to be in the Beatles.

Gene Sculatti, Creem, March 1976

Its hard to figure our just what constitutes the
biggest detriment to a healthy music scene these
days; the dearth of flesh & blood artists with
something new to say or the sudden elevation of
the mediocre into positions of popularity and
influence.

The album was cut in Nigeria with a basic

personnel of three: the McCartneys and Mr. Laine
all overdubbing their asses off. Howie Casey assists
here and there on Professor Sax's invention every
so often. The range of mood is startling: the cool
spaciousness and straight-ahead drive of Jet
contrasts beautifully with the nightclub folkiness of
Bluebird and the Road To... feel of Mrs. Vandebilt.
But the track that's gonna be the conversation piece
at every cafe society wine and cheese party this
season is Let Me Roll It.

If we can pin the former condition on cautious

record companies and constricted radio
programming, its easy to view the latter situation as
some sort of corollary. We get Elton and Olivia,
Reddy and Ringo in place of real Personalities
because, packaged, proven and safe, these acts
can be handled a lot easier. It expedites matters.

It sounds exactly like Plastic Ono period Lennon,

and some uncharitable souls might suspect it to be
payment in kind for How Do You Sleep, although
the parody element is extremely good-natured, right
down to the Primal Whimper at the end. McCartney
denies any conscious parody in this tune, but I has
me suspicions about that.

Does Ringo exist apart from his records? Who

cares? Its doubtful the cutesy-pie tracks Richard
Perry has turned into Ringo Records will ever move
a listener to do anything more decisive than reach
for the radio dial and thats whats so unnerving
about these records. These cuts this No No
Song, that thoughtless remake of Only You, Oh
My My, Youre Sixteen theyre maddening only
for their lack of personality, depth, emotional
commitment. Theyre so insubstantial theyre hardly
fit objects to provoke boredom, much less concern
and despair.

On the second side, there's Mamunia which is a

pleasant but insignificant piece with one of those
White Album-ish descending sequences.
Picasso's Last Words, however, is the track which
recalls the Beatles most exactly; more because of
its production than its content. The way the spoken
voices are used behind that lazy synthesised
clarinet...oh, it takes me back.

And Ringos only an agent in all of this. It boils down

to the skillful Perry, a true-bred Seventies producer
whose commitment is always to make a "well-done"
album. Hell always deliver, regardless of what/who
hes working with. Perry has made competent
albums with Ringo, Barbra Streisand, Tiny Tim,
Martha Reeves, Art Garfunkel; hes capable of
making competent albums with Nancy Sinatra, Sal
Mineo, Jack LaLanne or Uni, Roy and Al. Is there
any way to communicate how Unnecessary, how
non-vital Im the Greatest or Oh My My is?

From there on, we're simply left with 1985, which

has Paul dusting off his Lady Madonna voice and
which rocks like a muthuh, intercut with reprises of
Jet, Mrs. Vandebilt and Band itself.
As you may have noticed from the almost
unprecedented brevity of the above comments,
Band On The Run is considerably easier to listen to
than to write about. So...hey, I nearly forgot. For a
real revelation, listen to Macca's synthesiser work.
He uses it like an instrument, and not like an
electric whoopee cushion.

Thought not.
Gene Sculatti, 1976
Ringo Starr: Secrets Of The Stars

Band On The Run is a great album. If anybody ever

puts down McCartney in your presence, bust him in
the snoot and play him this, He will thank you for it
afterwards.

Richard Cromelin, Creem, October 1976

"I DO PLAY THE DRUMS!" claims ex-Fab Four
ex-mop top in an Exclusive Interview with ace
CREEM reporter Richard Cromelin.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1974

HE ADMITS THAT, as a singer, he has "the range of

a fly" (but, he emphasizes, "a large fly")...His
composing output has accelerated from one song a

Ringo Starr: Blasts From Your Past (Capitol)

360

year to "a couple" ("It either comes or it doesn't," he

reflects. "You know, it's like life.") ...In passing, he
notes with approval Cliff Richard's current
slogan/album title I'm Nearly Famous, and, perhaps
a little hard on himself, quips, "It's like, 'I used to
be...'"

smock-type shirt), overlayed with abundant gypsyshowbiz regalia: a clutter of diamond, onyx and
amethyst rings on his fingers, gold bracelets, and
three heavy gold chains bearing pendants and
medallions, all keynoted by a dazzling diamond
dangling from his right ear by a short gold stem.
The Sammy Davis Jr. effect, though, is cut by his
white-framed sunglasses, like a little girl's toy, that
look, well, a little silly. A distinctly, refreshingly Ringo
touch.

No, Ringo remains famous by any measure, but he

entertains no pretensions of artistic brilliance, and
his essentially easygoing stance will allow no
slavish dedication to his musical or cinematic
careers. "I never work on anything," he says.
"Dedication is such a weird word, after Albert
Schweitzer and people like that. That's dedication.
Dedication is when you give your whole life. No one
dedicates themselves to anything now."

"To clear up the myth that I only just found out was
going around," he says, taking this opportunity to
repel the rumors that his studio sidekick Jim Keltner
does all the work, "I play the main track as the
drummer. Cause I am a drummer, and I'm sick of all
this bullshit going on about, 'He doesn't really play.'
Even when we were the four of us together, it was
like, 'Well, someone else is doing that, you know,
him and his funny fills.' So I've had it all me life and
I'm sick of it now. I play the kit and Jim either
doubles me or enhances what I do. We play well
together. He is lightnin' and I am thunder...I do play,
I can play, I am playing!"

Ringo, like many, just wants to get along that, in

fact, is probably the heart of his underdog appeal.
You remember the innocent Ringo of A Hard Day's
Night, removing his nose from his "blummin' bewk"
at the urging of Paul's grandfather and parading the
London byways. Today's Ringo, like him, seems in
no particular hurry, has no compelling destination.
And, as that hapless young Ringo strolled into
numerous pratfalls along the way, Ringo in 1976
finds that just getting along isn't as easy as it
seems.

His outburst over, Ringo switches from white wine

to brandy and apple cider and turns to what for him
is still slightly shaky ground. Still, he evaluates the
unmistakable Ringo singing voice with succinct
good humor: "I sometimes go through this little thing
where I go out and sing a song and I think I'm
Stevie Wonder, and then I come back in the booth
to listen to it and it's Bing Crosby again.

"Just trying to live," he says, listing his simple

priorities. "Have a nice time as best I can. Have
some holidays, do some work, say hello. Hello is
still the hardest word in the English language:
'Hello.' What's he mean, hello? Does he mean hello
or hello? Why has he got those shades on?' I don't
know," shaking his head. "It's crazy out there."

"Vocals, that's real paranoiac time for me. You try it

drunk, you go back sober and you do it for real
some takes you use when you're drunk. The
'Photograph' take: when we did 'Photograph' they
were taking bets in the booth which side of me face
I'd fall on after a whole fifth of bourbon. But I did the
whole song and I double-tracked it, and it worked
for that one." He concludes on an up note. "I feel
I'm singing better now, because I'm getting more
confidence the more I do."

Especially for an ex-Beatle of admittedly modest

talents but proven popularity. Nobody expected
anything from this Beatle, but he remains an easy
slam for those who require more than sad-eyed
basset-hound charm and catchy singles from their
rock artists. But Ringo, well aware of his image and
his strengths, has managed to come up with the
perfect musical packaging to transmit that
character. He recognizes his limitations and accepts
them with an air of resigned dissatisfaction
(convinced that there's not much he can do about
them but keep at it.) But he has some definite
aesthetic principles, and exhibits a fierce pride in
past accomplishments and in his prowess on the
pagan skins.

Ringo can afford to be frank about his vocalizing.

He knows exactly where his bread is buttered. "I'm
more of a personality," he says. "It's more of a
personality-cum-singer than singer-cum-personality.
There's 20 million people out there can sing me out
of the fucking room, but they're not getting
anywhere because they can only sing. Whatever it
is with me, I don't know...It's a kind, fun-loving
attitude to life that comes across, I think. I dont
want to hassle anybody. I have a good time when
I'm making a record, most of the songs are happy
love songs really, even if the girl has left."

That pride becomes outright indignation this heatwave afternoon, out in the garden of his
comfortable (not opulent) Hollywood Hills home, a
nicely aged but contemporary-looking bungalow
affair. Ringo sports the California casuals look
(shorts, bare feet, an open-necked, full-sleeved

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In the rock world, "personality" suggests live

appearances before the people, but Ringo has
been the least visible ex-Beatle, remaining (except
for Bangla Desh and Rolling Thunder and his stints
on the silver screen) exclusively a studio entity. "Up
to this year," he explains, "I've been adamant that I
don't want to go out there. I've done enough. I'm not
living out of a suitcase on hamburgers ever again."

tracks on his first album," says Ringo, adding with

mock pomposity, "Probably his finest, if not his
biggest"), John Jarvis, Jane Getz, Eric Clapton, and
oh yes, John & Yoko and Paul & Linda.
"John came out. I mean, he flies out!" says Ringo,
sounding a little awe-struck at Lennon's devotion. "I
mean he's very good to me. He writes me a song
(Cookin') and comes out and gets in the studio
with me. Arif loved John. Arif has great respect for
John as well as for me I suppose. He never
mentioned that...John's the only one that's been on
all the albums, actually came down and worked with
me and wrote me songs."

Now, as he learns from various working colleagues

that a well-run modern tour is not the ordeal he
remembers from five world treks with the Beatles,
his resistance is starting to lower (the organization
of the McCartney tour, which opens its three nights
in Los Angeles in just a few hours, especially
impresses him.) But it will be '77 at the earliest
before the Ringo show hits the road; the same
principle of moderation that keeps him from taking
solos ("They sound like rats around the drums," he
grumbles) precluding the typical rock-star showcase
from consideration.

Paul's appearance was a more tenuous matter. He

wrote Pure Gold for Ringo to cut in the middle of
last year, the album's scheduled starting time, but
with the move to Atlantic, Ringo postponed the
sessions until this spring. The Wings tour,
meantime, was pushed back due to injury, forming
a dual coincidence that put Paul in town during the
recording.

"It's a matter of finding the situation I would go out

under," he explains. "I don't want to go out and say,
'It's Ringo Starr for two hours, how do you do, and
now we'd like to slow the tempo down a little...' I
want to go out in a sort of rock 'n' roll circus
situation, whatever that may be. I've thought about
it and I've talked to certain people and they think
that would be wonderful, but till we get it together
I'm not going to tell you about it."

"Him and Linda came down," Ringo relates, "and

I'm the hustler, I said, 'Do you want to sing?' At that
time of the night it was about eight o'clock they
said 'No, no...' So we went out for dinner, and ate
and they had a few drinks. Then we came back and
wandered round to the studio, and they decided
they were ready to sing!...The three of us were out
there, and I was a bit tipsy, as they say, so I'm
shouting along with them, and Arif's saying, 'We've
got you, you know, we've got your vocal down, so
back off.' So we let the stars take over. We love
each other and there they are."

He will, though, tell you all about his new album,

Ringo's Rotogravure. It's his first for Atlantic
Records, whose staff producer Arif Mardin (AWE,
Bee Gees. et al., ad infinitum) has succeeded
Richard Perry, for the moment anyway, as Ringo's
producer due to schedule conflicts and the
change of record companies, Ringo hastens to
explain, not to any dissatisfaction on his or Perry's
part.

The album's repertoire also includes a country song

("I won't do without a country song"), Allan
Toussaint's I Can Hear You Calling, a song called
Birmingham (England) that emerged from a RingoVini Poncia rewrite as Lady Gay, an unreleased
George Harrison number and Clapton's This Be
Called a Song, cut for, but not included on, Eric's
new album.

"With Arif, we never went over nine or ten takes

really," he says, contrasting Mardin's approach with
Perry's "Let's do 46 takes just in case" method.
"You had it or you didn't have it. If he was dancing,
we had a take. I tend to close my eyes when I'm
playing, just get into the headphones and the band,
and if I looked up and Arif was dancing, I knew,
'We'll keep going cause we're getting somewhere'."

"All my tracks are basically rock 'n' roll pop songs,"

says Ringo. "I try on my albums to get ten number
one singles...That's what I do, and I love singles
and I don't have any concept albums like Tommy or
any of those things. I try to make a record that's a
really good record, but it's a rock 'n' roll pop hit."

Whatever Mardin does with the final mixes, Ringo

expects the sound to remain pretty much the same,
thanks to the presence of Ringo regulars like Danny
Kootch, Keltner, Harry Nilsson, Dr. John (on piano
and guitar) and Jesse Ed Davis. Other guests at
Cherokee Studios in Los Angeles were Melissa
Manchester, Van Dyke Parks, Lon Van Eaton, Peter
Frampton (a return favor: "Yes, I played on three

It figures, then, that Ringo would be impressed by

the recent mass-release of Beatles' singles in
England. "It was wonderful," he enthuses. "That's
the brightest trip EMI ever laid out on
anybody...Twenty singles. I wish we'd thought of it.

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Twenty singles! Wha! Nobody does that. Twenty

singles on the same day. I thought it was wonderful,
I really did!"

pull up the driveway of what has become something

of a rock 'n' roll social center.
"Yes, I like going out," says Ringo, who finds Los
Angeles agreeable on that account (and, naturally,
for musical purposes.) "Every night there's
somewhere to go if you want to. Besides a club,
someone's house, there's always something going
on and most of the time it's going on here after
two in the morning.

Ringo has his ideas on the Beatles' unflagging

popularity, which lately, of course, has become outand-out resurgence. "Mainly," he suggests,
"because most of you grew up with us. We're all
that age now, the oldest teenagers in the world. And
then, anyone that's ten years younger than us are
just getting into us.

"Once the bars close they'll all drive up here, all the
old faces, 'Hi, man, yeah, hi, come on in.' I have to
get away from this house, because it never
stops...But now I'm relaxed. It used to be I'd expect
to stay up all night with them if they wanted to stay
up. Now it's fine. If I'm really wrecked I say, 'You
know where everything is, I'm off.' You can actually
leave your guests and they don't mind if you're
there or not. So that's L.A. for you. It is a great
town, because of the passing strangers."

"I think the main point of the whole situation is that

those pieces of plastic that we did are still some of
the finest pieces of plastic around, some of the
finest records, that no one has done anything
beyond yet...Where are they going? Where am I
going? I don't think I've ever topped 'A Day in the
Life', personally. I'm doing something, but I've never
topped that musically."
There's that pride again, but Ringo, who dismisses
the incessant reunion talk as "silly," has no desire to
squat forever with his three mates on the rock 'n'
roll pedestal: "I wish someone would come out
there and wipe us out. That would be interesting.
Give us a band that gets up there and wipes us out,
be as big as the Beatles. I don't want to hear these
fucking 'Jock Strap and the Strappers, the next
Beatles,' 'cause there never will be. Even Elton
John. Elton John is big, right, but he's not as big as
that craziness we were involved in. And Pete
Frampton just had three million but it's not that. That
was something else besides being big. That was
being a monster...

As fun as it might be, it's not exactly paradise. That,

for Ringo, is up the coast a few hundred miles. "I've
always wondered why I live here," he muses, "when
Big Sur and Carmel and Pebble Beach and that
area's so beautiful. I like it up there, but the problem
up there is there's not much work. I guess I could
go jam with the seals on the rocks."
Richard Cromelin, 1976
Richard Perry
Stuart Grundy,John Tobler, 'The Record
Producers', BBC Books, 1982

"Of course it will happen again, of course it will! It's

an Ee-talian tenor, that's what it's gonna be.
Worldwide Italian tenor: Maybe Spanish. I mean
somebody's gonna do it. The stretches between the
monsters are getting longer, that's all...What is it?
God knows thank you, God, thank you so fucking
much. I don't know what it is. Nobody knows what it
is. That's the old gag 'If we knew, we'd manage it.'
It's just something that happens. Someone is just
gonna go, 'Pow!' and gonna slay the world. I hope
so, and" Ringo isn't about to abdicate for just
anyone "it
ain't gonna be Bruce Springsteen!"

IF ANY PRODUCER could be said to have an

instantly identifiable sound, aside from the obvious
case of Phil Spector, it would be Richard Perry. His
productions during the early 1970s for artists such
as Nilsson, Carly Simon and Ringo Starr could be
recognised immediately. However, unlike Spector,
the artists with whom Perry works are allowed to
retain their own identity, although it would not be
strictly true to suggest that they have all continued
to be successful without Perry's guidance.
Richard Perry was born in Brooklyn, New York, on
18 June 1942 to parents who, among other things,
made musical instruments for children.

Ringo is going to field one more interview, then will

head down to the Wings concert at the Forum.
("They keep saying I'll be on it Wednesday," he
says, slightly puzzled; "but I'll actually be in France."
Tonight, however, he'll join Paul briefly on stage to
present the other half of the Beatles rhythm section,
with a bouquet of flowers.) Keith Allison is ready
and waiting inside the house, and soon Nilsson will

'I was always surrounded by music, ever since I can

remember, and by the time I was in High School I
was already quite involved both with a dance band
and with a singing group. By the time I finished High
School, both groups had become fairly well-known
and worked quite a lot, and I was involved both

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vocally and instrumentally, which, although I didn't

realise it at the time, was a really excellent
background for preparing to be a record producer.

'In High School, we were known as the Legends,

and we changed that to the Escorts later. We made
several records for Coral during that period and that
was my first real professional experience in the
studio, from which I learned quite a lot. Dick Jacobs
was our producer he produced all the Jackie
Wilson records on Coral, the McGuire Sisters,
worked on some Buddy Holly stuff and of course
in those days we did four tunes in one three hour
session, all direct to mono, no mixing, no
overdubbing. We worked with many of the top
musicians of the day, like Mickey Guitar Baker of
Mickey and Sylvia fame, Panama Francis on
drums, people like that, and I suppose that was
when I got the bug on a real serious level, and also
it must have helped me later, because it wasn't as
though I had never been in a studio after those
records.

Having lived in Brooklyn for his whole life up to the

age of eighteen, Perry then attended the University
of Michigan for four years, studying music and also
becoming involved in theatre. 'I was advised to
pursue a career in opera, because I have one of
those deep bass voices that you have no trouble
hearing in the last row of the balcony, and
apparently, there was a shortage of tall basses at
the time, so my chances were quite good. But I
particularly loved musical theatre and was
extremely involved in it, and by the time I graduated
from college, I was really quite passionate about
these two different types of music, rock'n'roll and
musical theatre, which were diametrically opposed
at the time. Some years later, of course, with the
advent of shows like Hair, those worlds were slowly
brought together...So I decided to give it a go in the
musical theatre, and started studying quite diligently
in New York acting, singing, some dance, things
like that. In my spare time, I began writing songs
with a friend of mine, Kenny Vance, who was in a
fairly well-known group during the early 60s called
Jay and the Americans. We wrote some songs
together and then I found some girls who could sing
and started to rehearse them on our songs, and
eventually went in and made a demo. Then, I met a
friend of Kenny's whose dream had always been to
start an independent record company, and who had
raised the capital to do so, and he asked me to be
his partner. Sensing the opportunity that I had, I
immediately decided to put my Broadway career on
the shelf for the time being, and maybe come back
to it in thirty years. It was just one of those intuitive
feelings that given the opportunity to start my own
company and open up an office right away, instead
of having to go from door to door hoping for a break
to get me into the studio, here was an opportunity of
being able to prepare my own sessions and start
my own venture. I just knew I'd be able to succeed
at that, something within me told me I could do it,
and, I thought, do it well probably from all the
years of having developed my own bands and vocal
groups, I just sensed that I would be able to pull it
all together.'

'The group originally started out with three male

friends of mine and in the summer of 1962, which
you may recall was the summer of the Twist, I
decided I wanted to experience playing in New York
clubs with the band/vocal group combination,
before I was too old. So we set out to do that, and I
picked up the Friday paper, started looking for clubs
and phoning them up. That started at the end of
June, and by the end of August, we were at the
Peppermint Lounge (the club made famous during
the Twist era by Joey Dee and the Starliters, whose
hit single, 'Peppermint Twist', was named after it).
'At our very first gig, a place called the Lollipop
Lounge on Coney Island Avenue in Brooklyn, a girl
walked in who was a frequent customer of the place
she could dance, and she could sing, and she
came up and wanted to sing with the band. The
song she wanted to sing was a great old rhythm
and blues classic called 'Lonely Nights', which was
originally done by a group called the Hearts, and
coincidentally, was the first record that I ever
bought, when I was about twelve or something. It
was quite a coincidence that this was the song she
wanted to sing, because it wasn't a particularly wellknown song, although we did know it. There was a
whole spoken section in the middle of the record
that was performed by the bass singer, and I just
went into that at the right point, so there was a sort
of instant chemistry between us after that. Then she
started hanging out with us and eventually I worked
her into the band as a permanent member, and she
sang on some of our Coral records after that, sang
lead, and after we disbanded, I stayed friendly with
her and gave her what advice I could, and she
continued to develop a career in the music
business. She formed an all female rock band
called Goldie and the Gingerbreads her name
was Goldie Zelkowitz, and then she went on to
become Genya Ravan with Ten Wheel Drive, and
she made some solo albums after that, and now

In fact, that very lucid soliloquy skates over a

number of important matters which Perry either
feels are of little consequence, or perhaps wishes to
forget, although it is difficult to understand either
viewpoint. The first of these items concerns Perry's
school singing group, who, after completing their
school education, actually recorded several singles
during Perry's final two years at University.

364

she has her own label in New York called Polish

Records. We still stay in touch.'

make the most out of my investment. The first of the

three I sold to Kama Sutra Productions, which was
a very hot company at the time, having just started
Kama Sutra Records and signed the Lovin'
Spoonful. As soon as they heard that first
production that I ever did, they said, "You don't ever
have to worry about going in the studio again,
because any time you want to go in, we'll
automatically pay for it, we don't have to hear an
artist or a song or anything." That was certainly a
great opportunity at the time, and I went in and
made record after record which everyone loved
when they heard the masters, but Kama Sutra went
through a whole number about whether or not they
were going to sell this master to Atlantic or some
other company they weren't sure whether they
wanted to release it themselves, should they sell it
or should they keep it, and if they sold it, they
insisted on getting three times what the session
actually cost. And that really caught myself and a
few other producers in a serious box, because we
were creating, but the records weren't coming out.
Unfortunately, that's what happened to much of my
product from 1965 to 1967 a few records came
out, nothing of any real consequence, but during
that period, I learned an awful lot about what goes
on in the studio, and I also acquired a reputation
among New York record business people of being a
young, up-and-coming producer who made good
records. I didn't have any hits, but everyone used to
say "You make good records", and I always had
opportunities to work and to go in the studio.'

During the period when he and Kenny Vance were

writing partners, Perry first made contact with
Leiber and Stoller who would later feature in his
early production work. 'Kenny and I had written a
few songs, and he had set up an appointment with
Leiber and Stoller to hear these songs it was like
getting an audience with the Pope! So we jumped
on my motor scooter and scootered in to Manhattan
from Brooklyn and went up to see Leiber and
Stoller. I sat down at the piano, and the way we had
rehearsed it was that we were both supposed to
sing the songs together. Of course, as soon as we
started, he chickened out and left me there to sing
alone, and I suddenly realised I was doing a solo,
but I figured I had better just continue. After each
song, we looked up at Mike Stoller in eager
anticipation, and he would just give a mild shrug,
like, "What can I say? Next", and at the time, it was
somewhat deflating after all these hopes and
dreams that he would like something, and not even
the slightest...We've laughed about it in later years.
Reverting to his main theme, Perry talked about the
beginnings of his own company. 'I can still
remember walking to my very first session under
the banner of my production company, the first
session I had put together where I hired the
musicians, the arrangers, the engineer, co-wrote all
the songs, rehearsed all the groups, and on the way
to the studio, I said to Kenny Vance, 'O.K., tell me
one more time what does four-track mean? I
mean, do you have four separate tracks?" It was
like I was just so green to the process, but I
understood music and I had no trouble
communicating with all these musicians that had
played on hundreds of hit records, the very cream
of the crop in New York. I was able to get what I
wanted and they respected my ability to
communicate with them, which was the thing that
really made the working process very easy, and
ultimately successful for me, because
understanding all the technology is not of the most
vital importance for a producer, initially. You really
don't need to know that to make good records,
although eventually, it certainly helps after some
years, I began to feel a bit frustrated at being solely
at the mercy of an engineer, particularly when he
wasn't able to fully understand it's sometimes
hard to articulate verbally what one can speak of
technically.'

During this period, Perry again came into contact

with Leiber and Stoller, although this time as
producer trying to sell them, as owners of Red Bird
Records, some of his independently-produced
work.
As well as a single by a group called the Young
Generation on Red Bird, 'The Hideaway', Perry also
certainly produced at least one other single for the
label, a version of 'Be-Bop-A-Lula' by an outfit
called the Five Cards Stud. Another substantial link
between Richard Perry and Red Bird Records was
that Leiber and Stoller's partner in the enterprise,
veteran entrepreneur George Goldner, had a
daughter named Linda, who became Mrs Richard
Perry in 1967.
'George and I became extremely close and worked
closely together for the last five years of his life'
(Goldner died in April, 1970). 'He was a tremendous
inspiration to me, and one of the all time great
people in our industry supremely talented in every
area, he was really one of the true legends of the
business, and one of the few people who was
capable of discovering the talent, rehearsing them,

In terms of hit records, Richard Perry's two years as

an independent producer in New York were hardly
successful. 'When I went in to do that very first
session which my own company had financed, I did
three separate sides with three different artists to

365

making the record and promoting it in a manner that

very few could hope to attain.'

friend of mine bumped into Beefheart at a popular

Los Angeles restaurant, told him that I was
interested in getting hold of him, and brought him
round. We went in and did some demos, and I was
completely knocked out by the sound of his band at
the time, In my opinion, that was the best of all his
bands, and the music they made was easiest to
relate to Ry Cooder was one of the people in that
band. They were phenomenal and making really
special music, so shortly after that we went in to
begin the album, and one quite interesting thing
about it that's not generally known is that Taj Mahal
played washboard on the first track, "Yellow Brick
Road".'

However, Perry was unable to pick up any

production expertise from Leiber and Stoller. 'By the
time I knew them properly, they weren't producing
very many records, and in fact, there's no one I can
specifically think of who was influencing me from
the point of view of production, although there were
certain records which came out which I liked and
would be subconsciously influenced by, like "1-2-3"
by Len Barry, which was a very popular record in
1965....But no single entity had any marked
influence on me until 'Sergeant Pepper'. There were
people for whom I had tremendous respect, like
Shadow Morton, but I can't say that I ever went
after making a Shangri-Las type record also, in
those days, I wasn't able to work with as many of
the types of artist that I would have preferred, and I
had to find my own talent, which was mostly black
talent, where my musical roots are, so I enjoyed it
tremendously. I was really making rhythm and blues
records primarily, and that was a world unto itself
if anything, I would just say that the charisma of all
the golden era of rock'n'roll that I had grown up with
was a cumulative influence on me. I feel like I'm a
kind of storage bank of musical back-ground and
information, and I've always tried to keep myself as
open to all musical influences as I can there's no
type of music that I don't have great love and
appreciation for, so whenever I might be tuned in to
a specific type of record, there are certain ideas and
instincts that come out of me, which I think is due to
the storehouse of musical influences and
information that I've gathered through the years.
Because New York had been less than kind to him
in terms of tangible success, during the early
months of 1967 Richard Perry decided to go west. 'I
was starting to feel very confined working in New
York, and I felt that it was essential for me to come
out here to California which had really started to
take over from New York as the centre for
recording. As soon as I came out here, it was like
another world, and I felt very much at home, very
turned on to the whole environment, and
immediately charted a different course for my
career.

Further to that, it is of interest to note that preceding

that track Perry's voice can be heard intoning some
technical gobbledegook. 'Oh yes, I'd forgotten that
that was the Ampex alignment tape. It was just one
of those fun ideas, where we decided to do our own
alignment tape with a strange tone on it to begin
that side. It was a very exciting album to make, and
we knew that the music was exciting but
unfortunately, the album never really saw the light of
day, despite a lot of fine critical acclaim it never
really reached the public in the way that we all
thought it should have, but again, that was part of
the learning experience for me, I think. Due to that,
and a couple of other situations early in my career
in LA, I realised that even though the producer's job
is technically over once the record is finished, I've
always compared it to a four-man relay race, in
which I run the opening lap. You can open up a fiftyyard lead, but it's to no avail if the person to whom
you hand over the baton doesn't keep that same
lead by running an equally strong lap. I refer to the
other members of the team as the whole promotion
effort, distribution, publicity, management, all the
key areas that come into the entire process of
breaking an artist and building their career. I just felt
that it was too heartbreaking to go through all that
effort to make what everyone felt was a great
record, and have other people acknowledge what
you felt about it, yet still not reach the public, and I
had to find out why. I just continued to sort of
pursue that thought, and tried to put myself in a
situation where I would be able to be together with
the strongest team possible.'

There can be little doubt that Richard Perry was

extraordinarily fortunate in that the first act with
whom he made an album in Los Angeles was
Captain Beefheart. 'I was working closely at that
time with Bob Krasnow, who for many years now
has been with Warner Brothers Records, but at the
time was Head of the West Coast office for Kama
Sutra. He mentioned to me that Beefheart and the
Magic Band were available they had done a few
singles at the time, but never an album. Then a

In November 1967, Perry joined Warner Brothers,

soon after which he revealed a secret weapon of
alarming proportions, a forty-two-year-old New
Yorker named Herbert Khaury, who became far
better known to the world as Tiny Tim. 'I had
discovered him in the early part of my career in
New York, in about 1965, and I spent quite a bit of
time working with him, and actually making a few
records with my own money way back then, which I
had never done anything with, and in fact never did.

366

He had been around for years, and no one had ever

even thought of taking him seriously far from it,
most people were actually pretty much repulsed by
him, and he was probably thrown out of more doors
in New York record business buildings than any
performer in history. But he kept plugging away, and
he was his own man, and then eventually he started
to work at the Scene, which was a popular club in
New York in the late sixties. I had already moved to
Los Angeles, and hadn't been in contact with him
for about a year, and Mo Ostin went to see, and
eventually to sign, Jimi Hendrix at the Scene, and
the opening act was Tiny Tim. So, just on a whim,
and with the recommendation of Peter Yarrow of
Peter, Paul and Mary, who was fooling around with
some things with Tiny Tim at that point, Mo Ostin
signed him, after which they were looking for a
producer for him. Then I went to Warner Brothers,
and so we were really reunited in a sense it was
very coincidental and fateful that it all worked out
that way.

occasions, I conducted the orchestra, and we really

had a whole show, with sets and live birds and
smoke machines, way before anyone else was
using them, and all that kind of thing. It was really
quite an event and I only regret that we never filmed
it, because unfortunately at that time, we weren't
into the audio-visual age that we are today.
Otherwise it would have made a brilliant video
cassette. As far as his material went, I was
choosing it all, although most of it came from the
immense backlog of songs that he had in his repertoire. I just picked the ones that I felt were specially
applicable to what we were doing, and then I added
a few of my own to make the overall album a little
more contemporary, so that it wasn't just all old
chestnuts. "Tiptoe Through The Tulips" was one
song that just happened to click, because it seemed
to embody all of that part of his personality,
although I never really thought of it as being a hit. It
was something that he had been doing for years, so
we just did it, but it wasn't, "Well, this is a smash"
it just happened. It was one of about five or six
songs that were always a permanent part of his
repertoire "On The Good Ship Lollipop" was
another, and "Animal Crackers In My Soup".'

'Some people have assumed that I created Tiny

Tim, but as I said, he was very much his own man.
What I tried to do with him was to take this
incredible character that he truly was and place it in
a grander musical setting, to also give it a bit of
fantasy, and to create in essence an animated
cartoon, a full-length feature animated cartoon
behind the character of Tiny Tim, but utilising all the
things that he stood for and represented I didn't
invent any of that, it was all really him, totally him,
and I just tried to enhance it as much as possible
and make it as enjoyable and as much fun as
possible. Rather than a freak oddity, to make it
something of some musical substance, although
that part of it never really reached the public, apart
from a very few who got into that first album,
particularly. For most of the public, the only interest
was in the freak aspects of him, and in fact,
because of his whole physical appearance and
everything, most people found it very difficult to
relate to him on any level other than the obvious.'

After Tiny Tim, Perry's next production job was with

a genuine legend from the golden age of rock'n'roll,
Fats Domino. 'After Tiny Tim, I was thinking about
which artist I could work with next, and somehow,
Fats Domino came into my mind. I felt that if he
were handled the right way and we made the right
records, that he could have a marvelous comeback,
but unfortunately it appeared to be just a little too
late in his career, in terms of his being set in certain
ways. Also, it was difficult to motivate his people to
do, for instance, what Little Richard was doing at
the time, where he was starting to headline some
rock festivals and would play the Fillmore East in
New York, so that he was really out there in front of
the public. Unfortunately, Richard didn't do it either,
but at least he was making the right moves and put
out the right image for himself, but he never made
the right record. I almost worked with him as well
until something fouled it up at the last minute. But
with Fats Domino, I felt there was nothing dated
about his sound and that all he needed was the
right song. If he had, for instance, a great John
Fogerty song, he could have had a smash with
it...Anyway, we made that album, Fats Is Back,
which was a great experience for me, and I enjoyed
working with him very much. A lot of people truly
loved the album, and for me it was another of those
early works that was very highly acclaimed critically,
although not by the public.'

During the final years of the sixties, Perry produced

three LPs with Tiny Tim, although the first of them,
God Bless Tiny Tim, which contained the American
top twenty hit single, 'Tiptoe Through The Tulips', is
generally considered to be the most interesting,
perhaps partially because of its undoubted novelty
quality. 'That first album was a very special kind of
thrill for me, because after we finished it and I still
feel in many ways that it's one of the very best
albums I've ever done, and certainly the most
theatrical we had the opportunity to recreate the
album on stage, first at Santa Monica Civic
Auditorium, then for two weeks at Caesar's Palace
in Las Vegas, and also for a memorable concert at
the Royal Albert Hall in London. On all those

Somewhat strangely, the British release of the

album was on a Warner budget label, but even
more odd was the fact that the opening track on the

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American version of the record, a highly evocative

encapsulated medley of several of Domino's earlier
hits, was omitted from the British release. Perry was
mystified by the omission, but remembered the
track very well.

such artists as Melissa Manchester with Perry as

executive producer. Of more than passing interest
was the album A New Day by actor/singer
Theodore Bikel.
'When I went to Las Vegas to see Fats Domino, I
needed to have Mo Ostin with me and he said,
"That's great, but while we're there, I promised
Theo Bikel that I would go and see him across the
road at Caesar's Palace in Fiddler On The Roof. So
we did that, and it was quite a transition segueing
from Fats Domino to Theo Bikel but we sat
around afterwards and talked and I threw out some
ideas. The next thing I knew, Mo said that if I was
interested in doing something with Theo, he'd sign
him. It seemed that it might be an interesting
challenge to take someone who was truly from the
theatre but also had a musical background, and try
to somehow incorporate the theatrical part with
contemporary music. So we had selections of prose
interspersed with songs like "Lady Jane", or songs
by Joni Mitchell and Cat Stevens, and in the end, I
felt it was a really successful project, and an album
I could be very proud of. At the time, as well, I was
very much into the use of sound effects on records,
starting with Tiny Tim, and there was one particular
track on Theo's record, a version of Jacques Brel's
"Ports Of Amsterdam", which Theo was able to
interpret marvelously, and I put in all different kinds
of sound effects with it, in an attempt to make it
sound as if you were actually listening to the sound
track of the song presented visually, beginning with
the sound of the waves lapping against the shore or
the dock and the fog horn in the distance. And as
the story unfolds, the sound of the sailors in town
partying it up and drinking and the women dancing
it was dif-ficult to find all the right sound effects,
but it really came together nicely. One of my
dreams has been to some day put together a
collection of various records I've produced, and that
might be one that I'd include.'

'That was my idea, and in fact, that's me, the voice

announcing his return. At that time, I was extremely
theatrically and visually-oriented I still am, of
course, and I always develop my albums in visual
terms, almost before I translate it to just the
listening experience. For many years I've been
waiting for the day when I wouldn't have to just limit
it to the listening experience, and happily, that day
seems to be at hand and I wanted something
really special to kick that album off, as a means of
letting a large audience know who Fats is, and give
them just a taste of some of the greatness that he
had accomplished, because this was already about
eight years after his prime. A lot of people really
didn't know who Fats Domino was any more, and
so I had the idea to string together these little
snippets of some of his great recordings of the past
in a kind of medley form, and then break into what
appeared to be like a live auditorium or something,
announcing his return, and then we went right into a
song that I had written specially for him, 'My Old
Friends', and it was very exciting. By the way, King
Curtis played saxophone on that cut and a few
others on the album.'
The album also included two excellent cover
versions of Beatle songs, 'Lovely Rita' and 'Lady
Madonna', intoned in the famous and instantly
recognisable Domino drawl. 'I chose those songs
for him, but quite honestly, there was a period of
time when I felt that perhaps I had made the wrong
choice, although musically, there was no question
that they were good choices, and I think, in fact,
that Paul McCartney was openly influenced by Fats
Domino, particularly with regard to 'Lady Madonna',
in both the writing of the song and his vocal
performance, so it just seemed like a good idea to
have the original article then go back and record
that song. But lyrically, it really didn't make all that
much sense to Fats, until one day I went to visit him
at his hotel room, and he was sitting on the bed
rehearsing the song with the backing track, and he
told me he had finally seen the light of day about
that song, and decided he loved it. I asked him why
and he said, "Because I have a daughter named
Donna", Beautiful...'

Unlike the majority of the producers explored in this

book, Richard Perry has not confined his work to
artists who chiefly work in the field of rock music.
While Theo Bikel may have been an unlikely name
to read, the same could most definitely be said of
the great Ella Fitzgerald.
'After Warner Brothers signed her, I simply asked
Mo Ostin whether I could produce this great lady,
and fortunately, I was given the opportunity. She
was in the middle of two months of one-nighters
throughout Europe, and she had a week off, so
rather than wait six months and not release the
record until the following year, I went to London to
meet her, and we had five days to do the entire
album. I went in two days before, and gave her the
first three songs, and there she was, learning

Among Perry's other productions for Warner

Brothers in the late 1960s were albums by a group
known as Holy Mackerel, which included a fledgling
Paul Williams; and one by New York
songwriters/performers Peter Anders and Vini
Poncia, the latter later working for Perry, producing

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Smokey Robinson songs at a day's notice. It was a

testimonial to her brilliance as an artist that she
would be able to tackle Beatles songs, Smokey
Robinson songs, and execute so brilliantly the three
songs a day we were doing. Mick Jagger and Keith
Richard were mixing Let It Bleed in the next studio
at the time, and they came by to say hello, and
George Harrison was working on something and he
stopped by. It was a tremendous experience
working with her, and also the first time that I had
really worked in an English recording session with
completely new musicians and all new
surroundings, but I just love those kind of
challenges and that pressure. It was at those
sessions that I first worked and began a long and
very rewarding recording relationship with Nicky
Hopkins, and where I first discovered his true
brilliance, because in the midst of not knowing one
musician on the session, as opposed to really
knowing everyone who is playing for me intimately,
he was the glue that bound it all together.'

what was, without question, the biggest break of my

career at the time I moved to Los Angeles, I had
to start completely from scratch. It made no
difference who knew me in New York and the two
years I had spent there meant nothing when I
moved out here. At one point, after I had made a
few independent records in the first six months I
was here, in and around the Captain Beefheart
period, I really needed to be affiliated with a big
company, because I didn't want to be independent
in LA any more. I desperately needed the
involvement of being with a large company which I
had never had before, and I knew that, given that
opportunity, I would do well. When I finally got the
call saying, could I start on Monday, let me tell you it
was like coming across an oasis in the middle of a
desert. At the end of my two years there they
wanted me to continue, and under normal
circumstances, I would have loved to, but I felt that
in order to further my career, I had to go back to
being independent to expose myself to a greater
variety of artists to whose work I felt I could
contribute, and where our combined talents could
give me a chance to progress in my work.

From a universally respected lady to another female

recording project, although of a very different nature
the all-girl rock band Fanny. 'They came to me
while I was still at Warner Brothers, I auditioned
them live in a studio, and I was very impressed with
their ability to really play rock'n'roll music. I
continued to work with them, and helped them
develop their talents and abilities and we went on to
do three albums together, from which we had one
or two medium-sized hits, although nothing gigantic.
It was just one of those things for a while, it
looked like they could really do something, but I
guess the timing wasn't right who knows? Maybe
there's something in one of those albums that would
be right for today, but I don't know, because I
haven't heard them in a long time. I do know that
the track with which we had the most success was
Charity Ball, the title track of the second album, and
there were some interesting things on the third and
final album I did with them, Fanny Hill, which was
recorded at Apple Studios in 1971.'

'I had started to develop a close relationship with

Clive Davis, which continues to this day. Clive had
heard the Ella Fitzgerald album I had done, and at
that point, I hoped to be able to do something with
Barbra Streisand, who at that time seemed as
though her recording career needed a shot in the
arm. Clive was instantly receptive and thought it
was a good idea, so I immediately started looking
for suitable material. Once I had gathered a few
songs that Clive felt were strong enough and
representative, he immediately set up the meeting
between us, and the rest, as they say, is history. I
felt that I was breaking new ground with Barbra
here was a woman who was still quite young at the
time, twenty-eight-years-old, but sort of going on
forty-eight, who was unquestionably the finest
female voice of our generation, but who had been
completely divorced from this whole side of
contemporary music. She had blazed her own path
and her own particular style in the early and middle
sixties, but at this point it was 1970 by applying
her to the right kind of contemporary songs, it was
really quite exciting and thrilling for everyone
involved, even though she had a certain amount of
resistance to it at first, because it was unknown turf
for her and she was understandably insecure about
it. But she was extremely turned on right from the
first session, which was, in fact, the longest
recording session in the history of the LA federation
of musicians. We began at seven o'clock with a full
orchestra and singers and everything, and ended at
five o'clock in the morning to keep string players
until that time is some feat, let me tell you, probably

At the end of the 1960s, Richard Perry decided to

become independent again. It would appear that
this move could be regarded as intrepid, bearing in
mind that the only real hit record he had achieved
was with Tiny Tim, but Perry's remarkable self-belief
(confident, although rarely arrogant, which is
perhaps a description we would all relish were it
applied to us) told him that to move away from the
protection of the Warner Brothers umbrella was the
right thing to do at that time.
'I left them with a lot of mixed feelings. I really was
very indebted to the people there like Mo Ostin and
Joe Smith, because I consider that they gave me

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anywhere in the world, because they like to get

home at ten at the latest but we recorded half the
album during that session, five tracks. Stoney End,
the title track of that first album, was the third one
that we did, and by the time we did the first take on
that one her first takes were magical, because
even though they might not be the final take,
listening to her sing a song for the first time was
always a very stirring experience and she came in
to hear the playback, she whispered something in
my ear which I will never forget for the rest of my
life. Especially coming from her, because the night
before, she had almost threatened to cancel the
sessions, and was very nervous, and I said, "Relax,
we've got to go through with it, and I promise you it
will be fabulous". She whispered to me, "You were
right, and I was wrong, but it's nice to be wrong".'

endeavour, such as the relationship between a

director and his actors. I think that there are times
when you see problems on a set because of disharmony between the cast and crew, and it seems
that if a director can keep a happy set, he's already
half-way there, and that seems to be a rarity
amongst many films in production. It's tough
enough to make a great film or a great record or
whatever it is you're setting out to do, so at least
let's everyone feel good about each other and be
friendly, with all energies working in the same
direction.'
Following success with both the Stoney End and
Barbra Joan Streisand albums, Perry's final work
with Streisand came in 1972, when he produced a
live LP for the star which was recorded at the Los
Angeles Forum. It was actually Perry's first
production of a live LP, although he apparently did
little to alter his normal recording techniques. 'The
only different thing I did was to try to mix it like a
normal record, but to make sure that the rhythm
section, and particularly the drums, were wellrecorded and really stood out. A lot of live
recordings, especially at that time, tended to have
that live sound where everything would get a bit
washed together, although of course the technology
has improved tremendously through the years, as
witnessed by Jackson Browne's Running On
Empty, which sounds better than many studio
albums. I think in this day and age that there isn't
much difference if you're working with a
competent engineer who knows how to capture it
on tape, then it's just a question of making sure that
it's mixed well.'

Barbra Streisand has a reputation, rightly or

wrongly, of often being a difficult person to work
with, although the fact that Perry completed three
albums with her would seem to indicate that they, at
least, were able to achieve a substantial rapport.
'We never had a problem in that regard. I never felt
we would, and although there were minor
skirmishes here and there, I don't think that any
exciting and creative relationship could exist without
a difference of opinion, and it's working through
those differences that sometimes makes a record
great. With Barbra, we began on a level of
friendship which existed throughout our working
relationship and continues today. That's probably
the ideal producer/artist relationship, starting with a
strong friendship, where I can really enjoy hanging
out with the artist and we can have fun and play, go
out and do things and see things and open
ourselves to all different influences together. Talking
music and maybe talking movies, because
somehow everything inter-relates, exchanging
ideas and tastes and things like that, enhances the
overall working relationship not to mention that it
makes it very easy. I consider myself extremely
blessed and fortunate to have wound up doing what
I do for a living, something I love so much that it's
genuinely fun for me. I've known that if it ever stopped being fun then something was wrong, and so
the more enjoyable a working relationship can be,
the better the record is going to be and the better
the whole experience is going to be. It's great to be
able to laugh together and I think that's a very
important part of an ideal relationship. With all the
people I've worked with, especially the most
meaningful ones, we had many great laughs
together, and had a great time doing things and
hanging out, so I think that once you've established
that, provided the talent is there on both parts,
which we're assuming it is, every-thing else takes
care of itself. I think that goes for any creative

A question begins to form in the agile mind

concerning the fact that one of the features of
Richard Perry's career is that he has produced a
greater than average number of ladies, starting
even before Streisand with acts like Fanny, and
continuing until the present day. 'Yes, I've thought
about that myself from time to time. It hasn't been
by design, although I will say that I prefer being
trapped in a studio for three months with a lady
rather than a man. I certainly have made, I think,
good records with people of both sexes, and it's
really up to the individual artist it was just a
coincidence that I've worked with a lot of ladies
although I do enjoy working with them, and I think I
can bring out good performances in them.'
A feature of Perry's work in the early 1970s which
did not involve women directly, was his production
of two LPs with erstwhile computer programmer
and latterday bon viveur Harry Nilsson, whose first
Perry-produced album, Nilsson Schmilsson, is
regarded as his most successful, and includes the
artist's biggest single, 'Without You'.

370

'I haven't seen Harry much in some years now, but

the way we met was at a party at Phil Spector's
house around 1968, when Phil threw a party for
Tiny Tim. Harry was a fan of mine from the Tiny Tim
album, and I was a fan of his early albums, so we
exchanged mutual admiration and that began our
friendship. When he later asked me to produce him,
we had a couple of years that were good, with
mutual respect and friendship, but there is no
getting around the fact that Harry is a complex
individual, and there can be times when he has
strong swings of mood. When he's up, he's really
up, and when he's down, he's really down. I think
that part of the key to becoming a successful
producer is in developing intuition on a
psychological level which tells you when an artist is
feeling good and when he isn't, and knowing what
you can do to enhance their positive moods, or to
help them out when they're down, or to know when
you should maybe leave them alone, and to just
know, as much as possible, what makes them tick
and what inspires them on a creative level, and also
emotionally and psychologically, because that, of
course, affects what they do creatively and
artistically.

successful with songs written by others than with

his own material, and the other being that he
refused to perform live. As a result of some
combination of those negative elements, it would
appear that Nilsson was unable to capitalise on his
success to become more than an artist with a cult
following.
'Harry has always been a sort of maverick when it
comes to writing songs. He wanted to write his own
kind of song, and while they often contained many
attractive commercial qualities, if they weren't totally
commercial, he didn't really care because he was
more concerned with doing what he wanted to do.
He did have some success with "Coconut", which
was a top ten record in America, and "Jump Into
The Fire" off that first album was also a mediumsized hit here, but unquestionably, most of his
successes were with other people's songs. It wasn't
that he was incapable of writing his own hits, but I
think it was mainly due to the fact that he was such
an outstanding singer if he never wrote a note of
music, he could still have had a brilliant career if he
had wanted it, just on the strength of his singing,
and there was a time when, with the possible
exception of Paul McCartney, Harry was the finest
pop vocalist in the world. There was no one who
could sing a moving ballad like "Without You" and
turn right round and do a rock'n'roll number with
equal conviction as well as Nilsson. As for his lack
of live performances, I just feel that that was what
ultimately prevented him from being a superstar all
over the world. For a while, the mystique of it all
was interesting, and perhaps if it were happening
today, where there are more opportunities for audiovisual devices, he could have overcome it. He did
do the In Concert series on BBC television with
Stanley Dorfman, which was very popular at the
time. His show was very interesting and innovative
with a lot of new technology, multiple images and
things like that, but I think any artist, with very few
exceptions and none that I can really think of, can
immeasurably enhance his career by appearing in
front of the public. At some point, the public needs
to reach out and touch the artist, experience and
feel them in person. As luck would have it, nearly all
the artists with whom I've worked never liked to
perform.'

'I got a lot of experience from Tiny Tim, Fats

Domino, Ella Fitzgerald and Streisand, of course,
so by the time I worked with Nilsson, I was pretty
well-equipped to deal with whatever had to be dealt
with, but through it all we were close friends and we
spent a lot of time going out, having fun and
laughing, and when he got in his weird moods, as
we all do from time to time, I would just know to
leave him alone, or give him a pat on the back and
say, "Come on, let's forget it" or something. We
were able to work pretty much through that on the
first album, which I think was reflected in the way
the album came out. We began the album with one
song that we both felt very strongly about, the
Badfinger song "Without You", but otherwise he
only had bits and pieces of songs, none of which he
really wanted to consider. So I'll never forget, and I
don't think he will either, walking up Oxford Street
visiting publishers and looking for material. I had
decided that I wanted to record the album in
England, and although we didn't find any songs we
liked, we already had musicians booked, so we just
went in. I said, "Harry, we're going to have to make
songs out of those bits and pieces", and they were
actually converted into songs in the studio if he
had written a verse and a chorus, I structured some
of the tracks so that we added subsequent verses
and choruses to make it a complete song, even
though there were no lyrics written, and he finally
wrote the lyrics on the day he had to do the vocals.'

It's always difficult, both because of the sometimes

inadequate and inexact nature of words to describe
sound, and the necessity felt by record producers
that they have to protect their own secrets, to
acquire a very direct answer to a question about the
particular qualities and techniques which any
producer considers he brings to a production,
although Richard Perry seemed better informed
about himself than many of his peers who seemed

Two somewhat strange items pervaded Nilsson's

career, one being that he was rather more

371

unwilling to discuss their particular methods of

production.

'Carly had written most of the material for the No

Secrets album, which was the first one I did with
her, with the exception of a couple of songs. She
had a collection of material when we first started to
get together which she played for me, and I would
make suggestions as to which songs I liked, which I
didn't like so much, some changes that could be
made in some to enhance them a bit, either lyrically
or musically, and after that, most of our work was
focused on the way we were going to treat the
songs. Because at the time, she favoured a softer,
more folk-oriented approach, whereas I was always
very determined to convince her that she was really
a great rock singer. She had a wonderful soft voice,
but also a unique and powerful voice to deliver
more rock-oriented material, and even in the
treatment of "You're So Vain" it was a bit of a
struggle at first, because she didn't want it to be so
big. I possibly experienced more musical
differences with Carly than with any other artist I've
ever worked with on that first album, but I think that
working through those differences was what made
the album so great.'

'I try to make the artist and the sound of the record
seem as alive as possible I don't necessarily
mean recorded live, but where the artist comes to
life in the middle of the speakers. I've always tried
to make my records as listenable and musical as
possible, where you could hear everything in the
record that was really important, so that people
could hear all elements of the rhythm section a
solid drum combined with all the other things and
could hear strings, but all combined in such a way
that it wouldn't clutter up the area where the vocalist
was performing, to make sure that everything was
compatible both musically and sonically. That's the
thing I discovered working in London on that first
Nilsson record how important it is for everything to
have its own sonic space. One of the mistakes that
young producers make is that they have a guitar
blaring through that steals centre stage from the
singer. I always envision it as though I'm mounting a
show with the artist in centre stage, and the set
behind has to be dressed in a way that will enhance
the scene and the song they're performing as much
as possible, enhance the mood. The song becomes
the text, and if you can sit back and be as totally
objective as you would if you were part of an
audience, you can easily see if something steals
your attention away from the artist, or anything
takes away from the main focus of attention.
Sometimes, of course, you want a guitar solo or a
sax or whatever to take over for a minute and share
the spotlight, and that's by design, but apart from
that, you have to make sure that nothing is
encumbering the artist.

No Secrets was indeed a great album, both

artistically and commercially, selling prodigiously
around the world and making the top ten in LP
charts on both sides of the Atlantic. Additionally, the
LP contained the already mentioned 'You're So
Vain', a single which topped the American charts
and made the top three in Britain, and on which the
instantly recognisable voice of Mick Jagger can be
heard. One of the most frequently asked questions
in the pop world during 1973 concerned the subject
matter of the song, and Perry, having produced it,
was obviously in a better position than most to
supply an answer.

'It's being able to be objective, which is what I've

told everybody for years, to be stone-cold objective
it's so easy to be in the studio and crank up the
volume loud and say it sounds like a smash.
Everyone and their mother thinks they've cut a
smash when they turn it up loud in the studio but I
think that by being able to really cling to that third
person point of view, I'm able to not hype myself
and really see the record in its final form, to create
that very special musical setting for the artist and in
the process bring the artist to their ultimate potential
and fruition. To take their talent and to just make it
as big and as glorious as possible, to make it the
biggest and best Streisand or Nilsson or whoever
that there could possibly be that has always been
my goal.'

'It's about a compilation of men that Carly had

known, but primarily Warren Beatty. Mick Jagger
got involved because Carly had become friendly
with him some months before and felt that it would
be great for Mick to sing backgrounds. I said sure it
would, but I wanted to see how it went and if it was
comfortable and would come together I didn't feel
that the success of the record was in any way
dependent on his involvement. I think it would have
been a big hit with just Carly herself singing
backgrounds, and in fact, at a certain point it
seemed like too much of a hassle and we decided
to forget it. Then, after we had cut it, suddenly one
day she either bumped into him or heard from him
or something, just by coincidence, and it was like,
"Why don't you come down?", a very spontaneous
thing, not at all planned. It wasn't as though we
were looking for him or waiting for him to show up,
he just came down and said, "Sure, I'll try it", and
we just did it. It's really nice if things work out like
that. Similarly, there was a very memorable night

Almost inevitably, 1972 saw Perry working with

another lady, and again achieving major success
Carly Simon.

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when we were working on "Night Owl" she had

wanted to do one of James Taylor's songs, but one
of his lighter folkier type things, and I felt that if she
wanted to do one of his songs, that we should do
"Night Owl", which was one of his old songs that I
had always loved, and I really wanted to try to get
some rock'n'roll going on it. It really came out well,
and then one night quite late, around midnight, we
had scheduled to do background vocals. We had
Doris Troy coming down and Bonnie Bramlett was
in town, and the McCartneys were working next
door in Air Studios, which was where we were
working at that point in the album. We really started
to get friendly and around eleven-thirty, after they
had finished their session, they came around to
hang out for a little while when we were getting
ready to do the backgrounds. Mick had stopped by
again as well, so we had this background chorus
rehearsing the song con-sisting of the McCartneys
Mick, Doris Troy and Bonnie Bramlett it was quite
a happening in the studio that night, very exciting,
and again totally spontaneous. Just a magical
moment that happened.'

Having had some success with Barbra Streisand for

Columbia/CBS Records, Perry was invited during
the first half of the 1970s to work with three of the
company's other long-established but hardly
progressive stars, Andy Williams, Johnny Mathis
and Percy Faith, all of whom had been recording
successfully ten years or more before Perry had
taken his first steps into production.
'Andy Williams was suggested by Clive (Davis), and
Andy is such a wonderful person I had really been
one of his fans when I was a teenager, because he
made so many great records in the fifties and
Clive had found the song "Solitaire" which he felt
was a very strong song for Andy, and I agreed with
him. I had the lyricist of the song, Phil Cody, who
coincidentally was an old friend of mine, make
some substantial changes in the lyrics which I felt
were necessary, and we made the record, and then
subsequently an album, which was a very enjoyable
experience. He's a true professional and never
gave anything but one hundred per cent of his effort
if all artists I worked with provided experiences as
enjoyable and friction-free as Andy, I'd have a lot
less grey hair on my head today. We only did the
one album, though it was the kind of thing where
it was a one-off experience for both of us, and I was
committed to other things. But I think it can be
important for artists to change producers from time
to time, although certainly there have been a
number of artists with tremendously successful
careers who have just stuck with one producer. It's
difficult enough to find one producer that an artist
can trust and feel confident enough about to allow
them to work on their material, because that's a
very difficult thing for an artist, especially a
singer/songwriter, to give up. It's kind of letting
someone else raise your children. But there are
times when artists don't realise that they're in a rut,
and their producer may not even realise it there
might be a certain sameness about their records,
where they could really use a bit of a shot in the
arm, a bit of a change, although it's really down to
individual situations, I think. It's hard to make a
general statement, but certainly it can be very
beneficial, and I feel that even though many artists
can produce themselves successfully, there isn't an
artist that couldn't benefit from having some-one
else produce them, provided they find the right
person.

Perry and Carly Simon worked together on three

albums between 1972 and 1975, and then both
decided to work on other projects, although they
were reunited in 1977 when Carly was invited to
record the theme song for the James Bond film,
The Spy Who Loved Me. The song, 'Nobody Does
It Better', became her first British hit since she had
stopped working with Perry several years before.
'We had continued a very close friendship which
again continues to this day I think that once you
work closely with someone, it's a shame not to
continue a good positive friendship. The reason we
stopped working together was not that we had any
big fights, but rather that it was time for us both to
move on, and we remained particularly close. When
I heard the song "Nobody Does It Better", which
was long before it was to be included in the film,
and Marvin Hamlisch and Carole Bayer Sager, two
very close friends of mine who wrote it, saw how
enthusiastic I was about it, they submitted it to the
producer, Cubby Broccoli. He immediately loved it,
and they worked out that even though it was called
"Nobody Does It Better", it seemed to work as the
theme for The Spy Who Loved Me, and as soon as
I knew that was going to happen, I felt that Carly
would be the perfect person to sing it. When Carly
heard it, she liked the song very much, and we got
together shortly afterwards and made the record. It
was great working together again after a two or
three year silence it felt like we had never left, and
we look forward to doing other similar projects
together in the future.'

'The Johnny Mathis record is one that I don't

include in my discography, and the reason for that
is because I don't truly consider it an album that I
produced with Johnny Mathis. It was right in the
middle of my relationship with Clive and Columbia,
and I was obligated to provide them with a certain
amount of albums. The fellow who was producing
Johnny Mathis had left the company very abruptly,

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and they already had a session booked with a few

songs picked, which Clive asked me if I would take
over. I did it partially as a favour to help him out,
and also because Johnny Mathis had been a
tremendous inspiration to anyone in the fifties who
was a fan of his music. I was a fan of his, and while
at the time he was taking the approach of covering
the current hits of the day on each of his albums, I
hoped that maybe I could interject something more
than that. We did do a few sides that never made it
on the album, but as I say, I stepped into the
situation with some of the material already picked,
and an arranger already at work, and I wasn't able
to be really creative and make an album with him.

apparently very impressed with my work on the Tiny

Tim album, which I had heard through my good
friend Derek Taylor. Seemingly, all the Beatles were
very enamoured of that album at that time, and that
made the album a success as far as I was
concerned and asked if I wanted to arrange one
of the tracks on the album. He gave me the song
and the key to do it in, and I was to record the entire
track and send him the tape, leaving two tracks
open for vocals, which was a very interesting
challenge. The title he gave me was Sentimental
Journey, which was used as the title track of the
album, and then we actually met about two years
later when I was recording the Fanny album at
Apple. I did a few odd sessions with Bobby Hatfield
of the Righteous Brothers there and Ringo played
on some of those sessions Klaus Voorman was
very helpful in getting me together with Ringo, as I
recall and when he was good enough to play
sessions for me, it was a great thrill, because Ringo
was a drummer who I had long admired. Then we
got friendly, and one night we were sitting together
in Tramp, the London club, semi-inebriated, and I
told him how wonderful I thought it would be if he
were to do a solo album. I felt that it would have a
tremendous audience, although he was very
sceptical about it, having had the experience of
Beatle albums which apparently took a tremendous
amount of time and obvious care, and he was
assuming that the same sort of thing would be more
of an ordeal than he wanted to go through. He
appreciated my suggestion, but for the moment,
decided to shelve it.

'Percy Faith was somewhat different because I was

very involved in picking the material with him, but
there weren't too many people who could tell Percy
anything about making records, because he had
been doing it so well for years, and he had his
sound all you could do was help him find some
songs, which I did. I brought him "The Sun King" off
Abbey Road, and a few other interesting things he
was basically doing a kind of Latin album, and once
he had the songs, all you could do was just sit
around and watch. He had his engineer for years
who did it all you weren't going to say "More
drums" or something on a Percy Faith record,
because that was his sound. He didn't even like
anyone to be there when he mixed, so I said that
was fine with me. I did what I could to help, but
again, I don't really consider that one of my albums,
although nevertheless, it was an enjoyable
experience, a fine man and a fine artist.'

'Some months went by, and I was doing the second

album with Nilsson, and I asked Ringo if he would
play on some of the sessions, so he came down,
and that was when Harry and Ringo first met. Those
sessions went extremely well, and a few months
later, Nilsson and I were going to the Grammy
Awards, which were held that one and only year in
Nashville, and the producers of the show were
trying to get me to persuade Harry to be a
presenter, which Harry himself would have no part
of, but I sensed that if Ringo did it as well, then
Harry might be happy to do it with him, which he
did. After Ringo telling me that he would do it, he
phoned me back and said, "Listen, I'm not going to
Nashville just for the Grammy Awards. Remember
you talked about going in the studio? Let's go in and
see what happens". So without any lawyers
knowing anything about it, we came back to LA,
and in five days had recorded five tracks, which
included the three major singles from the album,
"Photograph", "You're Sixteen" and "Oh My My".
The week after those five tracks, George Harrison
and John Lennon were meeting with Ringo in Los
Angeles it was right in the middle of all that Allen

Rather more satisfying from probably every point of

view was Perry's next long-term project, which
involved working with erstwhile Beatle drummer
Ringo Starr. By this time, Perry's track record for hit
records, and particularly LPs, was virtually secondto-none during the seventies, and he was in great
demand. 'I felt quite fabulous at that time, to tell you
the truth, because it certainly didn't occur overnight
there were many years of struggling and
wondering when, if ever, I was going to see the light
at the end of the tunnel, then it all came in such a
glorious fashion. It was always a kind of a dream of
mine to have three successes back to back, which I
did with Streisand, Nilsson and then Carly Simon,
and then, if that weren't enough, came the piece de
resistance with the Ringo album. I first met Ringo
well, I didn't actually meet him, but in 1969 when he
did his first solo album, which was a collection of
old standards, he had a different person arrange
each track on the album, with George Martin
producing the whole thing. It was a bit of a strange
set-up, because each person that arranged a track
had to produce the music for that track. Ringo
phoned me up I had never met him, but he was

374

Klein business. Ringo played them the tracks, and

George had actually started to participate and help
by writing "Photograph" with Ringo, and playing on
the session I had met George several years
before, and he was the first Beatle I ever met, back
in '68 or '69. But the main thrust was when Ringo
played the tracks for John. John got very excited by
what he heard, and immediately wrote a song for
Ringo which turned out to be a sort of chronology of
Ringo's life with the Beatles, as well as a brief
history of his boyhood, through teenage years on to
becoming one of the Beatles, and the song was
called, "I'm The Greatest".

which sounds like a kazoo or something, was Paul

singing very spontaneously as we played that track
back, so he's singing the solo on that. I would have
to say that the entire Ringo involvement and the
experience of making that album was the greatest
thrill of my recording career, and one which I may
never top. Surely no session was more fun the
spirit of the recording, as they said, was "A splendid
time is guaranteed for all", and every night was
another event, but it never got out of control, no
matter who was there. Peter Sellers would pop in to
visit, or Kris Kristofferson, or whoever happened to
be around. It was a party, but always moving
forward and productive, and I think the biggest
challenge for me was not letting it become too
much of a party, so that everyone could have a
good time, but at the same time, we were making a
great album.

'It was on that session that John came down, and it

was the first time that I had met John. To say that it
was an exciting experience to work with him would
be a gross understatement, because it was really
quite unique and very special, and something I'll
never forget, which goes without saying. The song
wasn't quite complete, so we started to run it down,
so there was also that very special thrill of
experiencing a song being completed in the studio
by John Lennon, and we all gathered round the
piano and chipped in our ideas to help to complete
it. Then the phone rang and it was George, who
said, "I hear there's a track going down. Is it OK if I
come?", and I said, "Hold on a minute, and I'll ask
John if it's OK". So here I am asking John if George
can come down...And John said, "Hell, yes, tell him
to get down here and help me finish this bridge".
That was very much like John, and it was on that
session that the three of them played for the first
time, I believe, since the break-up of the Beatles.
I'm sure Paul would have been there, but that was
the time when he couldn't come into the country.
There were so many great things on that album
"Photograph" was a number one single, and it's a
marvellous song where George and Ringo sang
together on quite a bit of the record, but no track on
the album better embodies Ringo's spirit and
personality than "You're Sixteen". Then, of course,
George came in with a new song and brought all
the members of the Band with him to cut the track,
a kind of country hoedown thing called "Sunshine
Life For Me". And then, quite coincidentally, Paul
called and asked me to come to London to help
supervise the musical tracks of his first TV special,
because everything had to be re-recorded, and he
wanted someone in the booth to help out the
engineer, because TV engineers aren't that
experienced in rock recordings. And that was when
we were going to London to continue work on
Ringo's album, so it all came together very
conveniently, and Paul was good enough to write a
song for Ringo, and we had two or three wonderful
nights of recording when he and Linda came down.
We cut the track to that song, which was "Six
O'Clock", and in fact, the solo on "You're Sixteen",

'Then for the follow-up album that I did with Ringo,

Goodnight Vienna, John's involvement was perhaps
even greater than on the first album. He had written
the title song well in advance of the sessions and
had done a demo of it, so we had this wonderful
piece of material with which to kick the album off,
and in addition to that, he came up with the idea of
redoing the oldie "Only You", which was the first
single from that album and a top five record in this
country. He not only played guitar on that session,
and piano on the title track, but he also helped
Ringo through all the vocals, just standing by him
and helping to infuse him with the spirit and singing
backgrounds with him. And he even played rhythm
guitar on one track that he had nothing to do with
he was just happy to be one of the sidemen. The
memory of those sessions is so vivid in my mind, I
can't begin to tell you. Just a few months ago, I was
listening to the "Goodnight Vienna" track it was
over Christmas, just after John's death and it was
so wonderful to hear it again, because it captures
so much of John's spirit. It begins with John
counting off to the band as they go into it, and his
piano playing there was just something about that
particular track that really captured the beautiful
madness of John, in terms of Ringo singing it at the
same time. It was really a special kind of
experience and a special track, I believe.'
Richard Perry was just one producer among an
infinite number whose ambition, whether stated or
otherwise, was to reunite the Beatles in the
recording studio. 'I always felt, as did millions of
other people obviously, that it would be a wonderful
thing which we would all have loved to see happen.
I don't think it was really a burning ambition of mine,
although it would have been the greatest, the
ultimate thrill for any producer on the planet, and
what can you say about that? But I always felt, and
this was an attitude which I assumed throughout the

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entire Ringo albums, that when it came to the

Beatles I should never push anything. If it was
meant to be, it would be, and I left it completely in
the hands of fate, and as a result, everything
happened that we all hoped would happen. I felt
that if anything like that was ever to happen, I was
certainly close enough to all the Beatles that if they
felt they wanted a producer, they knew how to get
hold of me. It was nothing more than that, and I
would never dream of discussing it with anyone, or
even feeling privately that it would be nice if it
happened. Just as a fan, it would have been very
nice if they had done some more recording
together.'

had to be limited from the standpoint that it really

couldn't get too raucous, or even approach it, and I
discovered that those are the kind of albums that I
enjoy listening to the most. On some classical
albums that I have, I edit out the robust sections ...
but listening back to Artie's album, it still holds up
wonderfully for me.'
Among the array of major stars produced by Perry
was the 1940s revival quartet, Manhattan Transfer,
and in view of his appreciation of the music around
which their musical raison d'etre was founded, it
seemed rather surprising that Coming Out, the LP
which he produced for them, was not a huge
success, especially in America. 'That was kind of a
mixed experience, because I agree completely I
felt, on the surface, that it would have been an
incredibly successful combination. We had certain
slight conflicts going into it the fact that they
wanted to be commercially successful, yet they're a
purist group, for which I really respect them, and
maybe it didn't feel quite right to them, doing things
that were solidly commercial as opposed to things
which were a bit more ethnic. But the main thing
was that they had some internal problems between
themselves and management, and that served to
have a dramatically negative effect on the
promotion of the record in this country.'

During 1974, Perry was involved in what, for him,

must have been something of an unwanted novelty,
in the shape of a solo album he produced for
Martha Reeves, previously of Martha and the
Vandellas, which was, commercially at least, a
major disaster. 'What went wrong? Well, certainly if
there was something in the album that wasn't "in
the grooves", as they say, I must take responsibility
for that. Perhaps there were some tracks that were
a bit overproduced, but quite honestly, I felt that it
was one of my best albums, and I'm constantly
being told by people from all walks of life that it's
their favourite album that I've ever done. I actually
thought we had several hits on that album, and so
did a lot of other people, and it's a familiar gripe for
a producer to ask, "What went wrong?" The answer
is that the label didn't promote it.'

During 1976, Perry began producing another artist

who would become enormously successful in his
company. In the seventies, Perry was responsible
for several singles which topped the American
singles chart, including Nilsson's 'Without You',
'Photograph' and 'You're Sixteen' with Ringo Starr
and 'You're So Vain' by Carly Simon. Another two
chart toppers arrived when Perry worked with Leo
Sayer.

The stigma of commercial failure did not remain

with Perry, who, after all, was still working with both
Ringo Starr and Carly Simon and achieving substantial success, which was further supplemented
when he worked with Art Garfunkel, by this time
separated for several years from his partner Paul
Simon, on the Breakaway album.

'I had heard the stuff he was recording not a

whole lot, but I was aware of him and I really
became aware of him when I saw him at the
Troubadour on his second appearance here, after
the clown tour, when he was back to being himself,
and had people like Chris Stainton in his band.
They blew the roof off the Troubadour, and from that
point on, I respected him tremendously as an artist.
At the point he needed a bit of turning around his
recording career, his manager, Adam Faith, who I
had got to know, asked if I would be interested in
working with Leo, and I immediately said I would.
Leo's an extremely likeable fellow, and it was a
great experience producing him he's a brilliant
singer and he was always surprising me with
things he was capable of doing, and he always
gave his best. All I can say is that at the end of each
of the albums we did together, on the last day when
he was catching a five o'clock plane and we were in
the studio until three doing the last bits of vocal,

'In many ways, that album is my favourite of all the

albums that I've made, my personal favourite from
the standpoint that the albums that I enjoy listening
to at home, or that I take on the road with me when
I travel, are albums that are particularly relaxing. I
love to listen to relaxing music, and I love to listen
to forties music, and Billie Holiday, a variety of
things, but of all the albums that I've made, Artie's is
the only one that I consistently like to take with me
when I travel. It has such a wonderful consistency
of mood we set out to do a "make out" album, a
real old-fashioned "make out" album for teenagers,
although it certainly isn't teenage music, but
something that would have a consistency of mood. I
don't think I've ever really done an album quite like
that, with no intentional up-tempo numbers, and in
fact, I usually like to combine a great deal of variety
in my albums, but this was one where the variety

376

when he left to go to the airport I was genuinely

sorry to see him go. I had already started to miss
him, and I think that's the most appropriate and
truest thing I can say about how it was working with
Leo. It was also very exciting to work with such an
incredibly versatile singer we did everything,
ranging from hard-core rock to pop things to folk,
and he handled them all with equal dexterity and
skill, particularly on the first album we did, which
was the most successful, and represented a real
turning point in his career. Some of the material he
had written before was inappropriate, I felt, not only
to America but to the world market as well. He had
to turn right around and forge a whole new direction
in his writing, working with partners to whom I
introduced him who he didn't know before, and
working with musicians he didn't know. We used a
lot of excellent black musicians on those sessions,
and Leo really just took up the challenge
magnificently for example, there's one interesting
story about the way "You Make Me Feel Like
Dancing", which was the first single from the album,
and enormously successful all round the world,
came about. We were cutting a track for a different
tune, and in between takes, the musicians
sometimes like to jam a bit and just play whatever
comes into their heads. They started playing
something that was sort of the chord changes at the
beginning of the song, and while they were playing
Leo started singing in his falsetto voice, which I had
never heard before, what amounted to the first eight
bars of the song. I always make an effort to have
the tape machine rolling when these moments
happen, and after a minute or two, we went back to
the song we were recording before, but I said to put
a big star on the tape of the jam, because I'd get
back to it later. Then Leo went on a tour of Australia
for a couple of months or something, and after he
came back, I said, "Remember that little ditty you
were singing?" He'd completely forgotten it, but I
told him it was a smash hit, and put him together
with a long-time associate of mine, Vini Poncia, and
in about twenty minutes, they finished the song
together, which went on to sell close to three million
singles around the world. Another thing that was a
particular thrill was that it became quite a big R&B
hit in this country, and won a Grammy Award for the
best rhythm and blues song of the year.

brought me the song, I knew it was a hit, and I felt it

would be excellent for Leo.'

Three years, three albums, several big hits there

has been a pattern of that nature which has
pervaded a substantial part of Richard Perry's work
as a producer, including three albums each with
Tiny Tim, Fanny, Barbra Streisand, Carly Simon and
Leo Sayer, plus two LPs each with Nilsson and
Ringo Starr. On the other hand, there are also the
far less successful single album projects,
particularly that with Martha Reeves, and a 1977
liaison with Diana Ross, which on the surface might
have appeared to be almost parallel with the
Reeves situation, but which apparently wasn't.
'I didn't feel that working with Diana would be the
same as working with Martha, because Diana
meant so much to Motown that I felt sure any album
by her would attract some degree of attention.
Although I'm sure it sounds redundant to say it
again, I enjoyed very much working with Diana, and
we're still very good friends. It was her first big
selling album without a major single included in it,
which for me was as good or better than having a
big hit single, because it proved that the main goal I
had tried to achieve had been realised, which was
to create an album that had continuity and a real
thematic quality rather than just a collection of
songs. So often in Diana's albums, as with other
Motown artists, a number of different pro-ducers
would be involved, and each would contribute their
best tracks. The result sounded more like a
collection of different songs than an album, where
hopefully the whole becomes greater than the sum
of the parts, and I felt that we achieved something
which was greater than the sum of the parts.'
The next major milestone in Richard Perry's life was
the formation of his own label, Planet Records, in
1978. There was no obviously discernible reason
for doing so at the time, as Perry confirmed. 'Most
people in my position who decide to start a label
would do it when they were "hot", as they say, and if
that were the case, I would surely have done it no
later than 1973, but at that point, while it would
have been exciting and enticing to have my own
label, I realised that I had the most advantageous
position that a record producer could possibly hope
for. I was working with premier artists in London,
New York, Los Angeles, wherever I desired, and
didn't have to be bothered with all the aggravation
and headaches and day-to-day problems that exist
with a record company, where you're talking to
managers and dealing with budgets and all those
things which keep a record company running
properly. And I knew that if I ever started a record
company, it would have to be a true fully-fledged

'Probably the track on the album that's best

remembered, though, is "When I Need You", which
followed up "You Make Me Feel Like Dancing". It
was another huge hit and I think represented a
different side of Leo, his best and truest side there
are very few people who can convey an intimate
song like that quite the way he can. It was written
by another old and dear friend, Carole Bayer Sager,
along with Albert Hammond, and as soon as they

377

company, not just some little operation that was just

merely a glorified means of me putting out my
records with my own labels on them. I wanted to
have a really solid label and in 1978 I felt that I was
starting to lose a little interest in some of the "fun" in
the record business, and I realised that one of the
main reasons for that was that, realistically
appraising the situation with every major record
company in the business, even if they had
something that was successful, there were
problems getting it properly promoted I've
recounted to you some of the past experiences
where an artist was completely left in the wings,
without anyone following the record through.

chance of getting clogged up with a multitude of

releases coming out in the same month as my
product. So in the co-ordinated effort between
myself, Dave Urso and Elektra/Asylum, I feel we
have the whole range of promotion and distribution
covered, both with our intimate approach with very
few releases which means that we can give
maximum concentration and our commitment to
everything we put out.'
Without any doubt, the most significant act presently signed to Planet is the Pointer Sisters, a trio of
black gospel-based girls who had made several
albums with a certain amount of success before
they hooked up with Perry it may be significant
that in 1981, Perry worked with the girls on a fourth
LP, an accolade he had never previously accorded
to any artist.

'I always took a great interest in the albums I made,

and always sort of felt like the arrogant producer on
the outside, sticking his nose in the promotion and
merchandising end of things. So finally, it just got
frustrating, due to the numerous experiences where
even some of my records which achieved a high
level of success could have been substantially
greater suc-cesses, in my estimation, and I felt that
it was just too depressing and frustrating to see that
happening to an artist. At that point, I felt I had to
start my own company, and put myself in a position
where, if necessary, I could run the second, third
and fourth laps of the relay race, and have every
right to do so. And be sure that everything would be
done that a record company could possibly do to
follow the record through the various stages that it
must go through. I feel very content in sitting here
now and telling you that every single record that
has ever been released on Planet Records has
definitely got a total and complete shot to be
successful. Not all of them have been successful,
but I've never felt that a record didn't make it
because it didn't get proper exposure on the radio
and in record stores, and that's really all one can do
we can't ever force the public to buy a record, we
can only present it to them in the best way
possible.'

'It's funny you should mention that, because I was

telling them the other day that this was the first time
I had ever done four albums with one artist. They
were the first act signed to Planet, theirs was the
first record released on the label, and theirs was the
first hit on Planet, so they're like our flagship act.
We've been through so much together, it's like we're
brother and sisters, and we have such a great time
that it's easy in the studio. I don't think I've ever met
girls who are more into having fun, having a good
time, but at the same time, getting the work done.
They're very quick, and cutting tracks with them is
always very stimulating and exciting for the
musicians they're always ready to perform and do
what has to be done with tremendous and
unbounding energy, in addition to which, there is
literally nothing that they can't sing. We started out
at Planet with them forging more of a rock direction,
because they were very much into I artists like the
Doobie Brothers, and this was way before really
many black artists or black audiences were familiar
with the Doobie Brothers, but they had performed
as part of their past doing backing vocals for people
like Dave Mason and Elvin Bishop at the Fillmore
West, and they had sung on albums with Taj Mahal
and people like that. So the reason I first decided to
forge the rock'n'roll direction was because it
seemed to be what they were into, and I felt it would
be wonderful to have the first black act, and
particularly a black female singing group, doing
rock'n'roll to cross-pollinate in that manner.
Because why should black audiences be closed off
to rock'n'roll, and why should rock audiences be
closed off to black music? It really is a prejudicial
barrier that exists to this day, and while we had
pretty good acceptance on a rock level to that first
album, I must say that, with the exception of Stevie
Wonder in his heyday, no black act has ever gotten
a more legitimate solid acceptance from album rock
radio in this country.

It would obviously require a brave man to take the

complete responsibility for the success or failure of
a record, and although quite obviously Richard
Perry is not afraid to speak his mind on subjects
about which he feels strongly, that alone would be
insufficient to guarantee success for Planet
Records. However, Perry isn't really alone. 'I was
very fortunate in having Dave Urso, who was
national promotion director for Warner Brothers,
and shared my feelings for the kind of special label I
wanted to create, come over with me, and we
started the label together. In addition there is
wonderful support from Elektra/Asylum, who were
my only choice for a label with whom I wanted to be
affiliated simply because they're the smallest of all
the majors, and therefore there's hardly ever a

378

'The album went on to be a tremendous success,

along with the first single, "Fire", and it was particularly gratifying to know that "Fire" was getting
played both on rock stations and black stations,
because it really isn't what you would consider a
typical black record. I felt it was the ultimate crossover, because those are the two diametrically
opposed ends of the musical spectrum in terms of
audience likes and dislikes, and you don't find many
people who are big fans of both kinds of music.
Now we've turned the Pointer Sisters back into a
more mainstream pop and contemporary black
approach, but with the very special kind of energy
that they bring to every record they make.
Unfortunately, album radio in this country ultimately
didn't want to play any black artists, including the
Pointer Sisters, but I think that what we're doing
now is really the best place for them to be musically,
where we're having success, and they are carving a
very special place for themselves because they're a
unique kind of black act which has instant
acceptance on a white level, but also tremendous
acceptance on the black level. What I'm doing with
them now will be much better defined with their next
album which I'm recording now, and I think it's going
to be without question the best album I've done with
them, and one of the best albums I've done in my
entire career. I'm telling you to keep an eye and an
ear out for "Slow Hand", which I will predict will be
at least as big as "Fire" or "He's So Shy", and which
might turn out to be the biggest record of their
careers.

based in London, and it seemed that strictly from

the point of view of logistics, it was easier for them
to stay in London than to come here, and it was
very difficult for me to get to London at that time, so
I felt that it might be a good change of pace and a
creative shot in the arm for them to work with a
British producer and one who might be a bit more
rock-oriented, because that was the approach they
wanted for their second album.'
One area of music in which he has inevitably had to
become involved is the so-called New Wave,
somewhat ironic in view of the fact that Perry is
arguably the last producer in the world who would
actually want to become involved in such an
imprecise art as the making of high energy and low
technology records.
'The whole music scene was threatening to change,
and we were all gripped by New Wave fever on one
level or another, particularly here in LA, where there
were bands sprouting up left and right. During that
period we signed two bands that I'm still very proud
of, because we used the judgment that I use with
any artist, and that's the material, the songs, and
these were both songwriting bands who presented
us with a multitude of material before we signed
them. Sue Saad was one, and the other was a
group called the Cretones, led by a fellow named
Mark Goldenberg, who went on to write three songs
for the last Linda Ronstadt album, and played guitar
and sang background on just about the whole
album. And then there's a band that we signed at
the very end of the whole New Wave explosion,
which I really can't say enough about, and they're
called the Plimsouls. If you're talking about solid
rock'n'roll songwriting on a 1980s level, I'd put my
vote in for the Plimsouls they're a tremendous
spark of energy and excitement, and I'm very
optimistic about their chances of becoming a very
big band.'

By the time of writing, 'Slow Hand' had peaked at

number two in the American chart, and at number
ten in the British chart, while the Black And White
LP from which it comes had nudged the top ten in
the US album chart. Perhaps significantly, no other
Planet act has approached the success achieved
by the Pointer Sisters, although the leader of a
British-based group called Night provided the label
with one of its first hits in Britain in the shape of 'If
You Remember Me'.

It remains to be seen whether any other Planet acts

after the Pointer Sisters can make the big time in
Britain, although possibly things may be simpler for
acts like the Plimsouls in the USA, purely for
geographical reasons, let alone the differing
musical tides which currently prevail. Perry seems
to produce very few acts signed to Planet with the
major exception of the Pointer Sisters, although he
seems not to be phasing himself out in any way.
'I've got very excited about black music again,
which I consider to be my roots, all that fifties
rock'n'roll that I grew up on. Rock'n'roll really began
as rhythm and blues, and then slowly the white
influence became a part of it as well back in my
New York days, ninety per cent of the records I
produced were R&B records with black artists. Now,
with the demise of disco, which used to drive me up

'Night was formed by two exceptional singers, Chris

Thompson, former lead singer of the Manfred Mann
band, and a girl by the name of Stevie Lange, who
has been involved in the British music scene for
many years, has sung backgrounds on records by
many different major artists, and is an outstanding
singer herself. The two of them in one group
seemed like a tremendous combination. Chris sang
lead on "If You Remember Me", which was a
beautiful ballad, but the first hit and the major single
off the album, was "Hot Summer Nights", which
Stevie sang lead on, and which did well in parts of
the world where I had never had a hit before, like
Argentina, South Africa and New Zealand. I only
produced their first album, because they were all

379

the wall because it was so clinical and sterile and

regimented, things are much more open the
music is more groove oriented, and has much more
feeling and dramatics about it, and everything
seems much more exciting. There are records
coming out that are starting to really lead the way
for black music in the eighties, and it's my hope that
Planet Records will be very much a part of it, not
only with the Pointer Sisters, but with two artists
whose first albums will be released soon. One is a
girl named Marva King, whose record I just finished
producing. She sang with Stevie Wonder for two
years, she's really an outstanding and unique
singer, and I think one listen is worth a thousand
words. The other artist is Greg Phillinganes, who
comes from Detroit. He came out of high school
and went right into working with Stevie Wonder, and
played keyboards for him for three years, then he
spent two years with George Benson, and then he
became the premier black session keyboard player
in LA. He played on the entire Michael Jackson
album, did many of the rhythm arrangements on
that, co-produced the most recent Jacksons' album,
Triumph, and has been involved in many important
records, particularly in the R&B field. He plays on all
Quincy Jones' records, and a little over a year ago,
he let it be known that he was interested in doing
something as a solo artist, and I was immediately
interested without ever hearing any of his material,
because I knew it would be of outstanding quality,
and I think he's destined to become a major star.
His album is very special, and the music is similar in
certain respects to Stevie Wonder, who is his
mentor, without being actually imitative. I feel if
anyone can play music that can be compared to
Stevie Wonder, that's OK with me, because Stevie
only puts an album out every two years, so there's
room for more of that type of music in our diet.

Richard Perry Discography

Captain Beefheart & the Magic Band
1966 Safe As Milk
Tiny Tim
1968 God Bless Tiny Tim
1968 Tiny Tim's Second Album
1969 For All My Little Friends
Fats Domino
1968 Fats is Back
Holy Mackerel
1968 Holy Mackerel
Theodore Bikel
1969 A New Day
Ella Fitzgerald
1969 Ella
Anders & Poncia
1969 Anders & Poncia
Fanny
1970 Fanny
1971 Charity Ball
1972 Fanny Hill
Barbra Streisand
1970 Stoney End
1971 Barbra Joan Streisand
1972 Live At The Forum
Nilsson
1972 Nilsson Schmilsson
1972 Son of Schmilsson

'I feel that between those two artists lies the future
direction of Planet Records, and certainly my
direction as a producer. But that doesn't mean I
won't always be interested in doing something else,
and maybe in a year from now, I'll be talking to you
about the new Rolling Stones or something,
although right now, I'm very much involved in new
directions of contemporary black music.'

Carly Simon
1972 No Secrets
1974 Hot Cakes
1975 Playing Possum
1977 Nobody Does It Better (single)

In the 1970s Richard Perry was responsible for

more hit albums than any other producer. From his
office just off the Sunset Strip, he can look back on
an enormous amount of success, and with his
clearvision, far-sightedness and impeccable taste,
only a fool would dare to predict that his star is on
the wane.

Andy Williams
1973 Solitaire

Ringo Starr
1973 Ringo
1974 Goodnight Vienna

Martha Reeves
1974 Martha Reeves

380

Art Garfunkel
1975 Breakaway

His popularity caused Cher (then known as Bonnie

Jo Mason) to record the Phil Spector produced I
Love You, Ringo at the height of Beatlemania,
perhaps not a personal observation but certainly a
popular one. For a while, after the collapse of the
Beatles, people wondered what was going to
become of him. It was an open secret that he didn't
actually play the drums on some of the group's very
late and very early sessions, the latter because he
had never worked in the studio, the former because
his bandmates, particularly Paul McCartney, were
unhappy with the way his foursquare style clashed
with the complexity of the songs.

Lon and Derek Van Eaton

1975 Why Do You Out Do
Manhattan Transfer
1976 Coming Out
Burton Cummings
1976 Burton Cummings
1977 My Own Way To Rock
Leo Sayer
1976 Endless Flight
1977 Thunder In My Heart
1978 Leo Sayer

"It always went around that Ringo was dumb," John

Lennon was quoted in the Billboard Book of #1 Hits
as telling Tom Snyder, "but he ain't dumb. But he
didn't have that much of a writing ability and he
wasn't known for writing his own material. And there
was a bit of a worry that although he can make
movies ... how was his recording career gonna be?
In general, it's probably better than mine."

Diana Ross
1977 Baby It's Me
Pointer Sisters
1978 Energy
1979 Priority
1980 Special Things
1981 Black And White
Night
1979 Night

And that was true. Through the mid-70s, Ringo

was, by far the most successful hit maker of the
former Beatles. He ran a string of seven top ten
singles between '71 and '75. Three went gold
(selling over 500,000 copies), and two -- a
collaboration with "quiet Beatle" George Harrison,
Photograph and his cover of Johnny Burnette's
You're Sixteen -- actually topped the charts.

Sue Saad & the Next

1980 Sue Saad & the Next

Then came a fallow period, marked by several

albums, a minor hit (1981's Wrack My Brain),
several movie appearances and very little else. By
1983 he was the only former Beatle without an
American record company, rendering his Old Wave
album available only as an import from Canada. He
had shrunk in stature from the hit making former
Beatle to the 18" tall Mr. Conductor on the PBS
children's series Shining Time Station, based on
earlier work he had done narrating the Thomas the
Tank Engine series for the BBC.

Marva King
1981 Feels Right

Stuart Grundy, John Tobler, 1982

Ringo Starr
Hank Bordowitz, Special Reports, Summer 1992
EVERY NOW AND then you get a call from an old
dear friend, someone who has been lurking around
at the edges of your consciousness for months. The
call just triggers all the things you've been through
together, all the things you've shared and
everything that's gone on since the last time you
touched base. You spend the better part of the night
on the phone and wonder where the night went.
Hearing Ringo Starr making music again feels like
that.

Part of this was his own doing. His decent into drink
and drugs has duly found its place in that ever
growing celebration of stars who have done the
cure. Yet his rehab had a very positive effect on
Ringo. No longer content to be 18" tall, he gave the
producers of Shining Time Station notice and put
together a band to tour America. Musicians had not
forgotten: he was able to recruit Dr. John, Billy
Preston and Joe Walsh, all headliners in their own
right, along with E-Street band members Clarence
Clemons and Nils Lofgren and former Band
members Rick Danko and Levon Helm. Fans had
not forgotten: they turned out at the sheds and large
halls to see this assemblage of characters from

Anyone who did any growing up in the 60s knows

Ringo. He was the funny Beatle, the drummer who
got the fab four into all sort of celluloid situations.

381

their musical youth. The whole affair was captured

on CD by Rykodisc.

I'm really excited about Nirvana. I think they're

really an exciting band. I just hope they hold up
through this next year or so. This is the crucial
point, when you're making it. I like Guns 'n' Roses.
They've done a lot of lovely stuff. I like the band
Texas, from Scotland. I like the Sugarcubes. And I
like the Cramps! I just have this madness where I
love the Cramps. People say, How can you?' And I
say, I just do.' Listen, no one can doubt Bikini Girls
With Machine Guns,' you know. That just says it all
for me.

And now, Ringo has made Time Takes Time, his

first album of new songs in very nearly a decade.
He peopled this recording with old guarders like
Tom Petty, Brian Wilson, Harry Nilsson and Andrew
Gold as well as with young turks from post-modern
rockers Jellyfish and The Posies. Better than half
the album was produced by Don Was, who also had
the controls on Bonnie Raitt's comeback effort.
Time Takes Time has all the earmarks of a hit. Call
this one Smells Like Adult Spirit.

WHAT DO YOU LISTEN TO IN THE CAR?

*
WHAT IS THE BIGGEST DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
LA AND ENGLAND?

Any radio station. I don't have them on too long. I

keep clicking through the dials. I just want to see
what's happening. If I stay on anything, it's usually
an old rock and roll station.

Palm trees. There are plenty of palm trees in L.A.

There are none in Liverpool.

IS THERE A GROUP YOU WOULD LIKE TO PLAY

DRUMS FOR THAT YOU HAVEN'T?

WHAT THREE TV SHOWS DO YOU TRY NEVER

TO MISS?

No answer. I'm not going to get involved in that. It

puts me on the line.

Coronation Street, it's an English show. CNN, on

and off, to see what's happening. Any movies. I love
to watch movies.

WHAT DO YOU SING IN THE SHOWER.

I don't actually sing anything in the shower. I just
make a lot of noise.

ANY PARTICULAR ERA?

DO YOU HAVE A FAVORITE SAD SONG?
We flash from new movies to American Movie
Classics.

Probably Nobody's Child.'

WHAT ARE YOUR THREE FAVORITE NONPERFORMING PASS TIMES?

WHAT ARE YOUR THREE WORST FEARS

Spiders, spiders, spiders!

Skiing, Golf and watching TV.

AN ARACHNIPHOBE?
WHAT SONG WOULD YOU HAVE KILLED TO
HAVE WRITTEN.

Oh, yeah.

Hah! There's too many.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ROOM IN YOUR

HOUSE?

THE FIRST ONE THAT COMES TO MIND

My room.
What'd I Say,' the Ray Charles song.
YOUR BEDROOM?
WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO THESE DAYS.
No, my room. It's a den, office, hang-out. All my
toys are in there.

I'm listening to a lot of stuff these days, actually. I'm

back to listening. I'm listening to a lot of stuff I'd
always listened to, from Ray Charles to the blues to
country to classical to pop. I'm still listening to my
old friends, the Erics, the Bobs, the Dr. Johns. And
then, I'm getting into what's happening now, man.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE BEVERAGE?

Herb tea. Apple cinnamon.

382

ROUGH ROAD IN THE 80S.

WHAT HAVE YOUR CHILDREN DONE THAT

MAKES YOU THE PROUDEST?

The latter part of the 80s was sort of my wilderness

years, until '88. Then I ended up in a rehab. Since
then, I think the proof of the pudding is I'm back on
my feet. I'm putting bands together. I'm making
records. We're on the road again. It's certainly
changed my life around.

We're talking about five kids here. Each are

individuals. I think they've all turned into loving,
caring human beings. All of them. We never thought
that they would when they were teenagers.
IF THERE WAS ONE POPULAR
MISCONCEPTION THAT YOU COULD CHANGE,
WHAT WOULD IT BE.

DID YOU EVER GET THE FEELING THAT MAYBE

YOU'D SHOT YOUR WAD BEFORE YOU WERE
35?

No answer to that. No quick answer to that. We

don't have time. We're rolling on to the next round
here. And don't give me I was told I'd have an hour.'

I don't think I was thinking that clearly. I wasn't that

coherent to think, it's all over. At 35, actually, things
were really great for me, still. I felt confused and
lost round about 38 to 48, what the hell is going on
and where am I going? That was just really the
confusing height of my addiction years. That's when
it crossed over from not knowing how it happened,
but I was possessed by demons.

I WAS PROMISED 45 MINUTES

Well too bad. Let's move on.
DESCRIBE YOUR FAVORITE SHIRT, AND WHY IT
IS.

IS IT TOUGH BEING ON THE ROAD WITH THAT

BEHIND YOU, OR IS IT EASIER?

My favorite shirt is one I bought in the middle 60s. I

still have it. It's got this huge collar and mauve and
white stripes. But it doesn't fit me anymore. I still
keep it. It's there. Where's that shirt?'

It's different. It's certainly different than the first

week of being on the road three years ago. I was
only nine months sober. It was pretty tough at the
end of the show. My whole body and brain went
into, Let's get crazy. Let's get messed up.' And this
little light in there was saying, we don't do that any
more. It took a week for that to really settle down,
so I could really relax at the end of a show. It was
never a problem before the show, or while the show
was going on. It was just at the end.

IS THERE ANY PARTICULAR EMOTIONAL

ATTACHMENT?
No. I just love the shirt. I love the color. We've
grown and the shirt didn't.
WHAT WAS THE BEST VACATION YOU'VE EVER
HAD.

AT THE TIME YOU USED TO WANT TO THROW

TVS OUT THE WINDOW.

I've had lots of great vacations. There's an island in

Fiji that we've been to several times. I always have
just a dynamite time there. It's just really relaxing.
It's really beautiful. The locals are really friendly and
easygoing. I've always had a good time there. And I
don't get hassled. And I'm not telling you where it is.

Sure. When you did all that sort of stuff.

THAT WOULD SEEM KIND OF UNSEEMLY FOR A
GRANDFATHER.
"Yes," he laughs. "I'm sure. I think that's the
greatest way of putting it, Unseemly for a
grandfather.'

YOU DON'T GET HASSLED BECAUSE NO ONE

RECOGNIZES YOU?
Of course they recognize me, but it's small enough.
There's not a huge crowd of people there. Everyone
knows, and it's communal eating of lunch, dinner
and breakfast, but everyone is just on holiday, thank
you.

HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE A GRANDFATHER?

WAS THAT SOMETHING YOU EVEN THOUGHT
ABOUT 20 YEARS AGO?
You don't think about that 20 years ago. Now that I
am, I love it. I am grand dad. I have that joy, the
excitement of hanging out with Tatia, and then,
when she gets cranky, of giving her back.

THREE DAYS YOU'D LIVE OVER IF YOU HAD A

TIME MACHINE?

383

In my life?

The Doors: The Night On Fire

IN YOUR LIFE.

Paul Williams, Outlaw Blues, 1967

It doesn't have to be musical?

VERY FEW PEOPLE have the balls to talk about

"rock and roll" anymore. Revolver made it difficult.
Between the Buttons, Smile, and the Doors lp are
making it impossible. "Pop music" is definable only
by pointing at a current chart; the Doors are not
"pop," they are simply "modern music". The term
applies not because rock has achieved the high
standards of mainstream music, but conversely
because rock has absorbed mainstream music, has
become the leader, the arbiter of quality, the music
of today. The Doors, Brian Wilson, the Stones are
modern music, and contemporary "jazz" and
"classical" composers must try to measure up.

NO.
The wedding day to Barbara. I would marry her
every day of the year, actually, but she keeps
refusing me.
SURE. HOW ABOUT A DAY THAT YOU
WOULDN'T LIVE OVER?
The day in 1946 that I was rushed to hospital with
peritonitis. I remember it vividly to this day.

Hank Bordowitz, 1992

So much for the review. This record is too good to

be explained, note by note, song by song; that sort
of thing could only be boring, since the review
would be immediately compared to the far-morethan-merely-communicative level of the work of art
itself. Knowing that my reader is able to stop after
any word I write and listen to all of Light My Fire
before reading the next word, I should feel pretty
foolish offering him a textual description of the
buildup of erotic pressure in the performance. Is
there really any point in saying something like, "The
instrumental in 'Light My Fire' builds at the end into
a truly visual orgasm in sound" when the reader can
at any time put the album onto even the crummiest
phonograph and experience that orgasm himself?
Descriptive criticism is almost a waste of time,
where quality is involved. It might be more valid for
a reviewer to make comment like: "The 'come'
sequence at the end of 'Light My Fire' is the most
powerfully controlled release of accumulated
instrumental kineticism known on record, making
even 'I'm a Man' by the Yardbirds a mere
firecracker," but where that may make good reading
and even makes pretty good writing under ordinary
circumstances, in the context of an album as great
and implicational and able-to-change-history as this
one, comments like that dissatisfy and bore the
reviewer, because to him they're simply obvious...
That which can be simply stated is by its nature
already known, and therefore not very interesting.
To write about the unknown is exciting,
unpredictable; to write about what you already
know, even if you've only consciously known it a
few minutes and you're pretty damn proud of your
insight, can in the end be unstintingly boring.

the doors

Anyway, I've been thinking about Blowin' in the

Wind. A lot of people misunderstood that song, and
it really is Dylan's fault. He shoved in lines like How
many times will the cannonballs fly, etc., which
must have been practically intended to throw

THAT LAID YOU UP FOR QUITE A WHILE, DIDN'T

IT.
A year. I was getting better in six months, then I fell
out of the cot and ripped it all open again. That was
the other six months.
DESCRIBE YOUR PERFECT SUNDAY MORNING.
To be sitting outside with a nice cup of tea, listening
to the birds.
THE FEATHERED BIRDS, NOT GENE CLARK.
No, the feathered birds. Maybe with the Byrds on,
low in the living room.
WHAT'S YOUR BEST MAKEUP LINE AFTER A
FIGHT?
You must be talking about a domestic fight, right?
I'm sorry. I love you.'
WHAT IS THE BIGGEST REGRET THAT YOU
HAVE?
I don't have any big regrets. I think it's a waste of
time.

384

people off the track of what was being said. The

line, The answers my friends are blowin' in the
wind is so perfect that I doubt that anyone could
hear it and not feel what is really being said (in fact,
it's impossible to hear any true statement and not
feel it correctly, although you may then go ahead
and interpret it all wrong). But I'm not suggesting
that the verses to Blowin' should have backed up
the theme of the chorus line. The cumulative
boredom that builds to a head and causes the
creation of a line like The answers are blowin' in
the wind (or, as we shall see, Learn to forget)
could not possibly then sustain the creation of an
entire three verses or so of equal genius. Besides,
three verses of equal genius would destroy the
impact. No, I only say that the public-at-large should
not have been maligned by a deliberate attempt to
throw them off the track, an attempt made only
because Dylan 1962 realized that he could, with
delightful ease, present great truth to the world at
large and make it invisible to them at the same
time. Like most crimes, it was perpetrated because
the criminal knew he could get away with it.

did, and anyway unlikely that we would have any

trouble recognizing such a song were it written, we
can be very certain that the song says: I (we) know
nothing. Which is the feeling one gets from the line
The answer wind before one even starts going
through all this reasoning. The vibrations from the
line are very strong; you're probably thinking that
I'm fooling around right now, that if I felt like it I
could prove anything; that fact, however, does not
imply that I would prove anything, since if I tried to
prove a falsehood the vibrations what you know
to be true about something, in other words would
make my words no matter how clever feel like lies.
How much we rely on our instincts! If you think a
song is good I could never convince you it's bad,
and that means in effect that though anything can
be proven, little if anything can be affected by
proofs. And no matter how you react to a thought
like blowin' in the wind (accessibility or
inaccessibility) you do not change your
assumptions about the full phrase you merely
change your thought process to fit the way you feel.
When asked what the words blowin' in the wind
meant, Dylan was unable to answer, was in fact
amazed at being asked. "They mean: blowin' in the
wind." In concert in Boston he got the lines to the
verses mixed up, but he didn't seem to think that
was very important.

But ignoring for now the clumsy camouflage of the

verses, it really is difficult to carefully misinterpret
Blowin' in the Wind its meaningfulness even
overshadows its own ambiguity! If we assume that
The answers are blowin' in wind means that the
answers are inaccessible, hard to hold onto, out of
reach, then the words are saying that we have no
answers to work with; they're unobtainable, and
therefore we must reject our need for answers and
work without them. If, on the other hand, the listener
reacts to the concept of blowin' in the wind as
implying accessibility, the total availability of all
answers, we interpret the phrase as implying the
uselessness of mere answers and availability
toss all top-secret data out the window; we have all
the answers, and still haven't got any truth. These
answers, therefore, accessible as they are, are
mere truths-in-context, i.e., they are true whenever
they are placed within a context in which they are
true. They don't achieve anything. We can't work
with them because they are too all-present and
part-of-what-clearly-is, and therefore we must work
without them. These two opposite interpretations of
blowin' in the wind as a phrase inevitably lead to
the same conclusion because the two are both part
of the statement The answers my friends are
blowin' in the wind, which has only one meaning.

'Soul Kitchen is nice. It is so reminiscent of Blowin'

in the Wind in terms of message that one almost
expects Peter Paul & Mary to make it a Top 40
smash. It's just a nice little song about desire, a
routine drama in which Jim points out that it looks
like it's time for him to go (beautiful posturing:
twiddling of thumbs, glance at the clock, well, um,
looks like it's time for me to leave, uh) but he'd
really like to stay here all night. And he does stay,
and the Doors do their usual boy gets girl"
instrumental routine, and then Jim lampoons his
own posturing, repeating, The clock says it's time
to close now, but then saying, I know I've got to go
now. I'd really like to stay here all night changes
from effective plea into bitter irony; the words that
meant let me in" before mean sorry, baby after.
And that's almost all there is to it, except that the
plea Let me sleep all night in your soul kitchen is
so fantastically strong. Jim obviously didn't give that
much of a damn about the girt in this case, so
something else must have been bothering him. The
intensity of that plea could not have been faked.
And this leads us to the really stunning revelation
that sexual desire is merely a particular instance of
some more far-reaching grand dissatisfaction.

Proof: the subject matter of such a statement must

be the availability of knowledge. So Dylan is either
saying (i.e., the words are saying) I know
everything, or I know nothing, or he wouldn't bring
up the subject. Since it is highly improbable that
one would know everything, and more improbable
that one would bother writing a song about it if one

The message of Soul Kitchen is of course Learn to

forget, a message/phrase at least as powerful as
The answers my friends are blowin' in the wind
and very similar in the sort of implications and

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emotions it conjures up. The actual words "learn to

forget are repeated four times at the end of the
second verse of Soul Kitchen, and are never
returned to in any way. In fact, the band seems to
be unaware of them, and Robbie has been known
to say that he considers the piece inconsequential!
And as compared with the Dylan song, a great deal
of the success of this one is due to the fact that the
playing, and the words of the song other than learn
to forget, are almost totally unrelated to the
message, and as a result they serve as emphasis
rather than confusion. So this truth is totally
accessible to anyone listening to the song and
the irony here is that the song is not a single, not a
huge airplay hit, not being heard by more than
maybe 20,000 people. (Well, the album turned out
to be a #l smash, so revise that upwards by a
couple of decimal points...)

opposed to lust) the purest form of spiritual pain

known to man, and therefore the most beautiful
thing around), and its fantastically ambiguous learn
to forget Soul Kitchen, because it conjures up
this kind of stuff, is a catalyst with more potential for
generating truth in my opinion than anything
since middle Faulkner.
It's important now to realize that the the answers
my friends are blowin' in the wind phrase itself has
as much potential for truth generation, within the
right context, as learn to forget. The greater value
of Soul Kitchen, which happens to contain the
latter, has something to do with the triumph of rock.
Rock, which is less cognitive, allows the creator of
the vehicle for the phrase more freedom in subject.
Folk basically demands a relationship between all
words and ideas in a song, unless nonsense words
are used, whereas rock may be as totally
noncognitive without being nonsense as Hey
ninety-eight point six the love that was the medicine
that saved me, oh I love my baby. Rock gave Jim
Morrison the freedom to slip learn to forget into the
middle of a seduction song, which offers no
distraction at all, whereas Dylan in order to even
say that the answers are blowing in the wind had to
provide some representative questions. Soul
Kitchen has the further advantage, common in
rock, that you can't hear all the words, so you can
pretty much contextualize as you like. And the direct
appeal to the mind made by folk (straightforward
words, guitar, voice) cannot compare, it seems to
me, with the abilities of rock to move people's
muscles, bodies, caught up and swaying and
moving so that a phrase like learn to forget can
actually become your whole body, can sink into your
soul on a more-than-cognitive level. Rock, because
of the number of senses it can get to (on a dance
floor, eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and tactile) and the
extent to which it can pervade those senses, is
really the most advanced art form we have.

Learn to forget what power that phrase has! It's

possible to get stoned for days listening to this
song for a while it will seem the one truth
available to us. It eventually recedes, of course, into
merely a tantalizing command: within the song it's a
posthypnotic suggestion to the girl being seduced,
it's a bitter comment on the necessity of learning to
forget in order to get along in this grubby world, it's
a statement of faith in the ability of man to will what
he doesn't want out of existence. Above all, it's an
echo of the Sophoclean section of The End (echo
because the album is programed circularly for
repeated listenings), in which it becomes necessary
to kill the father. As Paul Rothchild says in
Crawdaddy! 10, " 'Kill the father' means kill all of
those things within yourself that are instilled in you
and are not of yourself." Obviously, learn to forget,
which comes from the mouth of the same man,
could easily have the same meaning to Jim. But
The End, which is a truly beautiful, perfected,
polished intellectual statement, cannot
communicate as powerfully as Soul Kitchen, since
the latter is not on an intellectual level at all. The
End is great to listen to when you're high (or any
other time), but Soul Kitchen will get you high,
which is obviously much cruder and more
important. Soul Kitchen, with its revelation that
sexual desire is more complexly motivated than we
think (all right, suppose it's immediately caused by
the animal instinct for survival through reproduction
of the self; the implications of that are that sexual
desire is within each person that individual's
expression of the agony of being and the
relationship between man and the future, that is to
say, the meaning of life. If I want that girl because
deep down I want to assure my own survival
through descendants, then that look in my eyes
reflects all the pain of the question: why do I want
descendants, why does man consider time a rival
he must conquer? That makes sexual need (as

Paul Williams, 1967

Paul Rothchild Speaks, March 1967
Paul Williams, Outlaw Blues, 1967
This interview was taped in Englewood, New
Jersey, in March 1967, shortly after the release of
the first Doors album, which Paul Rothchild
produced. Last names are used throughout to avoid
ambiguity.
Also, if you watch Robbie play, even when he's
playing very quickly he looks like he's playing slowly
if you watch his face he looks up casually he
always looks as if somebody's just asked him a

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question and he's thinking very seriously about

what the answer might be.

been playing together for a little over a year now, a

year and a half... And it's, uh, a constantly changing
and moving process for them.

I get the feeling that most lead guitarists either want

to hear themselves playing the melody or hear
themselves doing a rhythm thing, and it's
inconceivable to me that Robbie could even be
listening to himself I mean he knows exactly
what he's doing, but he's playing something which
is so whole with the music.

It's a relief for them to have this first album out

because it gives them an opportunity to move on
towards music and musical concepts that they've
been discussing and wanting to get into. This is a
very interesting thing that a lot of groups have, the
effect that making albums has on them, and how it's
almost an insistence that they change their
repertoire. It's like a group goes into a recording
studio and that giant performance mirror, the tape
recorder, is put in front of them, they finally work out
all of the problems and all of the fine points in the
music that they've been wanting to for so long, and
then when they get through with the tunes a great
many of them fall by the wayside. The statement's
been made.

The point is that Robbie isn't listening to himself

when he plays, he's listening to Ray. More than
anything he's listening to Ray. But since there are
only two voicing instruments in the group, and since
Ray is responsible more than any other instrument
for the rhythm the melodic rhythm rather than the
drums, which have the solid rhythm Robbie's got
to fill in all of the musical question marks which are
left open. So he is listening a great deal and not
tremendously interested in the whole lot of ego play
that guitar players get into.

The material's never as good as on the first album

for a lot of groups.

The integration is unbelievable, because he never

does a virtuosity thing, all the way through The
End you're never once conscious of the guitar,
which is practically the only instrument that's
playing you know, except for the drums, which
are doing a very different thing because he
never... the only virtuosity stuff at all is in Light My
Fire, where it's for a reason, it's a virtuosity song.

That's right. And it's almost a kind of catharsis for

the musicians to make their first album because it
frees them, in many respects; it allows them to go
to the other places they've been wanting to for so
long but they've been tied down to their original
material. This may sound strange to use words like
tied down but it's really true; now the Doors, since
they are a creative and performing group, are
forced and they enjoy it to look forward to
their next album. That means we have to get on to
the new material. That doesn't mean they stop
performing the old stuff, the best of it remains in the
repertoire

Tell me what you know about the history of the

group.
I actually know very little. I know that Ray Manzarek
and Jim Morrison started performing together when
they were both students at the film school at UCLA.
They were friends from the film department and
they found out they both had an interest in music
and they started to perform. Their early music was
mostly blues with Ray doing a tremendous amount
of the singing, interestingly enough.

Which are the earliest songs on the album?

I Looked at You and Take It as It Comes. Those
represent probably the genesis of the group, more
than any others. The newer of the tunes are the
ones that are deeper, the ones that show a greater
maturity. The End is newer. The End, it's
interesting, The End was always a changing piece.
Jim used it as a, almost an open canvas for his
poetic bits and pieces and fragments and images
and little couplets and things that he just wanted to
say, and it changed all the time, it was always a
changing thing. Now it rarely changes. Now that it's
on record and the musicians can listen to it on
record it is the statement they wanted to make and
Jim tends to perform it that way. Sometimes he'll
leave something out, sometimes he will put
something else in but now it's a formed piece, it isn't
that open canvas any more. And because of this,
Jim commented to me recently, the thing he's most
deeply concerned with right now is opening another

Did Jim play anything at that time?

No. And I don't even know where Robbie came from
or how he fitted into the group. I've never really
been tremendously interested myself in the past
social-musical activities of groups. The questions I
usually ask musicians are about their musical past,
their training, what their influences are, where they
get their reasons, their musical reasons. As for
where they came from, and how they got
together . . . they did all get together at the
University of California at Los Angeles, and, well,
they were playing together as long ago as about
two and a half years, I guess. As the Doors they've

387

canvas of that nature, something as broad in

concept as The End.

Precisely. He's saying okay here's a trip, every time

we take a trip there's a death of concepts, of
bullshit, a death of laughter and soft lies, let's get
real with ourselves, let's get real with each other,
um... there's one thing Jim used to say during the
song which is just a stark death image. It was the
blue bus theory, but it was stated in a different way,
and he used to use them both, he used the blue
bus thing and he'd also say, uh, Have you seen the
accident outside, seven people took a ride and
something something something and seven people
died, which is really very groovy, have you seen
the accident outside the world seven people
took a ride, this trip, looked at the world, and died.
All of that that they saw in themselves which before
lived, in other words the bullshit concept of the
world which had been burned into their brains since
childhood, had to die. And with every end there is a
beginning, it is a cyclical thing, the end always has
in it inherent a beginning, uh, trying to remember
Can you picture what will be so limitless and free,
desperately in need of some stranger's hand in a
desperate land. Things are very wrong out there so
let us kill ourselves or those things in ourselves that
are false, that are bullshit, the false giddiness, the
TV giddiness, canned audience reaction laughter
there's more humor in the world than needs to be
created scientifically in a TV studio. I'm babbling I
understand but I'm on as much of a hunch trying to
explain as Jim is who's trying to lay it down.

On interpreting The End: I considered for the first

time the other day that the lines "This is the end my
only friend" and particularly It hurts to set you free
but you'll never bother me it occurred to me,
when I heard that, that the song might be about a
murder, and not just a guy leaving a girl. The
possibility opened that the whole thing was the
murderer's mind and ah, the stream of
consciousness starting from and leading back to
It's interesting that you say that, because Jim is
fascinated with the concept of death. He's
interested in spiritual deaths, conceptual deaths,
more than physical deaths actually, you'll find this
theme in many of his songs, uh, the line The end of
nights we tried to die
That goes right back to Crystal Ship.
Exactly.
Uh, I'm not sure if this is what Jim has in mind but
it's almost as if Jim is saying... realize this is my
interpretation and not Jim's, 'cause I've never asked
Jim, he presented it to me and said it's for your
head, interpret it as you will, Jim's saying almost as
a friend, okay, my friend and I take an acid trip, and
then I say to my friend this is the end my friend, my
only friend, the end of laughter and soft lies, the end
of nights we tried to die, ah, the line, the end of
nights we tried to die, to my mind is a direct
reference to the concept that most psychedelics are
a form of physical poisoning, that chemicals are a
means of reorienting the body through a kind of
poison...

Of the other imagery in the song, the little poetic

bits between the double verse section in the
beginning and the double verse section in the end,
you have things like the snake well there he's
saying just get down to reality, the snake thing of
course is just pure sexual imagery (to my mind),
ride the snake to the ancient lake, that comes right
out of Negro imagery, blues imagery, which Jim is
very familiar with, the snake he's old and his skin is
cold, what he is saying is okay let's get down to the
realities of life, there are very few realities and one
of the few truly real realities is sexual awareness
and companionship, Jim is very lucid in that
department Oh right, and the first one which is
very beautiful, lost in a Roman oh, a piece of
beautiful classical imagery lost in a Roman
wilderness of pain. To my mind all I can see is
great crumbling ruins of a great civilization, which of
course flashes right back to now, lost in a Roman
wilderness of pain and all the children are insane,
repeated.

You're saying this is the end, during the trip or

before it?
The way I feel it, the trip has started and he's saying
this is the end.
As a beginning.
Right. This is the end. He has had a realization
concerning a relationship, now this can be far more
universal than a statement to this theoretical friend
who is right there, this could be the end of the
world, the end of laughter and soft lies, or the end
of

The barbarians.
Right. Waiting for the summer rain, let's get
cleansed, let's get cleansed, people. Another
symbolic death by the way. Insanity of course is a
symbolic death, it's a death itself, and the cleansing

Himself.

388

is a rebirth. And then of course there's the incredible

Oedipal thing in the middle which is the first giant
build, and I have talked with Jim about that,
because I have rarely been as impressed

says, he is saying, kill the alien concepts, get back

to reality, which is precisely what the song is about,
the end, the end of alien concepts, the beginning of
personal concepts. Get to reality, get to your own
reality, get to your own in-touch-with-yourself
situation...

I have never been as moved in a recording studio

as I was when that take went down. I was
impressed by the fact that for one of the very first
times in rock-and-roll history sheer drama had
taken place on tape. This to me is very important,
and it's also significant that Jim has used, chose to
use a purely classical image (in modern dress) to
do this. The story he tells is basically the Oedipus
legend, ah, the killer awoke before dawn, he put his
boots on, he chose a face from the ancient gallery
and he walked on down the hall. And he came to a
door and he walked inside, and he went to the room
where his brother lived, and then he went into the
room where his sister lived, and then walked on
down the hall, and he came to a door and he
walked inside and he said, father, yes son, I want to
kill you, and then he walked...

I was just thinking in terms of getting back to reality,

taking that against Soul Kitchen, with the plea,
desperation, the message, it's a message song,
Soul Kitchen has got to be a message song, learn
to forget, in a way, in its totality maybe it implies the
opposite.
Well Soul Kitchen of course is full of sexual
imagery.
But it even goes beyond, you learn to forget, goes
beyond everything else in that song and that's the
reverse.
Learn to forget is of course the key in there,
otherwise Jim would not be saying it so many times
in the song, ah, this is something, this is another
aspect of the revolution, it goes back to the same
thing as The End learn to forget the bullshit, the
alien concepts, get back to reality, sleep in the soul
kitchen.

No, no, it just immediately becomes mother

Yes, there's a little musical thing, and then he says
mother I want to and then he screams. He screams
for obvious reasons, there are even for Jim cultural
limitations.

Although to me it's not as direct as Soul Kitchen, it

says something else too, it's very painful,
everything he says in Soul Kitchen is very painful
for him to say the way he says it, and learn to forget
is very bitter.

And it's more effective.

Of course, it's more effective, it's basic, it's primal,
it's the reason, it's the motivation. Jim is saying, and
Jim has phrased it precisely this way, kill the father,
fuck the mother, and at one point Jim said to me
during the recording session, he was very
emotionally moved, and he was wondering, and he
was tearful, and he shouted in the studio, "Does
anybody understand me?" And I said yes I do, and
right then and there we got into a long discussion
about just what does this mean, this section, and
Jim just kept saying over and over, kill the father,
fuck the mother, and essentially it boils down to just
this, kill the father means kill all of those things in
yourself which are instilled in you and are not of
yourself, they are not your own, they are alien
concepts which are not yours, they must die, those
are the things that must die. The psychedelic
revolution. Fuck the mother is very basic, and it
means get back to the essence, what is the reality,
what is, fuck the mother is very basically mother,
mother-birth, real, very real, you can touch it, you
can grab it, you can feel it, it's nature, it's real, it
can't lie to you.

Well, let's look at it this way: Soul Kitchen is an

earlier song. And Jim hadn't learned to forget nearly
as well as he did later on when he did The End.
I wonder if I'm even talking loud enough for that
thing.
We'll check it... Say that again for the Sony people.
We're using this little Sony tape recorder here to
record me saying all this blither, and it just occurred
to me that the recordings I'm making these days are
recorded with Sony microphones. All the producers
in the country will dig that.
We'll send a copy to Sony
That's where the groovy drum sound comes from.
How so, how does the mike affect the pickup of the
sound?

So what he says at the end of the Oedipus section,

which is essentially the same thing that the classic

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Well, everybody is familiar with how different

loudspeakers affect the sound of a recording, each
has a different characteristic, this is even more
apparent with microphones.

the worst recording studios in the country, the nowfamous RCA Victor Studio B in Hollywood, a
colossus of an antique. It's so far behind the times
it's really sad; that Hassinger was able to go as far
as he did with that studio is a mark of his excellence
as an engineer. A better proof of Hassinger's
excellence as an engineer, just as a pure creative
engineer, regardless of what people think of the
record, the music, is the work he did with the
Electric Prunes, which he did from the ground up.
Now that's Hassinger, all Hassinger. He did not
record that at RCA Studio B, which is why it sounds
so modern. That was recorded at Goldstar and
parts of it were recorded at Sunset. Listen to the A
side of the new Love record. Da Capo, which was
recorded by Hassinger in Studio B, a miracle of
engineering, a miracle of engineering...

Once you get to know microphones, each mike has

a different characteristic and can do a specific job
better than another mike. There are certain
microphones which are great for recording voice,
there are others which are excellent for recording
strings, or trumpets, or drums or electric guitars,
and it's a nice thing to know which microphone to
use for what function. If you've got a very loud brass
section, one of the best microphones to use is one
of the oldest mikes in existence, an old RCA 44, the
old radio announcer's microphone that everybody is
familiar with, a great huge lump of metal, the old
octagonal mike. It's probably the smoothest mike in
the world, with no high end on it, that's why brass
sounds so good.

The sessions on this album, how did they start

when did they start?

Do you bring your own mikes into a studio?

Whew, you would have to ask me questions about

time and space. August and September, I think. We
recorded for two weeks and mixed for five.

No, we use studios with microphone complements

that are consistent with our recording techniques.
Most good recording studios have certain kinds of
microphones, they have Sonys, or Neumans, or
Telefunkens or Capps or Synchrons, and the RCA
mikes, plus the world's cheapest microphone, which
is probably used on every bass drum in the world.
That's the Altex 633-C, which I think costs $30,
which is the greatest bass drum mike in the world,
everybody uses it, it's called a salt-shaker mike.

I'm interested more in details of the session, that is,

how it went, walking into the studios for the first
time
I'll tell you exactly. They had done a demo for
Columbia and then I went to work with them for
Elektra preparing them. This is something I like to
do with what I consider to be new groups, virgin
groups, who have not been in studios before,
because there are all kinds of problems that have to
be resolved with groups before they can get down
to the business of making phonograph records
comfortably. The common concept for recording
studios which is not mine is that recording
studios are hospitals where musicians go to have
their music operated on. I like to get away from that
as completely as possible and try to convert the
atmosphere and the emotion of the studio into one
which is more warm, let's sit around the living room
and play music for a while, not even let's sit around
the club and play music for a while which is also a
little alien. Music is and always will be a very
personal experience.

What are the aspects of picking a recording studio

for a specific group other than the microphones: the
size? the sound echo feeling? what is it?
The engineers are the most important factor in any
studio. Just as an artist will look for a creative
producer, a producer will look for a creative
engineer. That's vital. You can have the greatest
recording studio in the world and, I have been in
them with an inferior engineer, you might just as
well have done it on this Sony and come up with a
far greater sound.
Once you know you've got a good engineer to work
with, you must be sure that the tools that he has
available are excellent. I recently worked with one
of the world's great engineers who was, until
recently, strapped by one of the worst studios in the
country as far as I'm concerned for the kind of
recording I like to do. Dave Hassinger is a perfect
example of a great engineer in a bad studio. He
became very famous for his work with the Stones.
Hassinger is truly one of the great engineers in the
world today, but I feel he was strapped by one of

Well, that changes from group to group

Oh yes, of course, don't misunderstand me, a rock
and roll group needs to have an audience to react
against; in a recording studio that audience
becomes a very specific audience, it's the producer.
He's got to fulfill many functions as an audience.
Rather than sitting there and clapping his hands or

390

booing, there are other ways he shows his delight

or criticism. What we did, in order to break the
cherry of this group in the recording studio, as it
were, what I generally like to do is go into the studio
first with the musicians feeling that they're going in
for a session. I realize that we're going to blow a
day or two, but we go in to cut masters, we don't go
in to screw around. Sometimes you get lucky. We
went in and we cut two tunes, neither of which
appear on this record. We don't stop at a perfect
take, we stop at a take that has the muse in it.
That's the most important thing: the take must have
the feel, must have the musical feel in it, even if
there are musical errors. When the muse comes
into the studio to visit us, that's the take...

end, that's the end, it cannot go any further, that's

the statement.
I felt emotionally washed. There were four other
people in the control room at that time, when the
take was over and we realized the tape was still
going. Bruce, the engineer, was completely sucked
along into it and instead of sitting there at attention
the way engineers are wont to do, his head was on
the console and he was just immersed. Just
absolutely immersed in this take. And he'd done it
all, and he'd made all the moves right, because
Bruce and I had established a kind of rapport, he
knew where I wanted things done and when, and
when his work was done he did exactly the same
thing, involuntarily, without volition, he didn't know
he was going to do it but he became audience too.
So the muse did visit the studio that time. And all of
us were audience, there was nothing left, the
machines knew what to do I guess. It was all right.

How was it, recording The End?

It was beautiful, it was one of the most beautiful
moments I've ever bad in a recording studio, that
half hour when The End was recorded. I was
emotionally wrung. Usually as a producer you sit
there listening for all the things that are right and all
of the things that are about to go wrong. You're
following every instrument simultaneously, you're
following the feeling, the mood, all the way through.
In this take I was completely, I was absolutely
audience. I had done my job, there was nothing
actually for me to do once the machines were
rolling. I had made sure the sound was right on
each instrument, you know, when we did our setup;
Bruce, the engineer, had been cued by me on
everything that I wanted him to do, and at the
beginning of the take I was sitting there producer
listening to take.

Jim recorded it on acid?

No, not that one. The night before we tried the
night before, we attempted the night before to
record The End, and we couldn't get it. Jim couldn't
do it. He wanted desperately to do it, his entire
being was screaming Kill the father, Fuck the
mother! Kill the father, Fuck the mother! Now I don't
know, have you heard him saying in the middle of
The End during that big come part, have you
heard him saying, kill, kill, kill?
I hear words, I can't tell what they are.
You'll hear it next time. During the whole giant raga
thing he's going kill! Kill! kill! Kill! and at another
point he's going Fuck, fuck, as a rhythm
instrument, the rhythm's going (bangs on
microphone) fuck, fuck, fuck, that's down on the
track too, as a rhythm instrument, which is what we
intended it to be.

Midway through I was no longer producer; I was

just completely sucked up into it. When we
recorded it the studio was totally darkened, the only
lights visible were a candle burning in the recording
studio right next to Jim, whose back was to the
control room, singing into his microphone, and the
lights on the v.u. meters in the control room. All the
other lights were off it was very dark ha

Now, I'm sure that clinically Jim was still on an acid

trip; but it was done on the after period, the lucid I
guess it isn't the lucid, the clear light period, it's the
reflective period of an acid trip. But I have tried
several times to record artists on acid and it doesn't
work. At least, it doesn't work for me. I have never
seen it work in a studio; I have never spoken with a
producer who has tried it and has been successful.

What studio?
Sunset Sound Recorders, what I feel to be the best
studio in the country right I now, mainly because of
Bruce Botnick who's twenty-three years old and one
of the grooviest engineers I can conceive of,
extraordinarily creative and very pleasant to work
with. Ah, and Jim it was a magic moment Jim
was doing The End, he was just doing it, for all
time, and I was pulled off, right on down his road,
he said come with me and I did. It was almost a
shock when the song was over, you know when
Robbie plays those last little tinkling notes on the
guitar. It felt like, yeah, you know, like, yes, it's the

Maybe the most interesting question is how did

The End come to be; how much of it had been like
that before; and how much of it just suddenly
bloomed in those two nights?

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Let's put it this way: the frame, the structure of the

song was set in everyone's mind, everyone knew
what had to be done. Ray knew what he was going
to play, not the notes, but where and why it had to
be, Robbie knew where and why, John a brilliant
drummer, The End proved that, in my book that's
some of the greatest drumming I've ever heard in
my life, irrespective of the fact that I'm involved in
this album it's incredibly creative drumming has
an instinct for when. During a very quiet part he'll
just come in with three drum shots that are about as
loud as you can hit a drum, and they're right, they're
absolutely right! Now, you can't plan those things.

are located at an angle above the strings; you push

down on the steel springs and a little metal hammer
at the end goes buoong It's a percussion
instrument, a percussion autoharp. Ray played it on
an overdub Overdubbing literally means to take
your original track and add onto it, putting sound on
top of it. Today the system is called sel-synch, it
stands for selective synchronization. You can record
onto an open track, in synch with the other music.
In reference to which, Jim grunts throughout,
particularly on Back Door Man his grunts at the
beginning are great, just great. And constant noise,
throughout The End and a lot in Light My Fire.
Does he just have an open mike he can do
anything into, you just mix it down because it's on a
separate track?

Jim, of course, in the recesses of his creative self

knew exactly what the song had to be. It went
through several permutations in the studio. He'd
reach into his back pocket and pull out a sheaf of
miscellaneous scraps of paper that had little notes
on them, little lines of poetry, and he'd look at them,
crumple them up and throw them away, and sing
different lines during the tune, lines I'd heard him
sing in a club. Other times he'd just riff something
I'd never heard before, some of which appears on
the record. The version you hear on the record is I
think a finalized form, it's almost exactly the way
they perform it on stage now. It's one of those rare
things where a piece of music was caught at the
peak of its maturity in a recording studio, extremely
rare. The usual situation is that it was recorded too
soon or too late, more frequently it was recorded
too late. There's a kind of lethargy you hear in a lot
of recorded performances that is the result of a
piece of music not being caught at its prime, but in
its old age. When everybody has their things down
pat and there isn't the enthusiasm of creativity.

That's right. The lead vocalist is always on a track

by himself so that you have absolute flexibility,
because listening in a recording studio the
perspective's always wrong for making a balanced
mix. You're generally listening at very high levels on
superb speakers, and unless you can supply
everybody in the United States with Altex 605
speakers you're in a world of trouble. So you've got
to have absolute flexibility, especially over your lead
singer and if you're lucky as many other elements
as you can in your recording Jim, especially if
you see him live, likes to grab the microphone and,
uh, he kinda works himself up to a song. He'll grab
the microphone and he'll go unh, gaa, yeaa, and
he goes through almost a whole pagan ritual. It's a
modern West Coast psychedelic invocation of the
muse.
On End of the Night, Jim decided at the last
minute to change the lyric on that. It was originally,
and always had been, take a trip into the end of the
night and at that point Jim decided that the word
trip had been violently overused, so he changed it
to highway. End of the Night is another paean to
the, well, it's Jim saying to the world come on,
people, get free, get rid of all that shit, take a
journey to the great midnight. I'm sure that has
meaning for me, and I'm sure that has meaning for
you, and I'm sure our meanings are a great deal
different. Jim likes to do that.

Alabama Song, I'm sure you want to know

about that. Both Ray and Jim are admirers of Kurt
Weill and Bertold Brecht. For obvious reasons. I
guess Brecht was saying in the thirties what
Morrison is trying to say in the sixties. They're
completely different messages, but both trying to
declare a reality to their generation. It's sort of the
Doors' tribute to another time, another brave time
for some other brave men. And the lyric to Alabama
Song is strangely contemporary. There is one other
verse in the Alabama Song which the Doors don't
sing, the verse missing is Show us the way to the
next little dollar, oh, don't ask why. And that is out of
context for the Doors, that's not quite what they had
in mind

Paul Williams, 1967

Interview with the Doors

And, in addition, there is a strange instrument on

that tune. It comes from about the nineteentwenties; it's a variant of the autoharp. Instead of
being strummed or plucked it's struck. The
instrument is called a Marxaphone, it was patented
under that name. It's a series of steel springs that

Greg Shaw, Mojo Navigator, August 1967

MOJO NAVIGATOR: You just played in New York
and Los Angeles and San Francisco. What are the
differences you've found in the audiences in the

392

different cities and the scenes going on in the

different cities?

musicians. And the people who are reaching the

furthest out. Albert Ayler, and... different people.

ROBBY: Well, in New York we played mostly for

older people, although I'd say that the audience was
more dance-prone there, they like to dance a lot
more; they don't listen as much. L.A. audiences and
San Francisco audiences are different, too. I think
the San Francisco audience listens a lot more.

MN: In cities that we don't have very much

communication with, for example in like say L.A.. or
New York, is there much interchange between the
jazz and the rock aud-ience? Not just the
musicians, but do the people dig the whole thing?
RAY: I don't think so.

MN: Do you think the difference is because of the

places you play, like, when you were in New York
did you play clubs mostly?

JOHN: Not at all.

JIM: No.

ROBBY: Well, we played clubs, that's probably it.

But they still danced, you know. Of course it might
just have been the particular club that we were
playing. We really didn't get a very good idea of
what the New York audience is like, although when
we go back this time I think we will. We're going to
play some concerts as well as clubs.

ROBBY: No, not at all.

MN: 'Cause around here you find generally avantgarde jazz groups will be playing, like at the
Fillmore. Mostly in benefits, like you'll have Elvin
Jones playing, then the Grateful Dead will play.
ROBBY: But you'll find that when Bill Graham puts a
jazz group in there, or even John Lee Hooker, that
he'll always have a big drawing group with them,
'cause he knows they aren't gonna draw. He puts
the jazz group in there for prestige among the
hippies, mainly.

RAY: We played uptown in New York and the

downtown people, the people who live in the Village
and the East Village, don't come uptown. I was
surprised, you know, we were down there and we
told some people that we knew and had run into in
the Village and said, "Come up and see us we're
playing at.. ." it was up on the upper East Side. But
they didn't come up. They don't come up to the
place It' s an uptown club Downtown people stay in,
whatever's down there; the Night Owl, the Caf Au
Go Go. They go to those places. And the people
who go to the place where we played, Ondine's, I
guess they don't go down to the Village It's kind of
strange, it's real segregation there.

MN: What groups in particular, if any, do you draw

your inspirat-ion from; who, do you particularly
admire on the music scene in general?

RAY: It's a sophisticated audience up here. I, think

they understand jazz a little bit, so they... there's
some appreciation of the music. But, the jazz
people don't... gee, I don't know any of them that
are digging rock, really. Not really. And besides I
think the whole jazz thing is on the verge of being
assimilated into, it' s going to become classical
music. Where classical music is going now, and
where jazz is going, they're both going towards the
same point. Because jazz used to be, it's originally
Negro art music. There was a Negro, and the Negro
is being more and more assimilated. As he gets
more intelligent, he gets up to the same level of
intelligence... they're all college educated now, you
know, they're going to school, and they're like us,
they're the same people, you know, the ethnic
background is getting away from them slowly, very
slowly, but it's getting away, and they're becoming
Americans. You know, they're thoroughly
Americanized people. They've got the TV, the whole
thing. It's doing the same thing to them that it does
to everyone else. So jazz is going to, in 20 years,
there won't be any jazz, jazz and the electronic
thing, they're all gon-na be the same thing. Rock is
going to become the popular music, for everybody.
Everybody's popular music.

ROBBY: Well, really we try... we don't have any

favorites. The peop-le we respect most are the best

MN: Do you see perhaps a fusing of the electronic

sound of, say Stock-hausen and Cage, with...

MN: Did you find any significant difference in how

the material was received by the audiences in the
different cities?
RAY: The whole thing went over very well in the
club we played. They seemed to understand it. I
don't know whether they understood it or they felt it
because the rhythm was there, you know. I guess
we're very jazz-oriented, and I think those people
understand that, better than people who play do. It's
funny, L.A. hasn't been our best audience. It's a
good audience in L.A., but up here it's a much
better audience.

393

RAY: Yeah, Sun Ra is trying to do the very same

thing. We saw him after the session in New York,
just before we left. And he's trying to do the same
thing that Stockhausen is doing. Except Sun Ra is
doing it with his instruments. He doesn't have any
electronic thing going. But they're both trying to do
the same thing. I'm looking forward to the day when
the Negros start play-ing electronic instruments,
you know, that could be interesting.

ROBBY: The Avalon seemed a little, if I can say

this, a little more inhibited actually, than the Fillmore
even.
MN: Yeah, a lot more. I think because the people
who go there, to the Fillmore, are more people that
you know, like the first time they go anywhere they
go to the Fillmore because that's the name, and
they don't discover the Avalon until later. What
about the dances down in L.A.? How successful
have those been? Along what lines are they
structured?

MN: You played for all three of the major scenes in

San Francisco: the Matrix, the Avalon, and the
Fillmore. Did you find any differences in the
audiences at each and would you like to talk about
it? Just in general what it's like to play all
three. Is it particularly different for you?

ROBBY: They're always harrassed by police...

JOHN: What dances?

JIM: Yeah, there was a difference. I'm not sure what

it was.

RAY: Therefore they don't have dances down there.

There's really no Fillmore down there. It's all still
clubs in L.A. There aren't any, no ballrooms and
such.

MN: Which place was more en-joyable to play?

JOHN: Each had its thing. The Avalon is more older
hippies, let's say. And the Fillmore is a little more
teeny-bopper like. A little louder in their applause
and clapping, you know, but at Avalon they
appreciat-ed it same amount, they just yell and
scream, right, there's just a warm feeling. I mean,
we know they're digging it, they're just...

MN: What about the Freak-Outs? You know, the

KRLA Freak-Out things?
ROBBY: Yeah, some of those are pretty good,
but...they had a nice light show, and the kids really
freaked out, more than I've seen here, for some
reason. I guess 'cause they don't get a chance to
down there. Yeah, it was a good thing, although it
was stopped a few weeks later because of the
police.

MN: Yeah. How well is your album selling?

ROBBIE: It's doing very well con-sidering we don't
have a real hit single, you know, but I'd say the next
album will be much better. Our first album was just
the skeleton of our material. There was no real
production involved. We'll take more time with the
next album and it will be more, produced. It should
be quite a bit better. It'll be, I think, all original
material.
MN: It's selling really well around here. Just about
everybody's got it. I noticed at the Avalon, the kids
seemed to, they knew what the, songs were, they
all had their favorites... That blew my mind; you
seemed to have a fan club. You don't see that at the
Avalon too much. Another thing you said about the
danc-ing thing, that's really funny, be-cause people
around here used to really wig out, you know, they
used to jump up and down and dance, but not so
much anymore. Like you go to the Avalon now and
you'll see... it used to be like just a small group of
people in front that were listening and then like 90%
of the audien-ce was running around and
dancing...and now like almost the whole auditorium
is covered with sitting people, and it's, I think,
considered uncool to freak out.

MN: Yeah. They've tried to do that around here too,

but unsuccessfully. There is no way they can do it.
You know, you've got 5,000 people outside some
place, you just can't, you know, stop it. But they do
little things. Like, they have the Fire Marshal at the
Avalon. I don't know if you dug that cat. He stands
right by the door and he's got this double-breasted
uniform on and this big badge... he looks like he
should be in a case or something. But like when
more people show up than the 910 that the
regulations allow, he stops them at the door and
nobody else will get in.
RAY: Yeah, we saw him.
MN: Who writes most of your songs?
ROBBY: Jim writes most of the lyrics.
MN: I noticed that some of your songs are very
strange, like 'The End' and 'Moonlight Drive' and a
few others. A strong mood of death running through
a lot of them. I mean, it almost seems as if you had
lost your mind once, sometime in your past, with

394

these songs as the result. I get the impression from

like, 'End of the Night' particularly a real feeling of
Celine, Journey To the End of the Night, and from
'The End' and many of the other songs, of the
Tibetan Book of the Dead. Really strong moods.

COUGAR: It's heavy. It's one of Hoffman's drugs,

the third step up from LSD 26. And it's heavy.
JIM: Hey, have they synthesized Yage yet?
COUGAR: No.

JIM: I don't know. Compared to some of the stuff

I've heard in San Francisco, I don't think it's too
strange. It's pretty straight stuff.

MN: No. LSD is supposedly...the guy that first did it,

Hoffman, the same guy, said it was Telepathine,
was the name he gave it. And he tried to synthesize
it and he came up with LSD. LSD 6 I think it was. It
was the first one he could consume. Or he could
consume safely, that is.

MN: Which groups around here have you heard,

and what's your judgment of them?
RAY: I like Country Joe and the Fish. I like some of
their stuff.

COUGAR: I think Hoffman has discovered 25 drugs

since LSD, each one one step closer to purity. And
the third one above LSD was this, And it's potent.
Unfortunately I took twice what's considered the
normal dosage. I blew my mind here Tuesday night.
I blew my mind here and I haven't done that with
any other drug. I lost it. It was really sad. (laughs all
around).

ROBBY: And we really liked Big Brother.

MN: What'd you think of the Grateful Dead?
JOHN: They weren't too good, the night we saw
them. Like, they're really good musicians, and
they're tight, but so's Wilson Pickett, you know?

JIM: Interviews are good, but....

MN: Do you think there's any one direction that rock

music is headed, in particular? Is it headed toward
a fusion of all sounds, or do you think it will remain
a distinct element, with a variety of different sounds
around?

MN: Oh, they're a drag.

JIM: Critical essays are really where it's at. Another
person's impressions....

RAY: Well, it will all become more sophisticated, as

the musicians mature, as the audience matures,
you know, naturally the music must at the same
time, so there's going to be just a general increase
in knowledgeability. People are going to be able to
understand music much better, so the music's going
to improve. I think even the old folks are going to
start picking up on it, more and more and more. It's
happening very gradually but it's happening, because the musicianship is getting be-tter. They've
thoroughly accepted the Beatles, you know, so
who's next? You know, they'll start accepting a lot
more people too.

MN: For one thing, interviews are a big drag

because to me, rock is becoming a total
environment thing, and you go and you listen to
somebody, or even hear a record, and you say,
"yes" "no" or "maybe". And what can you say, you
know? Nothing. Nothing.
JOHN: Yeah, right. It's out there, on the stage.
MN: It used to be a real blast, to go and interview
somebody, but you know, now I find myself doing
the same thing every time, and coming up with
relatively the same answers, But it is groovy to
meet different groups because you really get a
feeling, just from talking to them, of what's behind
their music. You understand their music better, too.

[Enter COUGAR]
MN: Cougar!

ROBBY: Yeah.
COUGAR: I'm so far gone it isn't funny.
MN: You talked about not realizing everything you
wanted on your album, how do you think you could
have improved it?

MN: Cougar is our... our experimenter. They've got

this new stuff called NDDN, One quarter microgram
of it....

RAY: Well, that's not true. We really realized

everything we set out to do.

JIM: What's it like?

395

ROBBY: Well the album was made six months ago,

and by making a record, we learned about what you
do in a studio, you know.

He walked majestically on stage clad in a tight black

leather suit, white shirt and brown shoes. The crowd
applauded him and Morrison, taking up a stance at
the mike, smiled briefly and belted into his first
song.

RAY: Yeah, studio is another thing entirely. There

are things that you can do, you know, various
devices to manipulate, in a studio, and we didn't
know anything about that sort of thing. We just went
in and played and got a very pure sound. For the
most part, it's exactly the way we sound.

His singing is every bit as powerful as the Doors

albums suggest, while the backing trio of organist
Manzarek, drummer Densmore and Kreiger, guitar,
are really together and play with precision and
timing that are quite remarkable.

ROBBY: There's hardly any overdubbing. You don't

hear anything in there that we can't do. We do
everything.

Wasting little time, Morrison went on to Break On

Through, When The Musics Over, the BrechtWeill Alabama Song Hello I Love You and Natural
Child breaking into a knockout version of Money.

MN: How much improvisation do you do in your live

performances?

For the ritualistic The End, Morrison asked for the

lights to be put out. Eventually after pleading, and
finally shouting, lie got the lights off and the Doors
became vague, shadowy figures with a backdrop of
red dots formed by the lights on the groups bank of
amplifiers.

ROBBY: Well, it depends on each song. Some

songs are more structur-ed, and in some there's a
whole middle section where we can all fool around.
MN: Do you have a last message for teenyboppers
across the nation? That is our traditional last
question. We ask everybody that.

The song began and a dramatic effect was building

up when a spotlight suddenly came on, killing the
whole thing. Understandably, Morrison walked off
but the group kept on playing. The light went out
and Morrison returned to finish the song.

ROBBY: Buy more Doors records.

MN: OK. Thanks.

During Light My Fire he leapt down into the

fenced-off space between the stage and the
audience, which was being used as a TV camera
run. This caused confusion with the cameraman
becoming tied up in Morrisons mike wire. Morrison
screamed into the mike and then held it into the
audience for girls to scream into.

Greg Shaw, 1967

The Doors/Jefferson Airplane: The Roundhouse,
London
uncredited writer, NME, September 1968

Unknown Soldier became a real production

number, with Morrison acting out the part of the
prisoner facing the firing squad. Densmore played a
roll and then Morrison crashed to the floor, "dead".
He lay on the floor and it seemed as though he had
knocked himself out but then he leapt up and
finished the song with its triumphant "The war is
over!" last line.

THE RUMOURS were flying. Doors drummer John

Densmore was missing. The groups were arguing
as to who would go on first. There was some
speculation as to whether they would go on at all.
The Friday night Doors/Jefferson Airplane concert
was scheduled to start at 9.30 pm. The audience,
over two thousand of them, had been sitting
patiently since 7.30, and they had to wait a further
two hours before the action began. Deejay Jeff
Dexter kept things moving with records and Pete
Drummond gave him a hand.

The Doors are undoubtedly one of the most

professional groups on the scene anywhere.
Everything hangs together well and there is an
underlying feel of calculation and presentation
which projects the music to its full.

Then the stage darkened and the audience cheered

as dim figures appeared and took up positions
behind drums, organ and on guitar. The stage lights
went up and as John Densmore, Ray Manzarek
and Robbie Kreiger launched into Back Door Man
to herald the arrival of the front Doors man, Jim
Morrison.

Densmore, Manzarek and Kreiger are very good

musicians and Morrison, with his great sense of
showmanship and stage presence, provides a
dynamic entity to the act. When he saw the
Roundhouse for the first time he said, "This is going

396

to be fun. This is the place for us". After the show

on Saturday, he commented, "This is the greatest
audience. It was just like starting again."

"Hey, man," he said, his voice booming from the

speakers on the ceiling. "Cut out that shit." The
crowd giggled.

The six-strong Jefferson Airplane, second on on

Friday, first on Saturday, lost some impact because
the vocals were often inaudible against the strong
backing.

"What are you all doing here?" he went on. No

response.

Like the Doors, the programme for each of their four

sets followed pretty much the same lines each time.
The Airplanes presentation is looser and more
casual, but any lack in visual effect was more than
made up by their amazing light show.

"Well, man, we can play music all night, but thats

not what you really want, you want something more,
something greater than youve ever seen, right?"

"You want music?" A rousing yeah.

"We want Mick Jagger," someone shouted. "Light

My Fire," said someone else to laughter.

The Airplane were swamped in colour as slides and

film clips created a restless, seething backdrop to
their music. Two guitars, bass and drums built up
layers of sounds against the hard vocal work of
Grace Slick, Marty Balin and Paul Kantner.

It was a direct affront, but the Doors hadnt seen it

coming. That afternoon before the concert Morrison
had said, "Were into what these kids are into."
Driving home from rehearsal in his Mustang Shelby
Cobra GT 500, he swept his arm wide to take in the
low houses that stretched miles from the freeway to
the Hollywood Hills. "Were into LA. Here kids live
more freely and more powerfully than anywhere
else, but its also where old people come to die.
Kids know both and we express both."

Lead guitarist Jorma Kaukonen plays thoughtful,

well-constructed solos and doesnt rely on speed for
effect. Bassist Jack Casady and drummer Spencer
Dryden underpin the whole thing very well. Dryden
is a particularly fine drummer who drives things on
well on the faster numbers.

The teens had belonged to the Doors; their

amalgam of sensuality and asceticism, mysticism
and machine-like power had won these lushly
beautifully children heart and soul, and the kids had
made them the biggest Anerican group in rock
music. Now, at one of their biggest concerts,
prelude to the biggest ever at New Yorks Madison
Square Garden in January, the kids dared laugh,
even at Morrison. Not much, but they had begun.

Its been said that it is impossible to get the Doors

and Jefferson Airplane together on the same stage
in the USA. Last weekend Middle Earth achieved
the impossible.
uncredited writer, 1968
Jim Morrison and the Doors, LA, 1968

The Doors started out in LAs early hip scene in

1965. Morrison, then 22, son of a high-ranking Navy
official, met organist-pianist Ray Manzarek on the
beach at Santa Monica while were both making
experimental films at UCLA. Drummer John
Densmore and guitarist Robby Krieger became
friends of Manzareks at one of the Maharishi
Mahesh Yogis first meditation centers in Southern
California. Named from a line of Morrisons poetry
"There are things that are known and things that are
unknown; in between are doors" by early 1966
they had their first date, playing for $35 a week at a
tiny and now defunct club on Sunset Strip.

Michael Lydon, New York Times, December 1968

"Play 'Light My Fire" "Yeah, Light My Fire." Out of
the vastness of the Los Angeles Forum, its 18,000
seats filled on a December Saturday night with the
cream of LAs teeniebopper set, came the insolent
cry. The Doors didnt want to do their 1967 hit; not
only had they just finished their first number, but on
stage with them and their thirty-two amplifiers were
a string sextet and a brass section ready to perform
new Doors music.
They got through a few more numbers, but then
with the yelling getting louder, they acquiesced. A
roar of cheers and instantly the arena was a glow
with sparklers lit in literal tribute. The song over, and
the kids shouting for one more once, lead singer
Jim Morrison, in a loose black shirt and clinging
black leather pants, came to the edge of the stage.

While on their second job as the house band at the

Whisky a Go Go, working behind dozens of groups
they have now eclipsed, they began to build a
following, playing blues and classic rock songs with
a harsh and eerie stringency. "We were creating our
music, ourselves, every night," Morrison said,
"starting with a few outlines, maybe a few words for

397

a song that gradually accrued particles of meaning

and movement. Sometimes we worked out in
Venice, looking at the surf. We were together and it
was good times."

musicians on stage. The music we make goes out

to the audience and interacts with them, they go
home and interact with the rest of reality, then I get
it back by interacting with that reality, so the whole
sex thing works out to be one big ball of fire."

Their best songs, 'Crystal Ship', the diabolical 'The

End' and 'Light My Fire' took shape in those early
days while Morrison was developing the erotic style
that has made him the groups star and rocks
biggst sex symbol. He doesnt fall off stages any
more, but he writhes against the microphone stand,
leaps from eyes-closed passivity into shrieking
aggression, and moans sweet pain like a modern
St. Sebastian pierced by the arrows of angst and
revelation.

That analytical abandon was just right for the

serious rock of the post Sgt Pepper era. After the
album version of 'Light My Fire' got heavy airplay on
FM rock stations, Elektra released a shorter single
that became a Top-40 number one. The Doors have
followed it with a series of singles and two more
albums. They have a quickly identifiable
instrumental sound based on blues topped with
Morrisons strong voice and lyrics. Manzarek plays
a rather dry organ, but Krieger is an aggressive
guitarist and Densmore a solid and inventive
drummer.

Just about everybody takes him seriously: the New

Haven police who last year arrested him for "giving
an indecent or immoral exhibition"; the girls who
rush the stage, sometimes only to get ashes flicked
from his cigarette; and critics who reave in detail
about "rock as ritual." But no one takes Morrison as
seriously as Morrison takes Morrison.

Yet as the kids in the Forum knew, theyve never

topped 'Light My Fire'. The abandon has gotten
more and more cerebral, the demonic pose more
strained. The new music they wanted the crowd to
like at the concert was abstract noise crashing
behind a Morrison poem of mandering verbosity.

His stage manner, he said, unlike the acts of Elvis,

Otis Redding, and Mick Jagger, with whom he is
often compared, has a conscious purpose. Shyly,
almost sleepily soft-spoken in private, he sees his
public self as a new kind of poet-politician. "Im not
a new Elvis, though hes my second favorite singer
Frank Sinatra is first. I just think Im lucky Ive
found a perfect medium to express myself in," he
said during a rehearsal break, slouched tiredly in
one of the Forums violently orange seats. Though
handsome with his pale green eyes and
Renaissance prince hair, he has none of the
decadent power captured in the spotlight.

After the show Morrison said it had been "great

fun," but the backstage party had a funereal air. And
at times that afternoon, he showed that he knew
their first rush of energy was running out. Success,
he said, looking beat in the orange chair, had been
nice. "When we had to carry our own equipment
everywhere, we had no time to be creative. Now we
can focus our energies more intensely."
He squirmed a bit. "The trouble is that now we dont
see much of each other. Were big time, we go on
tours, record, and in our free time, everybody splits
off into their own scenes. When we record, we have
to get all our ideas then, we cant build them night
after night like the club days. In the studio creation
is not so natural.

"Music, writing, theatre, action Im doing all those

things. I like to write, Im even publishing a book of
my poems pretty soon, stuff I had that I realised
wasnt for music. But songs are special. I find that
music liberates my imagination. When I sing my
songs in public, thats a dramatic act, not just acting
as in theater, but a social act, real action.

"I dont know what will happen. I guess well

continue like this for a while. Then to get our vitality
back, maybe well have to get out of the whole
business. Maybe well all go off to an island by
ourselves and start creating again."

"Maybe you could call us erotic politicians. Were a

rock n rol band, a blues band, just a band, but
thats not all. A Doors concert is a public meeting
called by us for a special kind of dramatic
discussion and entertainment. When we perform,
were participating in the creation of a world, and we
celebrate that creation with the audience. It
becomes the sculpture of bodies in action.

Michael Lydon, 1968

Over His Dead Body: Memories of Jim Morrison
Al Aronowitz, New York Post, 1971

"Thats politics, but our power is sexual. We make

concerts sexual politics. The sex starts out with just
me, then moves out to include the charmed circle of

WE ALL MAKE our deals with the devil. I suppose

Jim Morrison must have realized that he made his.
Listen to Jac Holzman, the president of Elektra

398

Records, the company that helped create the great

fireworks display that Jim became.

We got drunk that night, sitting at Mike's round

wooden kitchen table with Jim chomping on a cigar
and doing imitations like he was somebody's Uncle
Charlie. It was the first time I had seen him with a
beard and somehow he reminded me of Charlton
Heston. I could visualize him acting heroic roles in
great cinemascopic epics.

"Superstardom is a speed trip," Jac said,

paraphrasing something he once read by Michael
Lydon. "The flash is incredible, but it kills you in the
end."

All the friends I've talked to now say they knew

intuitively that Jim was dead as soon as they got
the final phone call. But the sadness for me is that I
really expected him to go on to greater things.

Jac was remembering how quiet Jim really used to

be, storing up his anger only to let it out in quick
and unexpected public detonations. He
remembered the first time he saw Jim singing with
the Doors in the Whisky A Go Go, Los Angeles. It
was only a short time after the Doors had got their
release from Columbia and Jac could understand
why.

We went to Chinatown the next afternoon, to one of

those restaurants with formica-top tables, and we
had a rip-roaring meal, with Jim playing Uncle
Charlie again. Jim and Mike talked about Artaud.
Jim was one of the most voracious readers I've ever
met, but that's the way it is with people who are as
serious about their writing as Jim was.

"They were not very good," he said, "but there was

something there that made me keep coming back."
He signed them up and put them in a studio with
producer Paul Rothschild. It was the summer of
1966. They completed their album in ten days but
Jac didn't release it until the following January. By
the summer of 1967, the album was selling a
quarter of a million copies a month.

Actually, Jim and Mike did get to finish a film script

they were working on together, and adaptation of
Mike's novel, The Adept. They also were kicking
around an idea for an original movie musical. In
addition to his book of poetry, The Lords, and his
collection of short prose fragments, The New
Creatures, Jim also printed a private edition of
poetry, American Prayer, for distribution among his
friends. He was working on a partially completed
manuscript when he died.

It was a success that came long past the point of

anticlimax for Jim. I remember Nico, the tall, blonde
beauty, telling me how Jim used to bite his hands
until they bled in the dressing-room after a show.
She and Jim ran together for a while.

"I didn't expect Jim to live very long," McClure now

says, "not at the intensity at which he lived. He was
on a very self-destructive level. But I don't think of it
now as Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison.
I think of it as Jack Kerouac, Charles Olson and Jim
Morrison."

The first time I saw Jim perform was in Steve Paul's

Scene, the old cellar club on 46th Street. It was
back in 1966 and I was with Brian Jones. Jim went
through his gimmick of opening his mouth to the
microphone as if he was about to sing and then
closing it again and both Brian and I got up and
walked out. Before long, 'Light My Fire' hit number
one on the charts.

Jim had already spoken with the Doors when he

went to Paris to chase after Pamela (right), the one
woman he always went back to out of the countless
he knew. He hadn't been getting along with the rest
of the group for a couple of years and they had
been looking for a new lead singer for some time. In
the old days, at the height of the Doors' success,
Jim had constantly kept telling the others that he
wanted to quit and they'd take it out on him onstage, sometimes dropping notes and imitating his
phrasing.

It was soon afterwards that Jim and the Doors were

telling reporters to "think of us as erotic politicians".
I couldn't quite figure out what they were running for
but it was easy to spot their constituency. The
teenyboppers kept telling me that while the Beatles
had been optimists, the Doors were pessimists.
Meanwhile, Jim was quickly getting burnt out.
I didn't meet him until after he had outgrown all that
baloney. It was at Mike McClure's house in San
Francisco, where Jim used to go to take lessons in
what he really wanted to be, a poet. I remember
playing Nashville Skyline for him. He said it was
Dylan's most "sensual" album, but then Jim was
always hung up on sensuality. When Mike talked
about writing a science-fiction screenplay, Jim said,
"Yeah, let's make it pornographic science-fiction."

To most of his friends, he was always a tragic

figure. His audience refused to let him mature.
When he tried to read his poetry onstage, the crowd
would ask for 'Light My Fire'. They wouldn't let him
stop being the Lizard King. He wanted to be
considered a poet and a writer.

399

He is buried now in the Pre-Lachaise cemetery in

Paris, near the grave, I am told, of Molire.
Superstardom is a speed trip. The flash is
incredible, but that's the deal you make.

closing it again and both Brian and I got up and

walked out. Before long, 'Light My Fire' hit No. 1 on
the charts, columnist Howard Smith was pegging
Jim as the nation's new male sex symbol and that
idiot purveyor of vapid criticism, Albert Goldman,
was writing long pompous treatises about how the
Doors were the new messiahs. I've never known
Albert Goldman to be right. It was soon afterwards
that Jim and the Doors were telling reporters to
"think of us as erotic politicians." I couldn't quite
figure out what they were running for but it was
easy to spot their constituency. The teenyboppers
kept telling me that while the Beatles had been
optimists, the Doors were pessimists. Meanwhile,
Jim was quickly getting burnt out.

He had quit his heavy drinking the last couple of

months. According to his friends, the death
certificate said he died of a heart attack brought on
by respiratory complications.
He died peacefully. When Pamela found him in the
bath-tub, there was a smile on his face.
Al Aronowitz, 1971
The End of Jim Morrison

I didn't meet him until after he had outgrown all that

baloney. It was at Mike McClure's house in San
Francisco, where Jim used to go to take lessons in
what he really wanted to be, a poet. I remember
playing Nashville Skyline for him. He said it was
Dylan's most "sensual" album, but then Jim was
always hung up on sensuality. When Mike talked
about writing a science-fiction screenplay, Jim said,
"Yeah, let's make it pornographic science-fiction."

Al Aronowitz, Fusion, 17 September 1971

WE ALL MAKE our deals with the devil. I suppose
Jim Morrison must have realized that he made his.
Listen to Jac Holzman, the president of Elektra
Records, the company that helped create the great
fireworks display that Jim became. "Superstardom
is a speed trip," Jac said, paraphrasing something
he once read by Michael Lydon. "The flash is
incredible, but it kills you in the end."

We got drunk that night, sitting at Mike's round,

wooden kitchen table with Jim chomping on a cigar
and doing imitations like he was somebody's Uncle
Charlie. It was the first time I had seen him with a
beard and somehow he reminded me of Charlton
Heston. I could visualize him acting heroic roles in
great cinemascopic epics. All the friends I've talked
to now say they knew intuitively that Jim was dead
as soon as they got the final phone call. But the
sadness for me is that I really expected him to go
on to greater things.

We were talking on the telephone a couple of days

after the announcement of Jim's death and Jac was
remembering how quiet Jim really used to be,
storing up his anger only to let it out in quick and
unexpected public detonations. He remembered the
first time he saw Jim singing with the Doors in the
Whisky a Go Go, one of the worst of L.A.'s schlock
joints. It was only a short time after the Doors had
gotten their release from Columbia and Jac could
understand why.

We went out to Chinatown the next afternoon, to

one of those restaurants with formica top tables,
and we had a rip-roaring meal, with Jim playing
Uncle Charlie again. Jim and Mike talked about
Artaud. Jim was one of the most voracious readers
I've ever met, but that's the way it is with people
who are as serious about their writing as Jim was.
Actually, Jim and Mike got to finish a film script they
were working on together, an adaptation of Mike's
novel, The Adapt. They also were kicking around an
idea for an original movie musical.

"They were not very good," he said, "but there was

something there that made me keep coming back."
He signed them up and put them in a studio with
producer Paul Rothchild. It was the summer of 1966
and they completed their album in ten days but Jac
didn't release it until the following January. By the
summer of 1967, the album was selling a quarter of
a million copies a month. It was a success that
came long past the point of anti-climax for Jim. I
remember Nico, the tall, blonde beauty, telling me
how Jim used to bite his hands until they bled in the
dressing room after a show. She and Jim ran
together for a while.

In addition to his book of poetry, The Lords, and his

collection of short prose fragments, The New
Creatures, Jim also printed a private edition of
poetry, American Prayer, for distribution among his
friends. He was working on a partially completed
manuscript when he died. "I didn't expect Jim to live
very long," Mike now says, "not at the intensity at
which he lived. He was on a very self-destructive
level. But I don't think of it now as Jimi Hendrix,

The first time I saw Jim perform was in Steve Paul's

Scene, the old cellar club on 46th Street. It was
back in 1966 and I was with Brian Jones. Jim went
through his gimmick of opening his mouth to the
microphone as if he was about to sing and then

400

Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison. I think of it as Jack

Kerouac, Charles Olson and Jim Morrison."

ROCK JOURNALISTS ARE not born. Probably

theyre not made either it doesnt work to tell
someone that theyre a rock writer, although people
do. The way to tell the real thing is whether a writer
can communicate real enthusiasm for whoever he
happens to be writing about. A pretty good
percentage of those acts will have been favourites
in prewriting days, and there remains with you a
contagious excitement each time a new record is
released, or a tour comes around. Thats especially
so with American artists, and with my own
favourites from pre-writing days the Doors.

Jim had already broken with the Doors when he

went to Paris to chase after Pamela, the one
woman he always went back to out of the countless
he knew. He hadn't been getting along with the rest
of the group for a couple of years and they had
been looking for a new lead singer for sometime. In
the old days, at the height of the Doors' success,
Jim had constantly kept telling the others that he
wanted to quit and they'd take it out on him
onstage, sometimes dropping notes and
intimidating his phrasing.

I was seriously affected when I heard that Jim

Morrison had died. I didnt really believe it, and in a
lot of ways I still dont believe it. Its tempting for me
to think that the unpredictable James, totally pissed
off with the pressures generated by the infamous
Miami trial, and the fact that, in terms of musical
theatre, he had widened the vistas of possibility
perhaps further than anyone ever could, had
decided to go to ground, feeling that music was a
medium that he had exhausted. I still wouldnt be
too surprised to read some poetry very reminiscent
of someone I know, apparently coming from an
English speaking visionary living somewhere in
Europe, whom no-one has ever seen. You can
maybe understand a little of my devotion to the
Doors, and my concern as I waited for the first postMorrison LP.

To most of his friends, he was always a tragic

figure. His audience refused to let him mature.
When he tried to read his poetry onstage, the crowd
would ask for 'Light My Fire'. They wouldn't let him
stop being the Lizard King. He wanted to be
considered a poet and a writer and someone
serious and the audiences kept screaming at him,
"Whip it out! Whip it out!" Finally in Miami, he was
accused of doing just that. The last time I saw him,
at the Isle of Wight festival almost a year ago, he
was still on trial for exposing himself. We got drunk
passing a bottle back and forth back-stage and he
talked about listening to the testimony at the
defendant's table. "At first I thought I was guilty," he
said, "but now I'm beginning to think I wasn't."

That little trauma passed off without too much

trouble, because Other Voices contained at least
one pure dynamite track, 'Tightrope Ride', where
the three Doors compensated for the lack of a lead
singer by playing their instruments like inspired
madmen. At the end of the track, Robbie Krieger
plays a demented guitar solo so perfect in its
formation and progression that the listener is initially
speechless at the precision he has just heard. All
that may sound a bit computerized and mechanical,
but youve got to remember that the Doors, together
with perhaps Steve Miller and the Beatles, have
always come out with the most perfectly produced
records imaginable, and even the break with Paul
A. Rothchild, one of the ultimate producers, wasnt
going to stop that.

We kept making a date for later to talk to each other

but each time we'd be interrupted by the general
conviviality. When he went onstage, he gave the
best performance I've ever seen him do. He only
screamed once. The last I saw him was when I was
leaving the festival. It was late and there was no
food around and we were all starving. I had a
package with two cakes in it and I smiled and gave
him one. He took it and smiled back and gorged
himself with it.
He is buried now in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery in
Paris, near the grave, I'm told, of Moliere.
Superstardom is a speed trip. The flash is
incredible, but that's the deal you make. He had quit
his heavy drinking the last couple months.
According to his friends, the death certificate says
he died of a heart attack brought on by respiratory
complications. He died peacefully. When Pamela
found him in the bathtub, there was a smile on his
face.

It was good news, too, that the Doors were coming

to Europe to tour earlier this year, but, just the
same, I was worried. Consider the previous (and
only) two appearances in England, both when
Morrison was part of the band. The Roundhouse in
1968 was the first time the Doors came to England,
and its pretty astonishing now to think of an
allnighter featuring the Doors and the Jefferson
Airplane, alternating top billing over a two night gig.
I was there (of course I was there), and the Doors
were unbelievably good. I was there on the

Al Aronowitz, 1971
The Doors Come Full Circle
John Tobler, Let It Rock, October 1972

401

Saturday, the second night, and you may recall that

Granada TV practically wiped out the Doors two
ways.

field PA, if thats what you call it. Anyway, I was

perched in front of Ray Manzareks cabinets, to the
extent that I heard him, very loud and fairly clear,
but Robbie, John and Jim were practically
inaudible. Less affluent friends further back told me
that the Doors were superb, but the only immediate
thought I had at the end of their set was that my
headache was reaching new splendours of pain.

First, they decided to do a "social significance" TV

documentary. I suppose if you listened to 'When the
Musics Over' cold, you might think that the Doors
were some early incarnation of the MC5, devoted to
some glorious and impossible revolution a rallying
call to youth to overthrow that wonderful myth, the
Establishment. You can almost hear those box
people "Ive got this great film of the police
beating women with night sticks, and they had
some fantastic riot shots of student demonstrations
on News At Ten the other night. If we get this group
look, read that line Cancel my subscription to
the resurrection. Sounds like a lot of bloody rubbish
to me. Hey, perhaps we can get the singer to attack
one of the cameramen..." Men..."

I forgot all my deep-seated complaints the next day

when I inveigled myself into the artists bit,
wandering between the tribal bonfires, looking for a
Door, and finding Jim Morrison. Somebody once
said that interviewing Bob Dylan was like sucking
off an elephant, and I know exactly what he meant.
To read my interview now is fairly embarrassing
but thats a different story for another day.
So its 1972, and the Doors were coming over
again. The thought of that diabolical interview with
Morrison spurred me to steam about, talking to
them several times, and for the only time in my life,
behaving like a male groupie, trying to talk to them
about all sorts of things. I taught them the rules of
snooker on a quarter size table in the Senior
Common Room at Reading University, and watched
them from the balcony as they played a brilliant set.
The thing that is so striking is that you feel very
ashamed of never having noticed the fluidity and
taste of Robbie Krieger and the ultimate precision of
John Densmore rising off his stool at the climax of
each number. Ray perhaps hadnt changed much,
because he always seemed pretty dominant in the
days of the four man Doors. They also had two
exceedingly good back up friends with them on the
tour, Bobby Ray and Jack Conrad.

Second, they littered the Roundhouse with

insensitive cameramen, most of whom seemed
more appropriate to either riots in Belfast or world
chess championships. Some of them moved about
like diminutive dinosaurs, trampling the front rows to
make room for themselves, others just stood right in
front of you, prohibiting your view. The net result
was that the Doors, conscious of the intrusion, were
a bit wooden to start with. Then they relaxed and
Morrison played with the fat cameramen at the
front, pushing past him so that he couldnt be
filmed, and taking the piss. That set was good, but
not great, and the worry was with me, but it soon
lifted when the Doors came back for the second set
at about four oclock in the morning, by which time
all the cameramen were home in bed.
Without the cameras, there was a noticeable drop
in aggravation, and the group played a superb set,
everything that I would want to remember about the
Doors. On the strength of those memories, I told
everyone I knew to watch when, several months
later, they decided to put the film out. The sound
was atrocious, if the word is sufficient to describe
the fuzzy mess that emerged from three inch
speakers all over Britain, and everyone told me they
thought the Doors were shitty, which was difficult to
disagree with on that showing. I reckon that one film
practically destroyed any following for the Doors in
this country at that time.

Bobby was a very open, pleasant person, sharing

with John Densmore the distinction of being the
most talkative of the tour party. Maybe John hasnt
been talked to enough because hes got a lot to say
about the Doors from a slightly different inside point
to the usual Ray/Robbie syndrome. Bobby, in fact,
has yet to appear on a Doors record, but he
generates a lot of on stage excitement playing
percussion duets with John on a small conga-type
kit, or playing rhythm guitar. Hes got a lot of
experience, as he used to be on the road with the
Mamas and Papas. Jack Conrad, on the other
hand, just came to England because it seemed like
a good idea at the time. It wasnt for the money
hes written hit songs with Helen Reddy, and plays
on her records too.

The next stage in the Doors saga was their

appearance at the Isle of Wight thing in 1970, and
in my exalted journalistic position, I scored a press
ticket for that amazing Saturday. Everybody on was
really good John Sebastian, the Who, Emerson
Lake and Palmer. But the Doors a
disappointment. They had beautiful American amps
and speakers, and I dont think they were using the

And so to my reactions to the new record Full

Circle. The cover concept is a 2001 theme with
naked males walking around the sleeve you
know, the baby to old man and back to baby trip. I
really dont see the relevance of it all, and I think Id

402

have preferred a good old William S. Harvey sleeve

remember Strange Days?

I suppose finally that the last sentence said it all.

Post-Morrison Doors songs seem less good lyrically
(and we havent yet had a lyric sheet why not?),
but better instrumentally. Inevitably, if you lose a
strong part of your sound, you must emphasise the
remaining good points to draw attention away from
the gaps created. Unfortunately, the Other Voices
are not yet strong enough, and until they are, this
somewhat different Doors will be around. It might be
wrong to say that I think Robbie should sing more
than Ray, but thats the way I feel, and after all, it
was Robbie who wrote 'Light My Fire' and now
sings it on stage.

Still, the music is the thing, and theres over forty

minutes here, some good, some great and some
strangely indifferent. Theres the traditional Doors
rocker to start with, 'Get Up And Dance', similar to
'Im Horny, Im Stoned' on Other Voices with a soul
chorus led by Clydie King. Fair enough, and '4
Billion Souls' is great, vintage stuff, with Robbie
singing a bit like Jim Morrison, reminiscent of the
track Strange Days, and therefore nice. Next is an
enigma to me, 'Verdilac', the first of two tracks
dominated by Charles Lloyd, the jazz flute player.
Personally, I dont like this intrusion into the Doors,
and the second of the Lloyd tracks, 'The Piano Bird'
is mostly tedious. But 'Verdilac' is good in parts,
with Krieger playing Hendrix-like lead and
Manzarek Booker T-Like organ. Densmores
drumming is brilliantly clichd, and perfectly in
contect. Theres some vocal in a key Ray finds it
difficult to descend to, and sometimes its deeply
echo chambered, but its always unclear. Theres a
final Doors climax to bring a smile, but only after
Lloyd has seemingly blunted the usually sharp edge
of the band.

With regard to Full Circle, Im undecided as yet as

to whether I should write if off as a mistake. I did
that with The Soft Parade, with the result that its
now about my second favourite Doors album of all.
In order to form an opinion properly, Id have to see
the band play the album live. How about it, and
soon, because Im sure Im not the only one whos
anxiously awaiting the next visit to Europe of the
Doors, in their day still an unbeatable band to watch
and listen to.
John Tobler, 1972

'Good Rockin' (as in 'Tonight'), is a fair studio

boogie, just for fun, demonstrating a taste of what
the Doors had always promised us, a rockn roll
album. Unfortunately, this is the only track of its type
on Full Circle, but even so, Robbie does a good
Scotty Moore imitation, and follows it up with a fine
late fifties solo of a different influence. Ray does a
"lets get real low" passage, and even a "lets go
one time for Jerry Lee". Its a pleasant reminder of
the last tour, where this number was one of the
favourites.

The End Is Always Near: Dread, Drunkenness

and The Doors, Pt. 1
Lester Bangs, unpublished, 1975
THE SIGNIFICANCE OF the Doors should not be
underestimated; it has been too often already.
When you consider that they represented, in the
positivist context through whose belly they thrust
their violence and dread, when you look around you
at half time in the 70s and listen closely to the
bands and singers that've captured the imagination
in the years since Morrison first scowled and took a
brief break from the Whisky's stage to hang his
young ancient's head out the back door and puke
up cheap booze in the alley (and all the time they
thought he was on acid 24 hours a day!)... it
becomes inescapable fact that, with Lou Reed and
the Velvet Underground on the other coast, Jim
Morrison was the father of 70s Rock 'n' Roll.

The problem is in searching for a majority of

dynamite tracks, and I dont think there are enough.
There are two which seem like throwaways:
'Hardwood Floor', which curiously reminded me of
the Equals, and 'It Slipped My Mind', an
unfortunately apt title. Perhaps the most interesting,
although not necessarily most commercial, tracks
are the first and last on side two, 'Mosquito' and
'The Peking King and the New York Queen'. They
both last over five minutes, allowing in the former
case for long instrumental explorations, most of
which are very good, but not totally typical of the
Doors, except that Robbie Krieger sounds here like
no-one but Robbie Krieger. 'The Peking King' is a
song (as far as I can gather) about cultural
differences between East and West, and reminds
me a little of 'The Soft Parade'. Vocally its not so
good, but instrumentally its probably much better.

Consider. Alice Cooper. Iggy. Even Bryan Ferry.

Glitter and attendant sleaze. Especially attendant
sleaze. What the Doors and the Velvet
Underground were saying in 19667 was "Look
where all of this bliss is leading us, can't you see?
That we're blind and damned by our own
recklessness? That we're going to end up at each
other's throats? Or, worse, alone with a finality
that's crushing." The Stones were dirty but The
Doors were dread; the difference is crucial, because

403

dread is the great fact of the 70s, and the Stones

didn't learn it until it was almost too late. For them
and us.

Facts: Jim Morrison was born on December 8,

1943, in Melbourne, Florida. He came from a long
line of military careers, and part of his self-hype with
the Doors was that both parents were dead. I think
Bob Dylan said the same thing once. Odd that a
generation so tormented by a state of psychic
fatherlessness should be so eager for a stab at
parricide, even if only in their fantasies. But then
again, the whole trip was fantasy, fantasy rendered
death and taxes obsolete along with everything else
inconvenient; that's why the fact of death was so
very blunt and doubly harsh. We put death in our
bodies every day and remained convinced we
would live forever, in Utopia yet. Death. Death.
Morrison saw death a little earlier than the rest of
his peers, a lot earlier than his audience. Perhaps
they saw their own death in him, and learned fear;
that may have been the ultimate, perhaps only,
significance of his life.

History. So hard to trace when the myths proliferate

like a nest of serpents in a swamp. For any true star
the legend has gotta be bigger than the reality in
fact, the smart money nowadays is on the idol who
preserves himself humbly in the shadow of his
looming larger-than-life, protecting, disguising,
decoy legend. Preserve thyself shall be the whole
of the law, from here on out. And Jim Morrison had
a lot to do with that, because Jim Morrison
sacrificed himself alive and screaming, flesh and
mind, to a graven image of himself that for all his
brilliance he was just dumb enough to believe in.
Shattered boy with the innards of an old man, victim
of himself, his own legend, lies so luminous he
swallowed them whole and drowned the poem in
poison, narcissist that he was.
All history is fiction, said William Burroughs, but
none more so than rock history. They're still passing
the Morrison stories around, doubtless
embroidering a tad more each recounting, until
nothing is left but the countless survivors who try to
sing like him, preserve long enough to sell
themselves with a little bit of the old magic. While
the records gather dust, locked in their time, and
the other Doors, bereft of any available
approximation of the true and necessary captain,
fade away in loser bands without identity, without
vision.

Naturally all this came out of L.A.. San Francisco

was even more convinced that we would all live
forever in one merged mass of ecstasy. New York
was a million miles away, a death town in fact and
legend, and even New York demanded the Velvet
Underground to raise the bannered spectre of death
and keep it like a flag of shrouds before their eyes,
not to forget, because to forget is to slip, and in the
universe the Doors and Velvets mapped out (it had
been there a billion years, uncharted and
disclaimed, like a New World owned lock stock and
buffalo by a Satan, just sitting on his haunches with
a rusty smile, waiting six thousand years for some
damn fool Columbus to come and get his licks.)

Vision. What made the Doors magic in the first

place. What separates the greats from the
journeymen The Band, the Doors, Velvets,
Hendrix, even the Stooges and MC5 all had a
vision. A vision of America, of the human condition.
Which is why all the Aerosmiths in the world will
never quite cut it, not in that league. Vision: Jim
Morrison started living the legend at UCLA, where
he was studying film looking to build chops to make
his own, a serious student taking technical classes.
Never a dilettante, as he proved most firmly in the
finale of his own lived movie too murky and
staggeringly erratic for celluloid. Lifestyle is art
statement, decided enough mid-60s brats to make
that delusion a full-blown movement. So Morrison
wandered out of the classroom and drifted dazedly
out to the beach, metaphors of transience
reverberating back and forth between reality and
the haze of myth, depending on which is more
convenient and/or lurid. He read a lot, which is
possibly the single most dangerous thing any
intelligent person with a modicum of recklessness
can do: those old croaks like Artaud and Burroughs
leave any aspirant a lot to live up to. Money only
buys time, but literature corrupts absolutely.

L.A. was the last outpost of the New World, a place

where New York hustlers went to cool out a while
the natives paid death its taxes and never thought
twice because it was all so easy on the installment
plan. Death in the smog and death in department
stores, layaway, death in subdivisions and TV eyes
glassy and furtive in the threatening presence of
"normal" human contact. The collective suburban
solitude of a million wasted kids living off the folks
till you turn forty and riddled by anomie since 14
when you don't even know the meaning of the word.
Just the feeling. Doors audience, later co-opted by
Black Sabbath, Alice, Bowie, even Lou Reed. Death
in the deserts and on the highways where Manson
picked up hitchhikers, affable brothers and sisters
on their way to the Bay or back down or East or
anywhere, easy pickings he had his minions
practice on till they were ready for big game,
beautiful people, history. In their minds it might just
as well as have never happened, when you let acid
have the helm and take the long view aeons in
either direction what possible difference could this
or any puny event on one day in the twilight of the
1960s make, we really don't understand what all the

404

fuss was about. And when Charlie's girls went

gunning for rock stars, it could never have been the
Doors, whose saturation radio blare 'Light My Fire'
may well have driven them on even one raw inch of
flesh further; they were after Hollywood, which
looked old and dead already even though it was
populated by young decadents itself, and if rock
flesh had fallen helter skelter it would have been the
Beach Boys, a token drummer at least, symbolic
also of a closed era we all wanted to snuff one way
or another then, make double damn sure you never
hear surf music again. We were all outward bound
and somebody had to go. If tribes is gonna be our
conceit then ritual sacrifices are imperative and
fitting, just part of the Festival of Life.

The Doors paid what dues mattered at one crumby

Strip club and then the Whisky, where Morrison took
off on his poetic-improvisational swirlflight and
sailed aloft and hungry until Jac Holzman walked in
one night and decided this exhibitionistic debauch
was just the ticket to give his slightly fading folkie
record company a stake in the electric politics
everybody saw building. It was an opportunist's
market, ripe for carpetbaggers and revivified
hustlers who'd had enough sun. Columbia wanted
the band too, but Holzman was charming and the
band was young and that's how Elektra suddenly
came to represent, for about two and a half years,
some indefinable magic even tied up in their logo, a
label with some mystic class whose groups you
bought on sight. The Doors made that company
their first album refused to stop selling till the whole
era was done and buried and three inches of rain
fallen on the cemetery plot washing away the
flowers and graffiti and eventually the memory of
the man and all that he and it were about...because
a rock 'n' roll record ain't like Artaud and Burroughs,
you may learn too late, its ephemeral detritus and
even its potential to corrupt is only seasonal, a fad,
locked in time gone by and receding steadily with
no brakes ever possible or hope beyond that in the
car where the kid screamed all the way down
forever after blasting off that cliff in Rebel Without A
Cause but he was no chicken and if only for that
frozen moment he certainly wasn't playing then.

Venice. Beach culture, bums, blonde tanned

goddesses with hair to their tight little bikini'd asses,
and everybody's high, the old beatniks and resident
characters are getting more pussy than they can
ever remember. The surfers are jacking off and
trying to get turned on. The kids are alright tonight,
and the night goes on forever. Summer 1965 and
momentum is just beginning to build, the Yardbirds
are on the radio for the first time, in California Van
Morrison's Them have a nearhit with 'Baby Please
Don't Go' and a solid smash with 'Gloria'. The
national anthem is '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction',
when ironically everybody out here in this sun is
getting more than they ever did before. Everything
opening up, acid rising like a wave that only an elite
has ridden in so far, but it's beginning to be all
around if you only look in the right faces. Morrison
later claimed that during this period he ate it
constantly, "like candy". Who cares if it's true or not.
One day he ran into Manzarek, passing
acquaintance from UCLA film school days,
classically trained musician who grew up to look
today like a schoolteacher. But down then back on
the beach they squatted in the middle of the sand
and Morrison sang him 'Moonlight Drive'.

'The End'. Their first recording session's claim to

history, it freaked out producer Paul Rothchild, who
waxed metaphysical with Morrison over the Oedipal
drama. It also freaked out the owner of the Whisky,
who threw Morrison out of his club. It wasn't exactly
Johnny Rivers. The first time I heard it I thought it
was a joke. Later, in Berkeley smoking dope with
proto-hippies at the height of the Haight, we were
hunkered down by the radio as every night when
suddenly the deejay yanked it off halfway through
the song. "That's enough of that," he said. Maybe
so. Last time I heard it, it was in my car with a friend
reminiscing and we sang it out loud, and we
laughed again. Thinking about the good old days,
when dread was new and spangled with magic.
Now it's just a sidewalk, a nameless depression
following you around like a scroungy dog you don't
want for a shadow, sadness and disappointment so
diffused we can never name our demons, only wait
out the familiar unromantic demeaned desolation
and hope for a new charge to come not from rock or
any renaissance but somewhere in our gut. To
rescue us from the widow's weeds and shabby
grubby terminal hippie uniforms we live inside like
walking dirtclods, from the flattened spirit which we
once needed Morrison and Morrisons to tell us
could exist at all.

"When he sang those lines 'Let's swim to the

moon/Let's climb through the tide/Penetrate the
evening that the city sleeps to hide'," Manzarek said
much later, "I said that's it...It seemed as though, if
we got a group together, we could make a million
dollars."
Note the emphasis. The Doors as concept was put
together by those two on that beach that day; then
Manzarek went out and got a guitarist and drummer
who could follow orders. All three were Maharishi
TM devotees. Imagine Morrison trundling up to
some TM center with a handkerchief, two flowers,
and a couple of pieces of fruit for the Maharishi. TM
blissters don't write songs like 'The End'.

405

And of course that is playing right into the dead

hands with which he still manipulates us by
manipulating our romantic ideas about him. He was
a drunk. Period. Talented, like many drunks.
Ambitious, like plenty young drunks: dreaming
movies that never materialized, writing sophomoric
poetry that his stardom would get into hard covers,
and what there was of it sparse, reaching more than
revelatory almost ever, page. But the music. By the
second album it became apparent to quick listeners
that the Doors were limited, that Morrison's vision, if
we ever took it seriously in the first place, was
usually morbid in the most obvious possible way,
and thus cheap, and that the whole nightmare could
translate into the parody it ultimately became so
easily that, well...but when he shot and hit it straight
and deep and full force.

stretch of whose methedrine-ragged imagination did

this kid know from or give a flying fuck in the rain
about skid row? But that was where Morrison
wanted to be, down there with the rest of the
derelicts: Artaud, Baudelaire, Bodenheim,
Burroughs, Kerouac, Jarry, Genet, Charlie Parker,
Lenny Bruce, Rimbaud, O'Neill, Faulkner, Bukowski
who will survive us all, Neal Cassady who didn't,
plus all the rest who never wrote a book or played a
song or ever had a thought that any rube picked up
on and declared profound because the sum total of
their lives was mindless destruction and destruction
only and THAT was life Style As Art and nothing
else. The real scene is to go down fast and don't
fuck around with self-deceit. The audience, if you're
lucky enough to have one, can eat deceit. And jive
as well, all the lubricious oblique or point-blank
ridicule and hostility you can puke out. And they did.
Eat it.

People are strange when you're a stranger

Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Strange days have dragged us down
Gazing on a city under television skies
And it's all over for the unknown soldier

"Kids, I've got a special surprise for you tonight...

[laughter] No, not that, not that..."
Dead cat in a top hat
Suckin' on a young man's brain
Dead cats
Dead rats
Thinks he's an aristocrat
That's crap
I said crap

Baby I'll be back in just a little while, I gotta go for a

ride with these guys in this car...
I woke up this morning and I got myself a beer
The future's uncertain and the end is always near
Never saw a woman
So alone

Some of his best poetry was crap. Like that. A joke

and he knew it, so he played it, but it was way too
late to play it any way for him to win. Just keep on
running. Most rock writers are failed rock musicians;
Morrison was a music maker who among other
insoluble problems (he willed them insoluble) was a
failed and thus supremely frustrated literary figure.
One of several attributes he shared, and still
shares, with Lou Reed. Would he laugh if he knew
that there would always be a sucker like Dotson
Rader, a certified literary figure, books under his
belt and still drunk every night and even more selfwounding, to come along and share the Morrison
obsession with illiterates and acid-lobotomies.
There certifiably came a point at which the Lizard
King and not art became Morrison's career. But
why, why persist in such absurdity, in the certain
knowledge that it was so absurd? What perversity.
Genet is straight a logical, diabolically sensible
artist who maintained a balance between
professional deviance and his art that sustained him
into middle age. Even Burroughs is still going
strong. Every surviving professional degenerate you
can name worked just as hard at it as the dead:
Bruce, Bird, Morrison, others...so what crucial factor
was it that drew some strange line of demarcation
that declared immutably that this one would

You knew he felt the chill and lived it and that was
perhaps the a saddest part, that he recognized his
own clown within too late to turn the tide, so like a
true asshole and ultimate relic of his time he picked
up the Lizard King cartoon and wore it like a bib to
keep the drunkdrool from rolling down to stain his
shirt and burn a hole through to his heart, absurd,
absurd, as the tales proliferated and Jim Morrison,
who symbolized the ultimate possibilities and
terrors seething at the farthest shores of sexual
adventure to an a entire generation, just got drunker
and fat and fatter and pretty soon the word was out
all down the line and high school kids were scornful
of the Doors. I saw it happen, smirking cynically
because my money had been on the Velvets the
whole time, but the Velvets were too sleazy and too
soon and too inept to snatch a whole generation by
the balls and twist 'em, and having been twisted
nobody is likely to forget or forgive soon so by the
time Waiting For the Sun was released the Doors'
stock had dropped to a level just this side of
bubblegum even as they still skirted skid row... what
did a suburban teenage highschool punk with a
customized car with stereo tape deck and fresh
unfucked girlfriend just waiting with ripe young tits
hardly even squeezed yet, by what unfathomable

406

succeed in cutting himself down and that one would

hang on and even achieve a kind of triumph,
recidivism or at least celebrity and lots of young
ass. Makes you want to punch an old fool like
Ginsberg in the mouth. Or maybe it's just that the
dead were stronger-willed, they had a fiercer drive
to die, and you can mark a sissy or coward by his
survival.

sparks exploding as they do piercing the liver like

slivers of glass shot from guns, tearing the gut to
shreds, whole human depository for that is what it
has become, shaking like a bag of garbage hurled
out a porthole into the maw of a hurricane, and
worst of all the brain, mind, self, fully, totally
conscious and mortified, terrified, humiliated in
some final manner, short-circuited by self-loathing
and quaking fear of all outside of self, but
conscious, awake and aware the whole time, no
matter how much you drink, and what you ultimately
know at that hideous moment is that no matter what
happens after this, even if you survive (and of
course you will survive, because it is necessary that
you suffer more), even if by some absurdly farfetched devise you manage to recuperate and
"redeem" yourself, "clean up," if you go straight and
devote the rest of your life to selfless Ghandi-like
humanism, or if you still think you can be saved by
love, the love of another for yourself or the love you
wish that you could feel for another or the love that
it is your most ludicrous conceit to think you can
feel for someone else, if you come out of it and
"make something" of the rest of your life to the
perfect satisfaction of everyone else around you,
ah, he pulled out after all even given any kind of
"salvation" conceivable, you know in your guts and
your ashen brain and your heart like an old
punctured deflated tire lying by the side of the road
for dogs to piss on, you know for certain that you
will never be whole again.

Was this what Morrison finally meant when he used

to tell interviewers that he was interested in
anything to do with chaos, disorder, actions without
apparent meaning or motivation? A kind of integrity
to self in telling the world, "Look, I just want to die
and that's it, there's no reason, please don't bother
digging for all the psychological crap, leave society
out of it too while you're being honest with both of
us, and understand if for only this one moment that
I just want to die as quickly as possible for nothing
at all. And if my life or anyone's is supposed to have
some kind of meaning, and that's another question
I'd like to ask is who said that it did in the first
place?, but if it is, then let it be that, and put it on
my tombstone: He died for no reason at all. A
simple, pure, elemental wish. Only nature taking its
course."
As the Doors' audience took them less seriously
with each new record (and Morrison more than
anyone else encouraged them to: "PETITION THE
LORD WITH PRAYER", screamed like that, is pure
conscious intentional burlesque; not to mention all
those sappy love songs aimed at 14 year old girls),
he became more reckless when he took the stage.
Or maybe just more drunk. There is a point in
incipient or even confirmed alcoholism at which the
drunk finds himself unable to deal with the torments
which he picked up the bottle to flee, no matter how
much he drinks they boil before his eyes and roll
down like tears of tar to scald his flesh and congeal,
leaving a curdled sadness and unbearable anguish,
he drinks more and more and more until he falls
into playpen death, scaled down and frothing with
fitful frightening dreams, and when he wakes he
drinks again and again on and on and months
maybe years go by but there is a point, there comes
a point at which the pressure reaches, finally,
proportions unbearable under any circumstances or
sedatives, no palliative ever invented for this
psychic epilepsy, and so he must explode, in some
manner, according to his imagination and the
various limitations of circumstance: money, friends,
set and setting, will there or won't there be a lover
or friend or somebody anybody there to catch him if
he falls into the deepest ditch yet, and does he want
them there if he does, because really there's no
recourse, no salve, no balm, no love, no connection
of any kind except the clash within the flesh as
splintered, nerves flail whiplashing each other,

So, in the midst of this tornado, careening through

days and nights commingled and splattered in
memory like blood from corpses tumbling out of a
multiply fatal accident, as your rage runs free and
rampant in its own wild glee, a drooling idiot orgy of
infantilism unpent and not funny, not now and not in
the retelling and not ever, just ugly, as ugly as
anything human can be; in the eye of the hubbub, a
certain steely calm demon fortressed deep in your
marrow and orchestrating this whole riot, he takes
stock of the calamity thus far and makes a cold,
firm, logical decision of exactly how best to deal
with the panic and its repercussions. He decides
and you act. And you will never get to him, because
you put him there like a cancer and once he gets
his hooks in you there's no reversal possible. So he
consults his notes and signals and decides upon
the precise nature of your real explosion, the payoff
for which the preceding carnage was merely a
necessary set-up, a ragged play staged in the
ganglia and all along the nerve network out to the
very tips of burning wire, unbearable conditions and
soul, body and mind in dire extremis, but only
preparation, because only now is it time and
permissible to ACT.

407

Maybe you kill someone (seldom yourself; too

soon). Maybe your get into or cause an automobile
accident. Maybe you pick a fight and get the shit
kicked out of you or bully and crush someone or
something physically weaker: I have seen sixtyyear-old men torment dogs for hours on end...but
then that may have been mere boredom. The main
thing is you want to destroy. Records. Furniture.
Windows. Cars. Possessions of every/any kind. And
then on to bigger game. Insects. Animals. Humans.
And finally yourself.

any more, farthest thing from it in fact; you're not

looking for fun, or even kicksyou're looking for
damage. The deeper the better. The best,
obviously, the kind that can never be fixed, healed,
rectified. The immutable act. An assertion of the self
at last, in no matter how twisted, diseased, squalid
a form. I did this. Guilty. What's next?
Believe me, it has absolutely nothing to do with the
noble philosophical diagrams of social
theoreticians. Even Stalin knew he was a sicko. A
strict destructionist, with the integrity of action, all of
which exists in a universe totally separate from that
inhabited by the scientists of nihilism and revolution,
the bland bespectacled intellects who write the
books and find deft rationalizations for what some
of us do in the name of nothing but our own
impotent rage and clawing terror. The Ralph J.
Gleasons who would tell you that Lenny was one
big walking Heart just dripping humanism and
compassion like sweat off a boiler-stoker. And
anyone who would tell you that Jim Morrison's own
public self-humiliations were anything but willful
pathology, a rebel without a cause and nothing
romantic about it either.

Or maybe you're too cowardly even to smash up

your living room. There are some people who are
perfectly capable of sitting in a chair they would just
as soon break, and it never occurs to them to break
it, because their only release is hurting another
human with words. Or actions, not necessarily
physical. Not necessarily at all. So vicious there's
no way they could ever know you may, finally, be
hurting yourself more. Because guilt is either a fact
in front or a potential you cultivate until it becomes
solid fact. And then, of course, the guiltier you feel,
and there is never enough, your capacity is as
boundless as the thirst when you wake up with a
hangover but know that the guiltier you feel, the
greater your rage, in perfect mathematical
proportions multiplying and feeding each upon itself
and then each other, paroxysms of agonized
random violence escalating until you either kill
yourself or are forcibly curbed by someone or
something outside: relatives, friends who wish they
weren't, the police, walls and sidewalks and asphalt
that rush up, or a blind stumble in front of an
oncoming car...but no, that's too easy. Eric Emerson
was that kind of coward...

Copyright 2003 Ben Catching III. All rights reserved.

Used with permission.

Lester Bangs, 1975

The End Is Always Near: Dread, Drunkenness
and The Doors, Pt. 2
Lester Bangs, unpublished, 1975

And the easiest way out of all, at least at first, is

exhibitionism. Making scenes in bars. Loud,
boisterous, creating unpleasantness in every corner
of whatever room you happen to have landed in
with obnoxious, obscene, aggressive behavior.
Instigating fights between others. Causing scenes
and then stepping back, enjoying the chaos. But
that's at first. Inevitably, of course, you're drawn into
the vortex of the trouble you started, and sooner or
later you end up as bloody and pointlessly wracked
as the rest, fighting for your life in a war you started
just to give yourself some diversion. It can begin all
kinds of ways: driving down the street in cars,
shouting obscenities out the window at passing
women. Infantile stuff, silly, adolescent, but
indicative. Symptomatic and ominous. Start like
that, write it off as rowdy, and as the binges roil by
you come a little more unhinged every day, until the
day you end up sticking your dick at her instead of
your mouth. Or flying into psychopathic rage and
attacking a total stranger for no reason in public.
That is when you know that you're not just "loose"

HE BEGAN, like all drunks who have arrived at this

stage of the movie, to get in trouble. Havoc on
planes, arrested in airports. Pulling a John Lennon
before the Beatle progressed to that nadir, pushing
his way onto the stage of the Troubadour and
raving drunkenly until arrested. Onstage, at a Doors
concert this time, in New Haven, telling the crowd
how he and a girl were Maced by police in the
dressing room.
Who cares at this point whether it was actually true
or not. If it wasn't he wanted it to be and if it was he
was glad. Stage suddenly covered with police,
another arrest, the alcoholic cycle this time turning
him through a whole martyr routine, posing like
Christ nailed up as they a carried him out. The
whole thing stupid. But not as stupid as Miami. The
famous Miami cock-flashing incident. January 1969.
Drunk beyond capacity for anything but selfabnegation on the ugliest level the drunk can think

408

of. A song broken down in the middle, the lead

singer too fucked up to even make a pretense of
professionalism, performance, anything. Silence as
the whole auditorium slips into suspended
animation, stoptime, maybe a few scattered boos,
everybody waiting for the Lizard King to do
something crazy. That's what we came here and
paid good money for. A little vicarious insanity, to
carry home and nurse, tuck under the pillow you
dream on. Now, 1975, half the audience is ready to
see if they can outdo him. An act like that would
have absolutely no meaning on the stage today.
The other night I saw the Tubes, costume changes,
blackouts and all, and a kid next to me outdid them
all the way. He's 13 years old and works emptying
bedpans in a mental institution; he and some others
destroyed my house once. It was a good party. But
we're watching the Tubes go through the motions of
being outrageous and he's screaming in my ear "I
wanna fuck a porpoise, it'd be so fuckin' slick" Then
he's screaming at the Tubes:

me I'm comin' down there and kick your ass!" The

guy told him to get fucked and made another rather
uncharitable comment pertaining to Iggy's gender
identification. So the Star leaped off the Stage,
pushed through the crowd till he found his heckler,
who beat the shit out of him. They had to take the Ig
back to his hotel room after that, call a doctor, the
show was over. I went into the dressing room and
the owner of the club was offering to punch out
anybody in the band who would take him on. A
great night.
By standards like that, Morrison screaming
drunkenly "YOU WANNA SEE MY COCK" and then
zipping down and waving his poor flaccid peter in
the air for a couple of still moments before the Pigs
moved in to cart him off to the drunk tank yet
again...well, even if he did stand trial on charges of
exhibitionism, public obscenity, etc., it really wasn't
much after all, was it? Not even the Lantz Rentzel
of rock all the girls in that audience were old
enough to want it. A definitive non-event. Outrage
on the approximate level of R. Meltzer pissing in the
fountain at the party held for the Rolling Stones at
the end of their '72 tour. And all that did was get
Meltzer cut off Atlantic's mailing list, and give the
gossips in NYC something to talk about for a couple
of days. Yet, curiously enough, this pathetic, petty
act was the beginning of the end for Morrison and
the Doors. Jeez, times sure change fast.

"FUCK A HORSE! FUCK A HORSE! FUCK A

HORSE!" The lead guitarist couldn't handle it. In
true Vegas tradition, he exasperatedly said: "Will
somebody please deal with this person." One guy
tried to, but we dissuaded him easily because so
much of the rest of the crowd was in such an
incredible uproar it really didn't matter. And they
weren't in that state because the Tubes were such
consummate riot-fusers. They were waiting, they
used the Tubes as an excuse to explode. Same at
any concert. The only group I ever saw who could
actually outdo their audience at being subhuman
was the Stooges. The night Iggy pulled a girl bodily
up out of the audience, threw her down on the
stage, yanked her panties to her knees and started
eating her pussy right there stage center. The time
Iggy wound up in the middle of a heaving sea of
bodies, suddenly announced, "Hey, somebody's
sucking my cock!" And then: "You might as well
forget it, you can't make me come." Later in the
dressing room the person who honored him thus
showed up and Iggy was mortified to discover that it
was not a female, as he had for some
unaccountable reason supposed, but a drag queen.
He slugged the poor guy.

But maybe we're missing the point. Maybe the

public reaction, or any reaction outside Morrison's
own self, was irrelevant. Yes. Maybe the reason
why there could never be a way up from that point
for him (and, by association, his band) was that the
real turbulence was all inside that body and mind, in
those hands that pulled it out, probably trembling.
Did he cry as they carted him off to jail? What else
was there left to do? No booze in the pokey. Really,
the whole thing's a joke. But we knew that when we
stepped in the door. It's just that the punchline's so
grotesquely unfunny. As Dotson Rader has
speculated, something must have broke in Morrison
that day, and it must have had something to do with
what people think of, or have thought of, as
manhood. (What they think now is increasingly
difficult to decipher.) Rader contends Morrison
unmanned himself that day, an act of symbolic
castration and advertisement of terminal impotence
to the world.

Or the night the Stooges played to a crowd of bikers

in a particularly rough bar in Michigan and the vibes
were at an all-time hostility threshold and Iggy
finally stopped a song in the middle and said "All
right, you wanna hear Louie Louie, we'll play Louie
Louie." So they did a 45 minute version of 'Louie
Louie' with new lyrics improvised on the spot: "You
can suck my ass/ You biker faggot sissies/ I wish I
was back in East L.A...." Some guy in the house
kept heckling him and finally Iggy said, "Listen,
motherfucker, if you say one more fucking word to

Like saying, After this, you'll know better than to

expect anything from me. I admit it's an extreme
way of dealing with the fear that when the Lizard
King got any one of limitless available conquests
into the sack, he might not be able to perform. But
extremism was the whole ethic of the
Morrison/Doors trip, if it ever had any ethic at all. It's

409

a common secret that most of our heroes, legends

and shamans are psychic cripples, anyway, and the
crippled part usually is, or has something to do with,
the sexual function. Lou and Iggy have both publicly
bragged, years after Morrison's exhibitionist
episode, that they couldn't get it up. Both sounded
proud of it, too; with Lou it's a simple case of
distaste for sex, or at least enormous preference for
drugs, of sorts and in quantity sufficient to render
anybody neutered; Iggy told me on more than one
occasion that he didn't like to get laid, would rather
jack off, or not even that, and in fact that the reason
Raw Power was such a good album was because
he didn't get laid for two years. Something to do
with displacement of energy or some such line, you
know the old Buck Turgidson jazz.

mystique. At another point he decided to see just

how far he could go in terms of making a spectacle
of himself before he was either laughed out of the
business or locked up. And, finally, there had to be
a point where he decided to die. I am certain of it.
Because one of Jim Morrison's great torments was
that, no matter what he'd done or accomplished
musically, or what anybody said, he had failed at his
perennial and utmost aspiration: to he taken
seriously as an artist, creating a body of work of
enduring significance.
If that sounds corny, it's only because the truth often
is and so are most peoples' largest dreams and
frustrations. And besides it's not corny at all we've
all become such Philistines and professional cynics
that we automatically sneer when somebody begins
talking about how they would like to know some
genuine aesthetic achievement. Because, just like
we decided in the 60s that the whole world was
wide open for the taking and we wanted it NOW,
we, if there is any sort of "we" at all, have made an
equally collective and unanimous decision in the
70s that nothing really matters, that anything
pretending to be good art by any traditional
definition is automatically shit (because, we reason
if we're inclined to intellectualize it at all, all
traditional artist modes have been milked dry), so
therefore the only thing left is kicks, sleaze,
degradation and whatever further shocks we can
squeeze out of ourselves, until every perversion
and brutality has been exhausted and rerun to
terminal boredom and there is truly nothing left to
do, nothing at all to dream of or wish for or aspire
to, nothing period.

But Morrison, in the old-line macho-stud tradition of

which Dotson Rader is the eloquent death rattle,
had, or felt he had, an image to maintain. Lizard
King. It's truly a shame that he didn't live to see the
rise of glitter and the spectacle of coast-to-coast
fops in love with their own images in the mirror,
boys with not a hair out of place who fuck neither
male nor female nor beast. I know some, you know
some, everybody knows at least one. Sign of the
times. Poor Jim, a victim of his own most devoutly
desired chaos. And on top of everything else died
too soon to see it, all of it, turn as absurd as he'd
been in his most pathetic burlesques.
Artistically, the Doors' stock hit an all-time low with
The Soft Parade, released not long after the
weenie-waving incident, which may help explain the
album's utter limpness. Relying more and more on
brass, strings, and anything else they could bring in,
they had not only failed to live up to their original
promise they had farted in the faces of everybody
who ever believed in them. It was a stupid album,
stupid as any of the solo Lou Reed and maybe
worse, sappy love ballads alternating with muddled
imagery and pathetic attempts at macho raunch by
the L.K. When Morrison Hotel came out a year later,
Greil Marcus, then my editor at Rolling Stone, told
me he was afraid to listen to it. I ended up reviewing
it, liking it, giving it more than it deserved really,
because somewhere down the line I had decided
that I liked Morrison's clowning, that it was far
easier to identify with a drunken fool than some
Lizard King. Just like Lou. January 1971 Elektra
released 13, a sort of Greatest Hits compilation that
I rave-reviewed, since it contained most of the
classics from 'Back Door Man' to 'Land Ho' and very
little of the dross that even an drunken idiocy buff
couldn't sit through. Yet somehow the Doors had
become a dead issue. Somehow? Jesus Christ,
how can anyone have followed all this and not see
that he went about it systematically? At a certain
point he realized the absurdity of his entire

Which, obviously, looks like a pretty safe place to

be. If you don't care about anything, don't expect
anything, don't want anything, it seems like it should
be pretty hard for you to experience disappointment
or hurt. Of course, it doesn't work out that way, but it
looks good on paper. Just like the 60s.
Entertainment now is being beat over the head with
baseball bats every fifteen minutes, with the time
between narrowing steadily as we all get number.
When I saw Jaws, I walked out at the end and said,
Well, if it's come to this, then fuck it, I want
Auschwitz, call it Jews and have nothing but solid
atrocities for two or three hours, with none of this
bullshit plot and characterization padding in
between. A month or two later I got my chance to
fulfill that wish, when they released a movie called
Ilse, She Wolf of the S.S., which featured, among
other things, a guy getting his dick sliced off by a
razor blade, closeups of maggots digging into daysold dead flesh, as well as protracted scenes
involving every type of sadism and brutality the
creators could come up with. Fortunately or
unfortunately, I had just found out that snuff films

410

existed when Ilse hit Detroit, and was so grossed

out and disturbed that I passed on a film that I
would have jumped at the chance to see two weeks
previous. What all this has to do with Morrison is
that it's probably just as well that things turned out
as they did, maybe he died on time, because
otherwise he would have had to grow old watching
all this happen and sinking daily in the mire of the
certitude of his own obsolescence. Plus which he
knew he could never have made it as the kind of
"serious" poet-as-artist he wished to be.

the backseat of the car and dozing off peaceful as a

senile paralytic in a geriatric home. Only this time
you don't wake up. But two questions: under such
circumstances, wouldn't it, after a while, become
almost impossible to isolate the factors that make
one explosion sell a million albums and another
land you in jail or on your ass in the alley, so how
could any sane person distinguish one event from
the other? and, similarly, if you really didn't wake up
this time, would you, given your state of
consciousness for the past five years, know the
difference?

What kind of fool would go to Paris in hopes of

finding literary stimulation and a revitalization of
creative energies on some new and different level?
The French are the deadest, glummest bunch on
the face of the earth. Who did he think he was
going to run into there, Hemingway? Fitzgerald?
Apollinaire, maybe? Celine died in 1961, of natural
causes and lifelong vitriol. Artaud long dead, Genet
still alive but who cares? All he's good for is feebly
wandering around Grant Park ogling cops' baskets
and writing ad copy for the Youth Revolution
Morrison had already seen draining itself for
Esquire. Or chumming up with the Black Panthers,
No, no, all the truly cool people that were legends to
Morrison were dead, or just old jerks like Genet,
Burroughs, not worth the time or trouble and what
would they have to say to him anyway? "You have
inspired the young people greatly, they will build a
new world a because you sang of fucking your
mother"? No. There was nothing left to do but die
himself.

All I know is that death is a bit of a prankster with

victim and onlooker alike. When I heard about
Hendrix, I emitted a cynical laugh; it meant nothing
to me, because I really didn't feel any obsession for
either him or his music and it was new fun being
cynical and jaded in August 1970.
When Janis Joplin died a month or so later, I was
truly upset, saddened, troubled. I thought about it all
day, went home that night with a six-pack of East
Side beer (cheap lousy L.A. brand) and had a bad,
depressed drunk, gloomily reading the latest issue
of Rolling Stone. I also remember that tied in with
my depression over Janis' death was the fact that
Fun House had been panned mercilessly, even
ridiculed, treated like some failed novelty album, in
that new Stone. And here's the rub: I never gave a
shit about Janis Joplin or her music. Somehow
there was the heavy sense that she was one of
life's born victims, a tragic/pathetic figure, plus her
death following so quickly on the heels of Hendrix's
raised questions, perhaps the first serious
questions, questions that the Doors for all their lurid
phantasmagorias had never been able to raise,
about the true nature of the rock youth culture. But
when Morrison died, a guy whose work I not only
liked a lot but identified with as a personality and an
alkie, the death that should seemingly have hit me
most personally, I felt nothing at all. I wasn't
surprised. I wasn't shocked. I just said, "Oh. Wow,
that's really too bad." And not because I was jaded
either.

I remember hearing about it. I was in San

Francisco, hanging out, getting drunk, getting
started on my own career and so-called legend. I'd
listened to L.A. Woman with a certain eagerness,
found a failed attempt at a rock-blues album and
getting back to the roots and all that further
impotence, all except for the title cut, which remains
one of the all-time Doors classics, Morrison's
ultimate evocation of L.A., which maybe really did
finish his work, in which case he certainly knew it,
so the next move and the actual end (and how
strange and unreal it sounds to say that now, "the
actual end" as if the endless commemoration of
death in plastic cartoons made the fact, the real
thing, a feelingless anticlimax) were no more
accidental than all the rest of it. You explode a little
bit and get kicked out of the Whisky. Explode a little
more and sell a million albums. Push it just slightly
past that and wind up in jail. One more small step
and you've got your cock out in front of the eyes of
the world. Explode as a matter of course, nightly,
daily, out of habit, carelessly, pointlessly,
unconsciously, like breathing. And finally explode all
the way, the course completed, all loose plot ends
sewed up, like walking out of a movie, climbing into

Now, four years later, I'm stuck sitting around

waiting for Lou and Iggy to kick off. I know it's
bound to happen before either one reaches 40. And
I'm truly, truly curious to see just exactly how I will
feel on those two occasions.
Copyright 2003 Ben Catching III. All rights reserved.
Used with permission.
Lester Bangs, 1975

411

The Doors (part 1): The Hunting of the Lizard

King

Both bands had obviously approached the London

concert determined to emerge as The Stars. Both
were already hippie legends and both were anxious
to consolidate their reputations.

Mick Farren, NME, 27 September 1975

The Airplane had brought the entire Joshua light

show from the Fillmore West. The Doors simply had
Jim.

Visionary? Poet? Revolutionary? Or was he

simply a narcissist with a drink problem? Either
way he created a considerable legend. In the
first of a two-part examination of the myth and
music of Jim Morrison and the Doors, MICK
FARREN travels to Los Angeles on the trail of
the late Lizard King.

*
JIM, IN fact, was already slightly past his peak. He
had a noticeable paunch, and his excessive
drinking was causing genuine headaches for
manager Bill Siddons. It's possible that the real
reason the Doors were able to jive down the
Airplane was that their concepts of stardom were
far more direct and clear-cut. They did, however,
have one other advantage.

I ONLY SAW JIM Morrison twice. Each time, even

off stage, he gave the appearance of a man
performing in his own private movie. Maybe in
some secluded place he was able to drop the selfinflicted role; maybe the Morrison movie occupied
all his waking hours.
Certainly all the evidence shows that while there
was even one person around to watch, Morrison
performed.

Granada TV was making a film of the Doors and

Granada TV's money was instrumental in the
staging of the show. This was the Door's ultimate
answer. If anyone didn't give them what they
wanted, they could cause a great deal of trouble.

The first time I saw him was at the Roundhouse.

It was a Middle Earth all-night spectacular that
starred the Doors and the Jefferson Airplane the
most ambitious project yet tackled by the flower
punks and psychedelic wheeler-dealers who rode
herd on what was laughingly called London's
underground rock business. Invested with all the
phony urgency of an event that aspired to be The
Year's Biggest Bash, being there was mandatory.

It was typical of Morrison's public persona that, as

the Doors performance got under way, he slowly
began to turn on the camera crew.
At first he posed for the three big cumbersome
outside broadcast cameras, then his narcissism
started to plunge over the edge. He dodged them
by nimbly jumping out of range each time they tried
to focus on him. Finally, with a grand gesture of
childish petulance, he flung out a dramatic arm and
demanded that the TV lights should be shut off. He
pulled the audience in behind as he warmed to the
role of the star punk giving the finger to the old
folks medium. A storm of catcalls and booing broke
out. The lights were finally extinguished, and the
rest of the film had to be shot in murky halldarkness.

The love punks, the radical chic, the freak elite and
the dealers jockeyed for positions. Everyone
wanted a space to see and be seen. And it was
imperative that that space should be suited to, if not
slightly above, each individual's station in the tribal
pecking order.
In was clear right from the first that there was no
love lost between the Doors and the Airplane. In the
first wave of back-stage gossip came the news that
a high-level tactical battle had been raging all
afternoon over who should go on first.

*
DURING the second performance Morrison went a
stage further. He actually turned on the audience,
interrupting the music with a stream of random
obscenities until it seemed that he produced what
he considered a positive reaction from the crowd.
Once that was achieved, he got back to business
as usual.

The Doors had won by a strategic use of stage

setting. Their roadies had arranged the Doors' 30odd Acoustic speakers, meticulously matched
black, rexine-covered monoliths crowned by a
baby-blue high frequency horn, like the pillars at a
Nuremberg rally. The Airplane had little choice, with
their somewhat ragbag assortment of hippie-built
cabinets, to work around the Doors' fait accompli.

It was then that the idea first occurred to me that

there was something inside Morrison that forced

412

him to push any relationship to the ultimate. With

both individuals and audience he appeared to need
to see how much they could take. To define, by
practical experiment, how much abuse anyone
would put up with before they ceased to adore him.

COMMONLY KNOWN AS JIM.

It was this willingness to go to the limit that set

Morrison apart from the common herd of posing,
macho rock frontmen. It also created what was
possibly his greatest problem. As he discovered the
depths of public masochism, just how much abuse
people were willing to accept without revolting, he
became disgusted.

In a magazine story there is hardly enough space

for the interviews with old school chums. That has
to be left to He Who Writes The Book. The Morrison
early life has to be presented as one of those
continuous dissolve montages, like the News On
The March sequence from Citizen Kane. No sooner
has one scene appeared before it dissolves into the
next.

IN THE Jim Morrison Story, whom would they get to

play Jim as a boy? Whom for that matter would they
get to play Jim as a man?

It's a boy, Mrs. Morrison, it's a boy.

THE SECOND time I saw Jim Morrison it became

clear that his major victim was, in fact, himself.

The baby cradled by proud parents, mother

adoring, father dignified by gold braid. The child
grows into a sensitive, large eyed, Freddy
Bartholomew kind of brat with dark curly hair. We
see him playing baseball, running through the
fields. The picture darkens. He gazes pensively at
the rain on the window. Fights with father,
confrontation, running again, this time through the
rain. This isn't joy, now, it's flight.

It was backstage at the 1970 Isle of Wight festival.

He looked a mess. A full beard and a Cossack style
smock couldn't disguise the fact that he was grossly
overweight. He had been herded into a corner by
John Sebastian and was clutching a brandy,
grunting responses, and looking for a way to
escape the tie-dyed collection of platitudes as
Sebastian gushed on about how "far out it all was."

(VOICE OVER)

Morrison looked desperate. Not just to get away

from the current situation. He seemed to have the
desperation of someone who knows his control is
slipping away. The feeling was reinforced when he
came out on stage. He was a shambling parody of
himself. It was as though he knew his performance
wasn't worthy of the huge crowd's ritual adulation,
that if they applauded so easily their devotion could
only be worthy of contempt.

James Douglas Morrison was born on December 8,

1943, in Melbourne, Florida. He was the son of
Rear Admiral Douglas Morrison in a family that had
a long history of career militarists.
In a later life he often made the claim that his
parents were both dead. He graduated from the
George Washington High School in Alexandra,
Virginia, in 1961. He spent a year in the
St.Petersburg Junior College in Florida and then
switched to Florida State University for a little over
a year. In spring 1964 he blah blah blah blah blah
blah...

Over the years the memory becomes shaky. I can't

quite remember if Jimi Hendrix followed the Doors
or the Doors followed Hendrix. I was certainly
drunk. Two things are clear, however, they both
played during the same part of the evening, when
the campfires of that particularly strife-torn festival
blazed all across the hillside. They both played
badly, by their own standards and they both
seemed sickened when the crowd received a
mediocre set as though it was a triumph.

WAIT! There's been a slaughter here. Whoever told

you that he was the Freddy Bartholomew protofaggot? He might have been a strapping Little
League pitcher, or even a fat, Pepsi guzzling kid
who wet the bed and never got down to date weight
until after puberty. The fantasy is always tidier than
the reality. Morrison, after all, chose the simplest
tale of all. He was just a po' orphan. It's a lie, but
what do we lose?

In a matter of months, both men were dead.

As far as the Morrison movie is concerned the only

flashback is to a hazy gothic orphanage. Hardly
Boy's Town though. No Father Flotsky (played by
Karl Malden) patiently trying to bring out the
potential in the withdrawn, hostile punk.

JAMES JAMES
MORRISON MORRISON

413

"My son, we're just trying to help you."

than a city. A large proportion of its population came

here hoping for the ultimate western dream, to find
fame and fortune on the silver screen.

Jim (from under hooded lids):

By necessity the majority of these never achieved

their elusive goal. A lot also never managed to
adapt to the humdrum life of a shop assistant or
stenographer. All over Hollywood you see people
acting out their lives. Failed stars take their second
best occupations, and play them like starring roles.
You only have to stop for gasoline to discover this.
Your gas isn't pumped by an ordinary human. The
hose is jammed into the tank of your car by a loser
actor playing a gas station attendant. The young
ones may play it like Paul Newman or the older
ones like John Gar field, but they are all performing,
and you are the audience.

"Why can't you all leave me alone? You're tearing

me apart."
Fantasy can be funny but speculation sometimes
scores.
After all, somewhere as an adolescent Morrison
must have turned his back on every one of the US
upper middle class soft rat traps. The military
tradition, the black maid, the Diners Club and
Master Charge, TV dinner by the pool.
He must have revolted against he whole fifties cold
war, Pentagon better-dead-than-red mentality
where a hyperdrive competitiveness went hand in
hand with being a good neighbour. Where noble
euphemisms were used for the kind of nuclear
mass murder that could make Attila the Hun,
Caligula and Adolf all look like pussycats.

Eighty-year-old women cruise Hollywood Boulevard

dressed and made up like 23 year olds. Elderly,
gnome-like men sip coffee outside the Vine Street
Ranch Market. They still wear two-tone tap shoes
and threadbare Fred Astaire suits. They have been
waiting since 1937 for the starring role in the next
great musical spectacular. Midgets go about their
lawful business. They carry small attach cases.

At some point Morrison did flee from the security,

the naval college, the commission and the cradle to
grave security. That, at least, we know for sure.

The whores in the massage parlour windows are all

playing Jane Fonda or Faye Dunaway or Marilyn or
Joanne Woodward playing a hooker. It's infinite
permutations of the business in the role of the
business. It's repeated over and over.

*
BLOODY RED SUN OF FANTASTIC L.A.

Even the streets seem designed to form a

background for very imaginable fantasy. The main
post office on Wilcox Avenue looks like a set from
Cleopatra. On the opposite extreme the police
station, just half a block away, is the perfect
example of a US precinct house. The reason it's so
perfect is that it's been used as a location in a
thousand cop shows.

MORRISONS flight took him to the streets of Los

Angels. He was enrolled in the theatre arts
department of U.C.L.A. Some ten or twelve years
before, a student called James Byron Dean had
attended the selfsame establishment. Where Dean
studied acting, Morrison majored in film technique.
After the initial novelty of the film school wore off
Morrision seems to have started to drift. Although
his interest in film stayed with him, his interest in the
formal study of it waned. Most accounts place him
living on the beach, and playing games with his
inner mind.

From the candy pink frontage of Frederick's (the

largest mail order house for exotic lingerie) to the
Fu Manchu design of Grauman's Chinese Theatre,
the architecture all contributes to the air of unreality.
The jumble of Spanish, neon, oriental and Flash
Gordon modern combines with the neon affluence,
the impossible network of jammed freeways and the
semi-tropical vegetation to produce an environment
in which it is possible to lose touch with normality
and still survive.

At his own admission: "In those days I was eating

acid like candy. If you do it right you can stay in a
permanently heightened state. This is possible in
L.A. The society produces so much garbage that it
provides enough for a whole lot of people to live
on."

It's hardly a coincidence that this is the environment

that produced Charles Manson and convinced Bela
Lugosi that he was really a vampire.

Not only did L.A. provide a material surplus for the

likes of Jim to live on, it also provided him with a
backdrop to act out his fantasies. Los Angeles, or,
more particularly, Hollywood is more of a movie set

414

It was in Hollywood that Morrison began to gravitate

towards the freaks and monsters. He developed a
fascination for winos, bums, the street hustles, the
tired hookers and unclassifiable weirdos that inhabit
the shadows of the hot, polluted nights.

"He sang Moonlight Drive. When he sang those

lines "Let's swim to the moon/Let's climb through
the tide/Penetrate the evening that the city sleeps
to hide" I said that's it. We talked for a while. It
seemed as though, if we got a group together we
could make a million dollars."

Some of the people who knew him in his U.C.L.A

days suggested that Morrison was acting out some
strange kind of James Dean role. Certainly Dean
had the same morbid interest in society's cripples
and mutants, but, whether or not it was self induced
in Morrison, it stayed with him for the rest of his life
and was a constant motif in all of his work.

In pursuit of that million dollars, Manzarek recruited

a drummer called John Densmore and a guitar
player called Robbie Krieger. Of all the unlikely
places to discover the other half of the Doors, he
found them at the Maharishi's Third Street
meditation centre. Manzarek was an early devotee
of the giggling guru, as were Densmore and
Krieger.

*
After rehearsing in an L.A. garage for a while, the
Doors made their debut at the London Fog Club on
Sunset Boulevard. They stayed at the London Fog
for three months, doing four hours a night, seven
days a week. The wage for this was a whole 45
dollars a week.

WHEN THE MUSIC IS YOUR ONLY FRIEND

DURING the summer of 1965 Ray Manzarek ran
into Jim Morrison on the beach at Venice, one of
the hundred suburbs that make up greater Los
Angeles.

From the London Fog they moved on to the

Whiskey A Go-Go which was at that time the
prestige rock showcase on Sunset Strip. It had
been one of the jumping off spots for the Byrds a
few years earlier. The Doors expected to go the
same way. They even had a record deal with
Columbia. It looked as though the million dollars
was just around the corner.

Manzarek had been friendly with Morrison at

U.C.L.A., but for a while they had drifted apart. It
was a "what's happening, what are you doing?"
conversation until Morrison told him that he had
started writing songs.
Manzarek had been forced by his parents to play
the piano from an early age. "I hated it for the first
four years, until I learned how to do it. Then it
became fun." His introduction to black music came
at the age of twelve. "I used to listen to R&B radio
stations out of Chicago. My piano playing changed.
I learned to play stride piano with my left hand. I
knew that that was it. I was hooked."

Things didn't quite work out as planned. For a start

no one at Columbia seemed willing to activate the
Doors' contract. They'd cut a number of tracks, but
the tapes only gathered dust. On the plus side Jac
Holzman, president of Elektra Records, saw their
act at the Whiskey and freaked. He spent three
months trying to persuade the Doors to spearhead
what was then a small folk label's push into rock
and roll.

Today Ray Manzarek is a very tall, mild-mannered

individual with a short-sighted, friendly expression
and the air of a college professor or elder
statesman. Like the other ex-doors, he is reluctant
to talk about Morrison.When the conversation
moves to events in the past he is only referred to
obliquely. You get the impression that there was
something deep and traumatic in the relationship
between band and singer.

Initially Elektra didn't seem as attractive as the

Columbia deal, but it did, at lest, guarantee that
their records would get released. The Doors finally
relented and signed.
They completed their first album under the
guidance of producer Paul Rothchild. Rothchild
described the recording of The End to Crawdaddy
magazine in 1967.

Manzarek's work with his new band does make one

thing very clear. Of all of the Doors, he was
certainly the most involved with Morrison in the
creation of their overall sound and philosophy. The
mysticism and the eerie gothic structures are still
with him today.

"I have never been as moved in a recording studio

as I was when that take went down. It was one of
the very first times in rock and roll history that sheer
drama had taken place on tape... at one point
during the recording session he was very
emotionally moved, and he shouted in the studio

On the beach in 1965, Morrison went on to describe

to Manzarek the lyrics that he was working on.

415

'Does anybody understand me:' and I said 'Yes, I

do', and right then and there we got in to a long
discussion about what does it mean, this section...
What he says at the end of the 'Father, I want to kill
you, Oedipal section is essentially what the classic
says, he is saying 'kill the alien concepts and get
back to reality... get to your own in-touch-withyourself situation'."

Danny Sugarman moved on to be manager. He

may be thought of in L.A. as an uppity punk, but he
is by no means stupid. He nonetheless, seems to
fall for the basic trick that Morrison used to
introduce mystery into all his personal relationships.
It is impossible really to get close to the essential
Jim Morrison. The man himself is, after all, dead.
His wife, Pamela, committed suicide in April 1974,
and the musicians who worked with him seem
blankly unwilling to talk about his personality. The
people who are most willing to talk are those who
knew him in a more peripheral manner: the casual
girls, the drinking companions, the parasites.

This was about the first time that the Doors were
surrounded by a cloud of pseudo-psychological jive.
From then on, the cloud would grow denser until it
obscured any kind of in-touch-with-yourself reality
as far as at least Jim Morrison was concerned.
Paul Rothchild may have been emotionally moved
by the Doors performance of The End. The
management of the whiskey A Go-Go- took a very
different attitude when they did the song live. They
decided Morrison was mad, and threw him out of
the club.

These, outside his actual audiences, are the ones

who bore the full brunt of his experimentation.
Every one of them was presented with a different
facet of the man, seemingly specially tailored to
create the maximum effect.
Morrison created dramas wherever he went. He
appeared to sow the seeds, and the imagination of
his subject /victim/audience did the rest. Each one
was shown a single act of the Lizard King persona,
and then left to invent the rest. To one person, he
would display himself as the ultimate, brawling,
drunken, black leather biker. Another would swear
that he was a doomed poet straight out of Edgar
Allan Poe, hag-ridden by his own genius.

*
"... factoids, that is, facts that have no existence
before appearing in a magazine or newspaper
NORMAN MAILER
WHILE THE Doors were going through their early
struggles, Jim Morrison was getting another act
together. Bit by bit he was putting together the
mystique that was eventually to transform the L.A.
rock and roll bum into the Freudian nightmare figure
of the Lizard king.

One particular lady I talked to had based a scenario

of Morrison on a single conversation. He had seen
a cat mewing to get into a boarded-up building, and
he'd invented a maudlin story around the
observation. Although he was probably drunk at the
time (Morrison's alcoholism is one of the few
consistent factors in most of the stories about him)
she fondly believed that she had been given the
sole, exclusive view of Morrison's inner gentleness
and sensitivity.

Danny Sugarman was a 13-years-old runway when

the Doors first rose to fame. He idolised Morrison
and began hanging round the Doors' office. He was
virtually adopted by Morrison as a kind of mascot
and sounding board. "We found we had a great
deal in common. We were both the kids of high
ranking naval officers, we both revolted against the
authority of our fathers. The more I talked Jim I
discovered we shared very similar attitudes.

A number of other L.A. women claim that Jim was

impotent. They weave deep, and often dopey,
satanic or psychiatric reasons for his incapability.
Others don't even mention it. The truth of the matter
is probably painfully simple. The contacts he made
with the impotency school happened when he was
too drunk to get it up. Unfortunately such a
mundane answer didn't fit in with the image of the
Lizard King, and lurid tales of the sex symbol's dark
secret just begged to be invented.

"Basically, Jim operated more like a scientist than

an artist. He experimented with everyone around
him. In someone else it would have been called
running games on people. In Jim's case, it was
taken to such extremes that it superseded games
and became a huge experiment.

In almost every case, even his most casual

acquaintances firmly believe that they alone were
privileged to see "the real Jim". Just like Danny
Sugarman, they all claim that Morison subjected
everyone else but them to the games and

"That was basically what a Doors performance was

about. It was a vast experiment. The only person he
didn't subject to this kind of thing was me."

416

experiments. Only with them did he shed the Lizard

King armour. We have no way of telling if Morrison,
in fact, ever dropped the role. All those in a position
to know are either silent or dead.

"The shaman... he was a man who would intoxicate

himself. See, he was probably already an, uh,
unusual individual. And he would put himself into a
trance by dancing, whirling around, drinking, taking
drugs. However, then he would go on a mental
travel and... uh... describe his journey to the rest of
the tribe."

The only thing that's certain is that he took a spoiled

child delight in feeding the fantasies of everyone he
met. In so doing he may have lost a great deal of
his own personality.

This was pretty much the standard Doors interview

during the formative years. A mixture of Nietzsche,
de Sade and great chunks of Amerindian lore.

*
The game didn't stop at interviews. Throughout his
career, the Jim Morrison stories were a blessing to
every rock paper gossip columnist. Every week they
would flow from the office of publicist Danny Fields,
a New York sixties whiz kid, who later hyped Elektra
into signing both the Mc5 and the Stooges.

WHEN the Doors began to break and the media

started to cluster around, Morrison found they
provided limitless opportunities to indulge himself in
petulance and planting fantasies. It seemed as
though a new Jim was whipped up for very new
journalist.

Jim had run into a pet shop, bought the entire stock
and then released them on the street. Jim had been
sitting entertaining guests in an open restaurant
when a bug had flown by. He's caught it in the air
and eaten it. Jim had bad mouthed Janis Joplin to
her face and had been slugged with a Southern
Comfort bottle. Jim had risked death by dancing on
a ledge eighty feet above the pavement.

Joan Didion, who later wrote a best seller called

Play It As It Lays (you see, Virginia, rock writers do
make good), was invited to Doors recording
session. Instead of coherent comments she was
treated to the spectacle of Morrison slumped on a
control room couch slowly striking matches, and
then extinguishing them on the crotch of his leather
pants.

The stories went on and on.

While the display, more than likely borrowed from
James Dean's well documented burn fetish, went
on, the other Doors and their girl friends ignored
him with the air of adults who are rather tired of the
kiddy's need for attention.

They were genuine factoids. It became irrelevant

whether they were true or not. They could have
happened. They could have been invented by
Morrison or come from the head of Danny Fields.
Fields claims they were, for the most part,
fabricated, but others swear blind they were present
when some of the incidents took place. One
possible version of the truth is that Morrison felt
under some twisted obligation to act out his press
stories, after they had been in print.

Writer Tom Nolan was set up with a petulant

complaint that nobody ever asked Morrison about
the things he was interested in. When Nolan called
his bluff, Jim responded with a melee of
metaphysical double talk. "A while ago I became
aware that there were spirits, other beings in the
space around me. They have spirit but they don't
manifest themselves physically. They are aware of
us, but we do not like to admit that they exist. I think
they envy us our lives."

Certainly, with regard to the sexual content of his

work, there is some evidence that towards the end
he paid hookers to indulge neurotic, sadistic
fantasies almost as though he was attempting to act
out the very depths of his image.

This corn was delivered with an air of vulnerable

innocence (again not a million miles from Dean's
favourite pose) that he turned on when he knew he
was being totally preposterous. Strangely, it always
seemed to work, both on individuals and audiences,
at least while he remained slim and pretty.

In the subworld of rumour that extends beneath the

media, Morrison was the biggest thing since Elvis
Presley. Alarmist tales circulated constantly without
the slightest foundation.
Jim was dead.
Jim was disfigured.
Jim was insane, and had returned to a
monastery/asylum/cabin in the desert.
Jim had shaved his head.
Jim was a sadist.

He appears to have hypnotised Richard Goldstein,

writing for New York magazine in 1967, into taking
everything he said absolutely seriously.

417

Jim was a homosexual.

Jim did it with dogs.
Jim was a necrophiliac and grave robber, to boot.

Unrest was spreading across the western world,

and Morrison, if not offering himself, was ready
made to be a symbol of the upheaval. If he didn't go
out and seek the role, he certainly didn't resist. The
Doors declared themselves "sexual politicians", and
expressed an interest in "all that was anarchic,
chaotic and against authority".

Only the homosexual rumour ever received

anything like a serious denial. Morrison maybe still
had a reactionary, all-American streak in his
makeup. The others just served to fan the flames of
morbid fascination that were so much part of the
Doors' appeal. Occasionally he would even hold up
the image and demonstrate just how hollow it was.
This was more often in front of an audience than
the press. At a 1969 Madison Square Garden
concert he pointed dramatically to one half of the
audience.

The Lizard King became totally identified with the

romantic ideal of revolution and, in so doing, just
about summed up the built-in contradictions that
dogged the sixties.
Morrisons revolution was straight from the
Hollywood mould. Hollywood is very fond of
revolutionaries provided they don't disturb the
status quo. In Hollywood, the rebel is not the
individual who changes society. He is the one who
gloriously destroys himself in the attempt. He is the
noblest suicide of them all.

"You are life!"

He pointed to the other half
"You are death! I straddle the fence AND MY
BALLS HURT"

These were the postures that Morrison adopted. His

revolution was acid, sex and death, a terminal revolt
that ignored Lenin, Bukharin or Chairman Mao. The
highest act was dying rather than living for the new
society. Of course Morrison wasn't taken seriously,
in a political sense, on anything but the most comic
book level. Few actually believed he would
personally lead them into the Promised Land. What
he did so was present a rhetoric and mime that
exactly typified the thoughtless, emotive confusion
of the sixties youth revolt.

These flashes were too few and far between to stop

the unhealthy obsessions that seemed to infect
hard core fans. One French photographer became
convinced that Morrison would be killed if he
appeared at a concert in Mexico City. When
manager Bill Siddons refused to cancel the tour the
photographer attacked him, beating on him,
screaming, and pulling his hair.

Unlike Dylan, he didn't question. He saw no other

point of view than that of the Lizard King's narrow
perspective.

*
IN THIS DESPERATE LAND

On record, he moved from the sinister Oedipal rage

of The End to the preposterous demands of When
The Music's Over and on to the premature victory
shout in Five to One: "We're gonna win, we're
taking over."

IN ANOTHER time and another place, Jim Morrison

might have been content to be Frank Sinatra or
Elvis Presley. He had a pleasant, resonant voice, he
was pretty and went down well with the girls.
It was, however, 1967 and California. Dylan, the
Beatles and the Rolling Stones had driven rock and
roll a long way from innocent entertainment. The
wide-eyed optimism of the flower power acid freaks
was giving way to the confusion of abortive youth
revolution.

On stage, for the few moments Morrison had total

control, objectivity was suspended. His histrionics,
the prowling, the long insolent stars, the lunges at
the mike, and the spasmodic twitching leaps,
ceased to be absurd. He took the audience to a
high place and showed them the countries of the
earth laid out before them.

A year earlier, the fires in Watts had been clearly

visible in the Hollywood hills. Young men were
being dragged off to Vietnam to die in a scarcely
understood war. Detroit had exploded. A year later
Paris would all but fall to an unhappy alliance of
Stalinist unions and Maoist students, and in
Chicago the police would prove the accuracy of the
title pig by attacking unarmed yippies.

On that level even authority took him semiseriously, and joined in the act. He was arrested at
L.A. airport after a disturbance on a plane. He was
arrested at the Troubadour after forcing himself on
stage and indulging in a drunken political harangue.
In New Haven, Connecticut, he came closest to real
confrontation (apart from the Miami incident). It was

418

December. He came on stage in a brooding rage

and told the audience how he had been maced,
along with a girl in a backstage dressing room.

all. All it meant was that he was able to buy more

and more booze, for himself and for all the people
who hung around him."

"We started talking and we wanted some privacy

and so went into this little show room. We weren't
doing anything. You know, just standing there
talking, and then this little man in a little blue suit
and a little blue cap came in there. He said
'Whatcha doin' there?' 'Nothin'.' But he didn't go
away, he stood there and then he reached round
behind him and brought out this little black can of
something. It looked like shaving cream. And then
he sprayed it in my eyes. I was blinded for about 30
minutes."

Most afternoons, when he wasn't either recording or

touring, Morrison could be found drinking in a bar
close to the Whiskey A Go-Go. It was a small sleazy
place; the hang out of winos during the day until it
turned over to topless and striptease during the
night. At that point the drunks, including Jim, were
tossed out to make room for the cover-charge
paying punters who wanted to look at tits.
Morrison rarely had a permanent home, and was
often without a car. For long periods he was content
to sleep at the Tropicana Motel on Santa Monica
Boulevard.

As Morrison finished, three policemen walked

onstage. He held out the mike. One of them took it.
The other two grabbed Morrison. Bill Siddons tried
to separate them. As the police tried to drag him
away, Morrison's sense of theatre didn't desert him.
He fell into a crucifixion pose. Photographers in the
pit were quick to respond. The photo became an
icon of the rock revolution . Morrison was charged
with causing a breach of the peace, giving an
indecent and immoral exhibition and resisting
arrest. Fights started to break out between
audience and cops.

The Tropicana is a Spanish-style clapboard motel

slightly dignified by a couple of palm trees in the car
park and a small kidney shaped swimming pool. It's
used by roadies and second division bands when
they're passing through L.A. This and his favoured
bar were the places Morrison hung out in
preference to the jet set joints frequented by most
of the rock elite.
It was common for Morrison to vanish for days on
end, often to the consternation of Bill Siddons and
the rest of the Doors. He frequently slept on the
beach or holed up with a set of bizarre people
whom he had met in his wanderings.

Of course, when you got down to it, it was just

another mutual fantasy.
At best, Morrison's revolution was just a bunch of
crazy kids being urged on by a drunken clown in a
leather suit. Heady times, but hardly in touch with
reality.

This could in a strange way be Morrison's most

tangible revolutionary act. He was one of the few
stars who have ever been totally uninterested in the
lavish material trappings of success.

Mick Farren, 1975

The Doors (part 2): Incident in Miami

*
CHAOS AND DISORDER

Mick Farren, NME, 4 October 1975

IT HAS to be said, in his favour, that Jim Morrison

lived the part that he played. He wasn't the kind of
star who preached revolution and then sunk the
profits in I.T.& T. stock and chains of laundromats.

THE DOORS and the youth revolt seemed to run

out of energy and falter at just about the same time.
This is not to say that there was a direct cause and
effect relationship. The Doors' audiences didn't melt
away. But at the same time as the revolutionary
kids' first rush of violent discontent ran out of steam
and left them totally unprepared for the solid
grinding work of real political consolidation, the
Doors' symbolic fury dissipated and the shaman
started to turn into a bellowing drunk.

Morrison confidante Danny Sugarman explains:

"Fame may have made Jim crazier and more
outrageous, but the money hardly affected him at

Although there wasn't a direct connection, the two

events were more than coincidence. They were
both a result of the romantic, death preoccupied

...and JIM MORRISON'S FINAL DECAY. Fame

may have made him crazier but the money
hardly affected him all it meant was he could
buy more and more booze. MICK FARREN
presents the second and final part of the story.

419

view of revolution that was shared by both the

Doors and a majority of the youth rebels.

stage. Even at this point, Morrison hadn't lost his

almost hypnotic power of audience manipulation.
Eventually he'd work them up so much that they'd
break through the security barriers. Morrison would
stand perfectly still and just let them climb all over
him. He'd vanish in a heap of flailing teenage
bodies. The act would be disrupted beyond saving.

It became clear after Chicago that the time for

pranks and rhetoric was past. Some romantics
glazed over into psychosis. The fascinating for
violence became overpowering. It gave birth to the
Weatherpeople, the Angry Brigade and the BaaderMeinhof gang. Others threw off their romanticism
and grimly took on the tasks of grass roots
organisation and education that are the hard graft of
any social change.

Off stage, Morrison also began to create major

problems.
His drunkenness made him more difficult and
unreliable. John Densmore, who had threatened to
quit during the early part of the Doors career and
had been talked out of it by Robbie Krieger in a
couple of all night sessions, again made rumblings
of resignation. Manzarek and Krieger again found
themselves holding the band together by an effort
of will.

Others simply drifted, looking for a base to restore

their energies.
It was a time of disillusionment. The viability of
spontaneous, media-fed gestures was gone. Nixon
and his Orange County mafia were in control of the
White House. Even death hadn't come in the way it
had been promised in the myths. It hadn't appeared
gloriously on the bayonets of the oppressor. It had
come squalidly in pills, capsules and down no.9
disposable needles.

When on tour, Bill Siddons and Vince, the chief

roadie, found themselves in the position of having
to treat Morrison like a recalcitrant child. Vince even
went to the absurd lengths of taking away
Morrison's personal, gold plated microphone if he
behaved badly, and substituting one with a dull
crackle-finish body.

The Doors were hardly immune to the

disillusionment. In some respects they had become
redundant. The revolutionaries who remained with
their ideas intact had no need of shamans and
purple poetry.

Siddons began appointing one of the road crew to

the unenviable post as Jim's personal mentor who
was charged with the responsibility of making sure
that Morrison didn't drink himself into a state where
he'd be unable to appear. Steve Sparkes, a jovial,
unflappable ex-mod, at the time assistant to
Fairport/Incredible String Band producer Joe Boyd,
was hired to perform exactly this role on a
European tour.

*
MORRISON woke up one morning with the
makings of a weight problem and the kind of
hangover that is exclusive to a full-blown alcoholic.

"It was a virtually impossible job. Jim totally

resented anyone checking up on either him or his
drinking. All it achieved was that it made him worse.
He deliberately got paralytic because Siddons was
trying to prevent it.

The Doors' image had so far outstripped their art

that they were left floundering around in a vacuum
that held no new ideas. On The Soft Parade, the
album that was the product of this period, they
sounded confused, directionless, almost a parody
of themselves. The gothic turned to baroque as
Morrison seemed to embrace a weird, convoluted,
black anti-Catholicism.

"It got to be a game. One afternoon, before the

show in Stockholm, I had to follow him round
maybe a dozen bars. He was drinking brandies and
nibbling on a lump of hash. He must have had 14
doubles before I could persuade him that maybe it'd
be a good idea if we went back to the concert hall.

The stage shows also became confused. Morrison's

behaviour became erratic and flagrantly
exhibitionist. His audiences seemed no longer to
excite him. He screamed abuse and obscenities.
Celebration Of The Lizard, the long song cycle that
takes up a whole side on the Absolutely Live album
became a vehicle of increasingly over-the-edge
excesses.

"When we got there, the Jefferson Airplane had

already gone on. Jim started raving about how he
wanted to sing with the Airplane. Before anyone
could stop him he'd plunged on to the stage. He
danced maybe three lumbering steps and fell flat on
his face. Grace Slick and Marty Balin just broke up.

One of this favourite tricks was to encourage a

crowd of girls in the front of the audience to rush the

420

"Jim didn't get up, so a couple of the Airplane's

roadies carried him back-stage. We tried to sober
him up. I think Siddons called an ambulance.
Anyway, Jim was carted off to hospital, and the
Doors went on as a three piece.

Of The Lizard, something we in England had only

seen before as a sleeve note.

"Needless to say, I got the blame."

Yet each man kills the thing he loves.

Although we didn't know it as the time, it was the

last glorious flare before burn-out.

Morrisons greatest excess was at the infamous

Miami concert when, with an exultant bellow of "Yah
wanna see my prick?" he exposed himself right
there on stage. In Miami they don't like that kind of
thing. He was arrested, charged and released on
bail.

*
L.A. WOMAN was a strange disturbing album. On
the surface it was a throwback to the classic Doors
formula, but beneath that there was a great
sadness and lack of energy.

If convicted, he faced a possible three and a half

years in Railford penitentiary. He confided to his
secretary: "I don't think I could hack three and a half
years in that place. Maybe three and a half weeks,
just for kicks..."

It seemed to be the Doors in defeat. Nixon had

taken over, not the kids. It was a record that
sounded as though it was dedicated to the lost
children, the outlaws hiding in the hills, and the
gentle ladies who'd been twisted in Charlie's snuff
squadron. The fair, the wise and the strong had
turned into beggars and junkies. Morrison no longer
even sounded desperate, simply resigned.

*
I WOKE UP THIS MORNING AND I'D GOT
MYSELF A BEARD

Then the word came. He had left the Doors.

THE MIAMI incident seemed, for a while, to set

Morrison back on the tracks. Although he only, in
the end, pulled a suspended sentence. The thought
of prison sobered him. About nine months before
the Isle of Wight festival the Doors completed
Morrison Hotel. After the debacle of The Soft
Parade this record seemed to be the Doors
reaching for solid ground. Jim even appeared to
have grown up.

Like so many other renegade royalty, the Lizard

King had dragged himself to exile in Paris. The
grapevine was almost silent. Few stories came out
about him. A bloated ex-rock star is no source of
romantic tales. Danny Sugarman's version pictures
Morrison as a helpless alcoholic who has reached
the point where it's ceased to be fun and has
started to be frightening.
"He was unable to work out what he could do with
the rest of his life. He was still anxious to launch
into a film career, but he knew that his looks had
gone. The problems of booze and weight had got
on top of him to such an extent that he could see no
way out. He was also drinking so much that he was
virtually impotent."

He was portly, sported a curly beard and was

singing hard rock and roll again. Had he finally
matured?
The Doors were, like a great many more of us,
groping back to their roots trying to learn how to live
once the dream was over. The capricious macho
cherub had finally become a man. Or had he?

Jim Morrison died on July 3, 1971. That is fact.

At the Isle of Wight I was confronted not by a man,

but by a ruin. A fat uncertain thing that could hardly
be approached.

The official story says that he suffered a heart

attack while taking a bath. The strongest
underground legend claims that he OD'd in a
nightclub and was smuggled back to his apartment
to avoid a scandal.

The power of the Absolutely Live album took some

of bad taste away. This document of 1969/70 tours
was living proof that the Doors had been a fore to
be reckoned with. The arrogant macho was there.
So was the towering, cathedral rock and roll. All the
familiar songs were on it, plus Diddley's satanic
Who Do You Love and a full version of Celebration

His grave has no permanent marker, although it's

littered with all kinds of mawkish garbage by the
morbid, the second-hand sensation seekers and the
hippie tourists. It's close to the magnificent edifice
erected over the mortal remains of Oscar Wilde.

421

In L.A. they still talk about Jim as a long lost,

wayward, but dearly loved son. They liken Patti
Smiths debut at the Whiskey unto the early days of
the Doors. Lightweight punks squabble over who
rightfully owns his old clothes and the head shops
still sell romantic souvenir posters and T-shirts.

Densmore, came to London to talk about An

American Prayer, along with Frank Lisciandro, a
friend of Jim Morrison, who had actually been
around when Morrison recorded his
unaccompanied 'vocals'.
So whose idea was it that this album should be
made after all this time?

It has yet to occur to anyone to raise a collection to

place a monument on his last resting place. The
world has failed to grant Jim Morrison that ultimate
kind favour and see that his grave is kept clean.

RK: Before Jim died, he went into the studio and

started to record his poetry for a possible album,
some kind of poetry album. The stuff was in the
can, and Jim went to Paris where he finally died,
but he was hoping to keep working on the project,
although he never did. About five years later, I was
thinking about that poetry he'd recorded
somebody must have mentioned it to me or
something and I called John Haeny, who was the
producer who'd worked with Jim on the original
recordings, and asked him what had happened to
them. He said he still had them, and suggested that
Ray and John and I come over and listen to them,
to see if there was anything there, to see if there
was something we could do with them, and that's
how it started.

Maybe that, after all, is the final measure of just

what stardom really means.
Mick Farren, 1975
The Doors: Stoned Immaculate
John Tobler, ZigZag, March 1979
"The man's been dead for seven years or
gone for seven years and he's still causing
trouble!" Ray Manzarek
In my opinion, by far the most interesting album
which came out last year, although maybe not the
best that's something that'll require thought for
some time yet was the very long awaited poetry
LP by Jim Morrison and the Doors. Regular readers
may recall that I caught John Densmore over here
on holiday during 1977, when he suggested that the
completion of the album was something like
imminent. It was eventually released right at the
end of last year, for reasons which we'll come to,
but I'd definitely say that the wait was worth it An
American Prayer brought back to me so quickly the
incomparable magic of the Doors, something which
has been missing from our lives for far too long.

Were any of you other than Frank involved in the

recording in any way at the time it was made?
RK: No, not at the time of recording. Jim had gone
into the studio on his birthday, coincidentally
December 8th, 1970 to record this, and what
purpose it really had, I don't think anyone can be
sure. I think Jim just wanted to get a lot of his stuff
down on tape. He had a lot of poetry, he'd always
been intrigued by poetry reading, so here was a
chance for him to do a reading, and if possible put
some kind of album together at some time or other.
But he never got the chance to do that, so what we,
the Doors, have done is to make Jim's poetry album
for him, to try to complete it for him and put his
words out in front of the public. He was a great
poet, a brilliant poet, and I don't think people
understand that they think of him as he was, of
course, a great rock 'n' roll entertainer, but he was
more than that. He was a poet, and the Doors'
original conception was poetry and music that's
why we got together in the first place, because
Jim's words were so strong and the music we were
able to make fit so well with what he was saying
that it became one thing that was four people acting
as one mind. So this is our tribute to Jim, our
completing his poetry album for him.

Of course, the interim period has seen various

releases by various Doors, individually and
collectively doing their best to recapture the unique
spark that just blew away all the competition during
the four years or so that the group functioned as a
quartet. But there always seemed to be something
missing obviously it was Jim Morrison, but it
wasn't just the sound of his voice or his excellent
lyrics. Something happened when the four Doors
played together that can only be described as a
chemistry which produced something which has
never been approached before or since, at least in
musical terms. Well now, before we get really stuck
back in a late '60's timewarp, with hippie mythology
and indirect, meaningless adjectives, let's get on
with documenting the conversation which took
place last December when the three visible Doors,
Ray Manzarek, Robbie Krieger and John

Frank, what was your actual involvement in the

recording with Jim?

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FL: I was there on the evening of the recording it

was his birthday, I was a friend of Jim's, we'd made
some films together, and Ray and Jim and I went to
the film school at UCLA at the same time, so we'd
known each other for a very long time. Jim was
dedicated to the idea that he was a poet he
worked on his poems constantly and he wanted
to put them down one night, and his birthday
seemed like an appropriate kind of celebration
evening to put them on tape. Three or four of us
went with him and he proceeded to spend four
hours in the studio, we took a dinner break, came
back, and he recorded some more of them. That
was my involvement in the recording of the original
poetry.

happening in England. We've been sort of linked

with that, but we've always felt that the Doors'
themes were, as Jim used to say, primeval, back to
the basic feelings of humanity. What we're talking
about, and what Jim's talking about in this album, is
life itself. He's not talking about any transient,
trendy sort of thing, he's talking about a man on the
planet. Where did we come from? What are we
doing here? Where are we going? What happens at
the end? That's why some people say Jim was
obsessed with death, but it wasn't an obsession, it
was an understanding that death is our constant
companion. If there's one thing you know on this
planet, the only thing, it's that you're going to die,
and you'd better be able to come to peace with that
idea. If you can come to peace, come to terms with
the fact of your death, your life all of a sudden takes
on a new meaning and blossoms open, because
you don't have to worry about 'My God, I'm going to
die, I've got to prevent my death. You can't prevent
your death. You have to live closely with your death,
and I think Jim did he lived with death over his
shoulder, just waiting there at all times. "The
future's uncertain, the end is always near", as he
said. Not only did he deal in universal kinds of
images and statements, he was himself a mythic,
heroic figure, who lived his life in vital and dramatic
terms all the time, so he gave a lot of credence to
what he said by acting out the statements in his life.
He defied the conventions of morality, he defied the
conventions of what could or couldn't be said on
stage, and that made his statements even more
valid to young people who were themselves trying
to break free, as every generation does, of the
conventions of their parents. And now he's defying
the conventions of morality one more time on this
album. The man's been dead for seven years or
gone for seven years and he's still causing
trouble.

Were any of the poems on the album published in

printed form before?
FL: Jim published himself three books, one called
The Lords, one called The New Creatures and one
called An American Prayer, and the only thing that's
used in the record is the small edition, five hundred
or so, of An American Prayer. (Note: The Lords and
The New Creatures were published together in
America as a paperback by Simon and Schuster.)
RM: An American Prayer was a private edition that
Jim had put together to be distributed to friends and
certain fans, and in the last seven years I've heard
many people come up to me and say 'How can I get
a copy of it? How can I get a mimeograph? How
can I get anything? I've heard of An American
Prayer, I want to read it.' So naturally, we thought
that it would be one of the best things to include on
the album it was so good that it belonged in a
larger scope than just five hundred copies out there
somewhere. We wanted the whole public,
everybody, to hear it.

How did you actually achieve the backings you put

on the poems I assume there was nothing but
his voice on the original tapes...

Why do you think it is that the world is still ready for

more Jim Morrison when most of the late '60s
contemporaries of the Doors have vanished without
trace, or are pale shadows of themselves?

RM: That's right, it was just the poems. But Jim, in

his poetry, has always had a rhythmic sort of quality.
I've always felt him to be in the tradition of the
Greek poet, the classic spoken or changed poet, a
man who gets on the stage and recites his poetry to
handclapping or a drum beating, or to an implied
beat. Jim always had that sense of implied rhythm
in his poems, so consequently it was easy for us as
musicians to lock into a rhythm one way or another.
When we heard the poetry, we decided to use the
implied beat and to make that rhythm explicit, to put
the rhythm down that applies to each particular
song. The first song on the album is Ghost Song
in the end, he gets to talking about the dead
Indians, the story about the dead Indians on the

JD: I think it's because of something we had in a

record contract ,saying that nothing can be released
without our approval this record's quite good,
and we've only put out what we consider quality, so
we're really proud of this as a statement.
RM: I think that one of the reasons people are still
intrigued with Jim Morrison is because his themes
were universal he was talking about a lot more
than just the late days of hippiedom. The fact that
we were recording in '67, '68, '69, '70, doesn't
necessarily limit us to that time frame of when the
revolution was happening, when the riots were

423

highway, so we knew that that needed an Indian

beat let's give it some feeling of the desert. So
John got started on the drums, using that great tomtom beat, and I put in an E minor seventh and E
minor ninth on top of that, feeling that same rhythm,
and Robbie started on his guitar, a couple of little
licks and lines, and then on top of that, we put Jim's
poetry. We spaced it out a little bit, made a little cut
here 'Wait, Jim, wait four bars, let us play this
line, then you come back in again.' It was almost
like working with the man in person. Having the
words there was, in a way, a very eerie feeling,
because Jim was there with us in the rehearsals. It
was the three of us and Jim on tape he wasn't
there in person, but his presence was always there.

represent section four of the record which is Jim's

public life, and that one just seemed to be right.
RM: It was real serendipity in a sense that we
listened to all the out-takes from the live album. We
knew we needed something live for the public life,
and we had a live album out called Absolutely Live.
Listening to the tapes, we found about six or seven
takes of Roadhouse Blues, and we all wondered
why we'd never used it on the live album. I think
that be the grace of God it wasn't on Absolutely
Live because it was just lying there, just waiting for
its time to come out. It had never been used before,
so there was something we didn't have to go
back and use a song we'd already used, here was a
brand new piece of recorded material.

How well were you all getting on with Jim at this

time, because there was a theory that he'd more or
less left the group at the time he recorded this
poetry...

RK: Also, Roadhouse Blues came out on the

album right before we started working on the live
album, so we figured that as we'd just done that
one, we couldn't put it out live so soon afterwards.
In fact, there was another thing we were going to
use, but we had some trouble among ourselves as
to whether we should use it. I don't want to say
what it was

RK: I think he recorded the stuff before L.A.

Woman, and we were certainly together at that time
that was our last album with Jim, and there was
no hint of the Doors breaking up at that point. In
fact, I think L.A. Woman was our largest album
since the first one.

RM: We can say it here in England it was

Gloria.

JD: It was every day up and down frustration

normal. But I think he was eager to make another
record after L.A. Woman.

RK: Jim always liked to do Gloria onstage, and we

always figured we'd like to get a version of it out on
some kind of record some day.

RM: Didn't he call from Paris and ask when we

were going to do the next one? He'd heard that L.A.
Woman was doing well, and wanted to get ready for
the next one. Although it was always difficult
working with Jim. The man was a genius and
genius is allowed a very schizophrenic behaviour.
Jim's behaviour sometimes he could be an
angel, and sometimes he could be a devil, but that's
what was inside him, that's what was brilliant about
the man. He had these demons angels and
demons were inside him. You never knew from one
day to the next which Jim Morrison was going to be
there was it going to be the saint or was it going
to be the devil? Whichever one it was, the words
were going to be brilliant. So it was hard to work
with him, of course, but on the other hand, it was a
great joy to work with a man who was such a
genius.

JD: We used to do it in the early days as one of our

required top 40 songs in a club you know, you
had to play something popular, and we had a good
time with that one.
Of the other music that's on the new album, was
any of it recorded earlier than these latest sessions
to complete the album? Obviously, there are bits of
The Unknown Soldier, WASP and Riders On The
Storm are they from the original records or did
you remake them?
RK: Those bits are from the original records, but all
the new material was recorded in a two-month
period. None of that is old, it's all brand new.
When John [Densmore] came over in June 1977,
he said the album was likely to be completed by the
autumn of '77. What have you been doing?

There appears to be one track here which is an outtake from Absolutely Live in Roadhouse Blues.
Why did you choose that one particularly was it
the only one that was suitable?

RM: Runing into snags. It was a difficult album to

put together, because there was so much to choose
from, so much to put into perspective, to put into a
form. We tried to make the record biographical, in a
sense. It traces the man from his childhood the

JD: No, it's not that it was the only one that was
suitable, we were just looking for a live cut to

424

first part is his childhood, the second part is High

School, the third part is the young poet with dreams
of a poet, stoned on a rooftop in Venice (California)
acid dreams. The fourth part is public life with the
Doors, and the fifth part is a final summation in a
way of the man's entire life and his philosophy. So
to get it in proper perspective, it took a long time.
[Note: Those, like me, who are confused by the fact
that the booklet with the album seems to have
sections numbered one to eight should know that
these numbers are merely page numbers within the
booklet you can tell which of the five sections is
which by referring to the rear of the sleeve, where
the five parts are separated.]

in the future, it's uncertain. But we've really enjoyed

working on this, I can say that.
Ray, since the demise of Nite City (or presumed
demise), little has been heard of you until now.
What have you been doing?
RM: There's a new Nite City record coming out here
in Europe early in the New Year (1979) called
Golden Days and Diamond Nights. That's an album
we recorded about a year and a half ago back in
Los Angeles, and due to internal complications with
the company the President being fired and that
sort of thing somehow the album got lost in the
shuffle. (Another note, this time to Blondie freaks:
among the members of Nite City was cuddly Nigel
Harrison, who joined Nite City after leaving
Silverhead). But at the moment, I'm a free agent;
I'm not doing anything.

RK: The fact is that this album is so revolutionary in

the way it was made that we really shouldn't have
projected any dates, because there's no way to tell
how long something that new was going to take to
do. It turns out that for each little thing we thought
shouldn't take longer than a month, we took three
months.

Robbie, you had an album out on Blue Note, which

I suppose must have been quite an ego massage.
Is that jazz way the direction you're going in?

RM: We had no models to fall back on: a record like

this has never been made before, so there was no
way we could say, 'Well, that's how they did it, so
maybe let's take an idea from there'. I hate to brag
and maybe toot our own horn, but in a sense, this is
a totally unique album. A poetry and music album
like this has just never been done it's a unique
experience, and I hope the audience, the people
who will be listening to this album, will perceive that
it's a unique experience. It's not an album to put on
while you're doing your dishes or working on your
car or making a model airplane, and it's not a disco
album. You have to put this record on, sit down and
listen to it. All it asks for is forty minutes of your time
if you'll give us forty minutes of your time, we'll
take you somewhere that maybe you've never been
before.

RK: Yeah, I'm interested in jazz fusion and rock

applied to jazz rather than the other way round, and
I hope to be doing some more of that type of thing
in the future.
Frank, what are you going to contribute to all this
now this album's finished?
FL: Hopefully, I'm going to get back into being a film
maker, which is what I started out doing and did for
many years. I'm going to try to extract myself from
the record business, which is a crazier world than
the film business in Los Angeles, and try to get
sane again.
RM: And we do have 50,000 feet of film footage on
the Doors...That's lurking in the wings, and very
possibly, that might be one of the next main
projects.

[Note: It was later suggested by someone that the

ideal situation is after dark, with a joint. The album
is not supposed to be played during daylight hours.]

JD: The reason it's lurking in the wings is because,

like this album, if it's going to be done, it's going to
be done right, and with time. That's why we have to
all agree to pursue it, and then it'll come out
properly.

There's been a rumour that you three gents [Ray,

Robbie and John] are about to start performing
together again. What's the truth or otherwise of
that?
JD: Exactly what you said a rumour. We just saw
the press clipping and had a laugh.

Keeping the name of the Doors alive over years

and years by taking a long time over anything you
do...

OK then, what exactly are you all doing? John,

you're an actor nowadays, aren't you?

FL: Rather just doing it well, so that the name stays

around longer because the quality of the work is so
high.

JD: Yeah, I've been studying acting for a couple of

years. As far as the three of us being together again

425

RM: I think that's the important thing for any artist

any record should be made with the idea that you're
making something that's going to go down in
history. The Doors have always had history on our
minds, so we know that every record we've made,
we've tried to make up to the top level of our
standards. Nothing was put out just for the sake of
making a buck, making that evil dollar, which is
what's wrong with the world today.

was out on bail while his case was being appealed.

The Doors were still working on an album, but
Morrison was thinking about the next stage of his
life. If he could snake out of his six-month jail
sentence, he was going to Paris, where he'd pursue
two longtime interests: poetry and film making.
I happened onto him because his common-law wife,
Pamela Courson, knew and lived near a friend of
mine, Jefferson Airplane publicist Diane Gardiner, in
West Hollywood.

*
As a writer for Rolling Stone magazine, one of my
jobs was to hang out, and that's what I was doing
with Gardiner and Earl McGrath, a Rolling Stones
associate-turned-screenwriter, when Morrison
bounded into her apartment. He was looking for
Pamela. We said hello and, of course, I asked for
an interview. Once he figured out Pamela wasn't
around, he agreed.

It's not my intention to debate that last point, but

there's more than a grain of truth in it, I suspect...
Anyway, this latest piece of Doors documentation
comes with the firm recommendation that you
should try rather harder than usual to hear An
American Prayer, which in my darker moments
seems like the proverbial oasis in a sea of poor
quality sand. But it is not recommended that you
play this to those of a puritanical disposition, unless,
of course, you are fortunate enough to come across
the radio station version of the album, which omits,
for obvious reasons, a lot of Jim's more extreme
naughty words.

He had aged dramatically since his arrest. At 27, his

face's sometimes pouty, girlish beauty had given
way to a full, dark, leonine beard, and he'd begun to
build a paunch.
This afternoon, he seemed to be in a silly mood.
Used to toying with the media, he fell into a talkshow rhythm. I'd be Dick Cavett, he decided; he'd
be Jim Morrison. And with Gardiner and McGrath
serving as the studio audience, he began by asking
a riddle that would never have made it on network
television. Something about a women's track team.

Now Jim, it seems to me that the statute of

limitations on your Miami bust should have expired
by now, so how about coming back and showing all
the young pretenders to your rock 'n' roll throne just
who is the King. Quite a lot of us are waiting, you
know....
John Tobler, 1979

And then we settled down, and in the course of an

hour or so of serious talk, he spoke at first about his
bust.

Jim Morrison: Last Meeting With a Fallen Star

Ben Fong-Torres, San Francisco Chronicle, 1991

"I think that was the culmination of our mass

performing career," he said. "Subconsciously, I think
I was trying to reduce it to absurdity, and it worked
too well."

NEAR THE END of his 27-year life, was Jim

Morrison as depicted in Oliver Stone's new movie,
The Doors a fat, abusive, alcoholic, drugged-out,
deluded, self-obsessed, self-destructive, humorless,
haunted, wasted, washed-up symbol of the death of
rock 'n' roll?

Early on, he said, he had hoped to turn his trial he

was charged with lascivious behavior (a felony),
profanity, simulating masturbation and public
drunkenness into a freedom-of-speech issue. As
his lawyer argued, there was nudity in the film of the
Woodstock Festival; there was frontal nudity in Hair.
His actions on stage in Miami, he said, amounted to
"a theatrical performance." The judge didn't see it
that way.

The first and last time I visited with Morrison, he

was, and he wasn't.
Certainly, he was either slowing down, or he was
weighed down.

The Doors Would Split

His band was in decline; bookings had fallen off

sharply since his arrest for indecent exposure at a
concert in Miami in 1969; and he'd been mired in
that trial for nearly two years. And when I saw him
in early spring of 1971, he'd been convicted and

Morrison expected that, after a couple more

albums, the Doors would split and he would work in
films.

426

"I'd like to write and direct a film of my own," he

said. "There's one that's all in my head. But I have a
film I made, called Hiway, that hasn't been seen
very much."

I ended it with quotes from two close friends of his,

Frank Lisciandro, a film maker, and his wife, Kathy,
once Morrison's secretary.
"He expected to live a long time, even if he was
self-destructive," Frank explained. His wife said,
"He'd be surprised to find out he was dead at age
27."

I reminded him that San Francisco hadn't been very

kind to it. He offered a tight smile.
"Feast of Friends (a self-produced 40-minute
documentary of life on stage, on the road, and on
vacation) was shown there a year or so ago to a lot
of boos," Morrison said. "I think they were reacting
to personalities rather than film...."

Nine years later, I finally got to Paris, where

Morrison was buried in one of the world's most
famous cemeteries, Pere-Lachaise, final stop for
Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, Frederic Chopin and
Edith Piaf.

The 15-minute Hiway, he said, "was more poetic,

more of an exercise for me, kind of a warm-up.
There's no story in it. Just a hitchhiker who steals a
car and drives into town and checks into a motel or
something, and it just kind of ends like that."

By 1980, Morrison was riding a new wave of

popularity. Books, videos, proposed movies and the
inspired use of Morrison's disturbingly provocative
The End in Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse
Now thrust the Doors back into the public eye.

Morrison talked about getting back to the blues

the kind of music the early Doors used to play in
clubs and about poetry, about how his calling
himself the "Lizard King" was actually "half tonguein-cheek."

A Silent Vigil
After wandering around lost for a half-hour in the
100-square block cemetery, a young fan with a map
led our party to Morrison's burial site. Graffiti all
about Jim littered nearby headstones and
monuments, and at his grave, a dozen young
people stood and sat around silently.

"I just thought everyone knew it was ironic, but

apparently they thought I was mad!"
I liked Morrison. Whatever his excesses, they were
moderated that spring day, and he seemed more
self-deprecating than destructive.

Morrison's grave, a concrete-framed plot of dirt, had

no headstone whenever someone tried to install
one, it'd be stolen but surrounding graffiti left no
doubts about who was buried here. As I took notes
"I LOVE YOU JIM"..."JIM IS NOT DEAD" a
young man pointed to a spray-painted exclamation:
"God doesn't exist but JIM will exist FOREVER!"

He No Longer Dazzled
He was no longer the rock star who dazzled me one
night at the Berkeley Community Theater in 1967
I remember thinking that he'd single-handedly taken
rock 'n' roll and turned it into theater. He had now
traversed to the edge of self-parody. But he was still
the man who gave us some of the greatest songs
we ever danced to or puzzled over.

"People here in France thought he was crazy," he

told me, "but you Americans understood."
As with everything about Jim Morrison, it wasn't that
simple. We understood, and we didn't.

We shook hands, and, taking his leave, he invited

me to come and see him in Paris sometime.

Ben Fong-Torres, 1991

Death makes angels of us all

and gives us wings
where we had shoulders
smooth as raven's claws
Jim Morrison, An American Prayer

The Doors: a profile of Jim Morrison

Simon Witter, Sky, 1991
IN THREE YEARS Jim Morrison went from being a
rock icon to dying a bloated alcoholic at just 27
years old. But in that time he became rock and roll's
most important rebel ever, mixing poetic
pretensions and belligerent good looks. As cinema
audiences prepare for Oliver Stone's biopic of
Morrison's short life, the unequivocal powerhouse

A month after our chat, Morrison, having finished

his last album with the Doors, L.A. Woman, left with
Pamela for Paris, and in July I wrote my next story
about him. It was his obituary.

427

rock of the Doors, led by his sexual vocals, is as

much a symbol for the '90s as it was for the '60s
generation.

thousand hints and literary blueprints for the

lifestyle he was to lead.
Jim's intellectual side was a crucial part of his
appeal. Subsequent rock idols have emulated
Morrison's drug excesses, but never in conjunction
with such a sharp, probing, life-affirming mentality.
He named the group after a William Blake quote in
an Aldous Huxley book "If the doors of
perception were cleansed, everything would appear
to man as it truly is, infinite" and lived out his
mission to break through those doors with a gusto
that led biographer Danny Sugerman to remark:
"Nobody made getting loaded look more romantic
than Jim Morrison."

Malcolm McLaren once described Johnny Rotten

as, "that scruffy kid that used to hang around the
shop in the King's Road with Doors albums stuffed
under his arm." The fact that punk's vitriolic
figurehead the one who used to perform in his "I
hate Pink Floyd" T-shirt wasn't ashamed of that
other musical phenomenon of the '60s, is testimony
to the nihilistic hipness that has kept the Doors'
music current long after most of their
contemporaries have become forgotten fossils.
Although they emerged in the era of peace and
love, and shared its openmindedness, the Doors
always had an anti-hippy streak. They were more
surreal than psychedelic, more anguish than acid
which is why they've since been so influential on
groups like Joy Division and Morrison used to
recommend Nietzsche, hardly flowerchild reading,
to anyone who would listen.

For someone with such a phenomenal appetite for

illegal drugs, Jim had a strangely carefree attitude
towards the police. He provoked them at every
opportunity and was beaten up countless times as a
result. In one of a hundred backstage incidents at
concerts, Jim told a troublesome cop to suck his
dick. The cop pulled out a can of mace and said,
"This is your last chance to move." "No man," Jim
replied, cupping his genitals with his hands, "this is
your last chance to eat it." Jim got maced and, after
humiliating policemen from the stage, was later
beaten up and arrested.

Jim Morrison never invoked teenage angst in the

clumsy manner of so many rock phonies, he
personified it. In his finest moments he embodied
rebellion as perfectly as any cultural icon ever has,
which is why every eligible pop and film star would
give their eye teeth to star in his life story. In the
eight years since plans for the Doors' biopic were
announced, Hollywood smoothies as improbable as
John Travolta and Tom Cruise have chased the lead
role with a desperation that highlights Morrison's
evergreen credibility.

Jim had no concept of expediency. Arrested in the

desert, he taunted the redneck cops though his cell
bars, calling them the ugliest motherfuckers he'd
ever seen. Only the arrival of a friend with bail
money saved him from a severe beating. Another
time he was lucky to escape unscathed after
goading a cop, "C'mon, muthafucker, chickenshit
asshole, shoot me!"

But though his wilder excesses may paint him as a

rebel without a cause, Jim often pursued rebellion
in a conscious, articulate manner. "When you make
peace with authority you become an authority," he
wrote in the group's first biography. "I like ideas
about the overthrowing of established order I am
interested in revolt, disorder, chaos, especially
activity that seems to have no meaning." It may be
hard to perceive as intellectual a man who went
from being the musical saviour of the western world
at 24, to being a bloated alcoholic lying dead in a
bath in a Parisian hotel at 27, but that's exactly what
Jim was.

The wild behaviour Jim exhibited at UCLA like

urinating between the shelves at the public library
returned with a vengeance in his later, severe
alcoholic phase. He started playing matador in
moving traffic, crashing cars, trashing studios and
singing with any band playing in the bars he got
drunk in. At a Hendrix gig he poured a table full of
drinks over Janis Joplin, then leapt onstage and
started hugging Jimi's legs. And when Andy Warhol
gave him a gold and ivory French telephone,
minutes later Jim hurled it out of the limo into a
public wastebin in front of him.

Everyone who taught him still remembers an

academic mind, far sharper than his classmates. At
college he did courses on revolt and crowd
psychology and handed in papers on books so
obscure that one tutor had to go to the Library of
Congress to check they existed. And in his reading
taste, from Sophocles to French existentialists, from
Nietzsche to Kerouac, Morrison provided a

Jim was never legally married, but he did wed one

of his regular girlfriends, Patricia, in a Wicca
ceremony (like the one rumoured to have taken
place between Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn) in
which souls are fused on a karmic and cosmic
plane, and death, therefore, does not part the
lovers. The sharing of blood involved in the
ceremony so excited Jim, that he later persuaded

428

an aristocratic German girlfriend to cut her thumb

so that they could make love smeared in blood.

predicted Jim's later traits of alcoholism and his

feeling of being an outsider.

As a schoolboy Jim wrote numerous obscene

journals, and as a major star in the last age of
innocent promiscuity he got to act out all his sexual
fantasies with a limitless selection of willing
partners. "Butt-fucking" was a favourite, and one of
the sound experiments the Doors tried on Strange
Days was Jim singing while being given a blow job.
The group's producer was so keen on this idea, that
he offered to go out and get a prostitute to do the
job, but Jim's oldest flame, Pamela, pitched in. In
the event, the pair emerged satisfied from the
recording booth after 20 minutes without Jim having
sung a note.

At the age of four, driving along a desert road near

Albuquerque with his father, Jim experienced what
he later described as the most important moment of
his life. They came upon an overturned truck, and
saw injured and dying Pueblo Indians lying where
they had been thrown on the asphalt. As they pulled
away from the intersection, having helped all they
could, Jim claimed on Indian died and his soul
passed into his body. Years later he sang in 'Blue
Sunday', "Indians scattered on dawn's highway
bleeding/Ghosts crowd the child's fragile eggshell
mind."
At school Jim displayed a constant need to show off
and command attention. He recited fanciful tales to
no-one in particular on public buses, and his college
housemates felt he treated them as if he were an
anthropologist and they his subjects.

Other anecdotes that shed light on Morrison's

complex, turbulent personality could fill (and have)
several books, but sifting through them is made
difficult by the vested interests of the tellers.
Biographer Danny Sugerman was the Doors' press
officer and owes much of his career to the
memories of his days as Morrison's confidant, while
founder member Ray Manzarek (whose career
Sugerman now manages) bought the rights to all
the Doors music from the surviving members after
Morrison's death. This means that Sugerman and
Manzarek have everything to gain from promoting
the Morrison myth, and their pretentious eulogizing
contrasts revealingly with the more down-to-earth
reminiscences of Robbie Krieger and John
Densmore.

Jim's enjoyment (at the age of 12) of a deathdefying toboggan run, that almost killed him and his
brother and sister, hinted at the fearlessness that
would characterize his later behaviour. In 'American
Prayer' he refers to death as an old friend, and he
seemed to live much of his life on the edge.

But one thing is quite clear: though Jim Morrison

was the larger-than-life star and leader of the
Doors, without the other three we would probably
never have heard of him. Some of his lyrics could
be claimed to be among the finest ever in rock
music, but even at the height of his fame Jim
couldn't make his extracurricular careers as poet,
playwright, actor and filmmaker take off. As a
foursome however, the Doors had a unique
chemistry that allowed them to fuse blues and
classical structures into configurations whose
freshness will never be dulled by the passage of
time.

In 1967 the radical New York magazine Village

Voice said: "The Doors begin where the Rolling
Stones left off." But because Jim's excessive
behaviour was modeled on his perception of the
ideal poet, rather than on any rock'n'roll antecedent,
it is very difficult to describe his appeal without
sounding pretentious. Blake's proverbs, "The road
of excess leads to the place of wisdom" and
"Prudence is a rich, ugly old maid courted by
incapacity", dictated his lifestyle. Through intensive
hallucinogenic drug abuse, Jim pushed out against
the boundaries of life and his self in an attempt to
live up to Nietzsche's view of Oedipus as "the type
of nobleman who, despite his wisdom, is fatal to
error and misery, but who nevertheless, through his
extraordinary sufferings exerts a magical, healing
effect on all around him which continues even after
his death."

Appropriately enough for someone whose career

was rocket-like in both ascent and burn-out, James
Douglas Morrison was born near Cape Canaveral in
Florida on December 8, 1943. His father, an officer
in the US navy (who later became America's
youngest Rear Admiral), was periodically absent for
most of Jim's youth, and the combination of the
continuous changing of his mother's role and
uprooting of the family left Jim confused and with a
resentment of authority. A psychological report on
the highly mobile naval society of the time also

There's no evidence of serious abuse in Jim's

childhood, but his relationship with his parents was
odd, to say the least. In the group's first biography
he claimed that both his parents were dead, he
never wrote to them or visited them, and when his
mother and brother once came to a Doors concert,
he got friends to fob them off for four hours before
skipping town without seeing them. Elektra Records
who signed the Doors for $2,500 and five per
cent royalties seemed a suitably classical
allusion for rock's most Oedipal star. Morrison's live

429

premiere of the lines "Father I want to kill you!

Mother I want to fuck you!" ('The End') at LA's
Whiskey A Go-Go shocked the owner so much he
sacked the then house band for good.

Because it was impossible to get an autopsy at

weekends in France, and Pamela didn't see the
need for one anyway, Morrison was buried virtually
unseen in Pre Lachaise cemetery, fueling endless
rumours that he had staged the whole thing and
fled to anonymity in India, Africa or even Oregon.
Danny Sugerman doesn't believe a word of it. "The
truth of it is that I haven't heard from him since he
was in Paris. I know where the Doors' money goes,
and while Jim was not materialistic, he spent money
real good." No mystery figure has ever approached
the Doors' estate for a cash sub.

In the summer of '67 the Doors topped the

American chart with their second single 'Light My
Fire', and the next four years gave them six gold
albums and endless tours. Morrison practised his
Freudian theories of crowd neuroses (and their
availability for manipulation) so successfully that
riots frequently ensued, but soon he came to
despise the slavish, shamanistic relationship he had
cultivated with the fans. He was no longer a threat,
just an obscenity, expected to deliver freakshow
antics.

Morrison's pointless, but hardly unexpected death,

killed the Doors' career stone dead while they were
still a vital musical force, and the personal,
idiosyncratic magic the four players forged has
ensured their eternal popularity. But Morrison's
legend is almost larger than the music, because he
himself was so much larger than life. A self-portrait
he gave someone, in which he had painted himself
as a king, reflects his position as a lord of the selfexploring generation.

In Miami in '69, in an attempt to end this situation

forever, he abused the audience, told them they
were there for all the wrong reasons, and then
exposed himself onstage. A crusading Florida
Governor seized on the incident, and the Doors
couldn't get a gig for almost six months. Eventually
Morrison received an eight month jail sentence, but
he didn't live long enough to start serving it.

Jim Morrison was one of the last truly exciting rock

icons largely because everything he did was so
obviously real. The complexities of his personality
came alive in his deeds. He was a poet and a
womanizer, tender and selfish, a visionary dreamer
and a slob. Money was clearly never a motivation
for him, and he promised no answers, only exciting
questions. He made intellectualism sexy, and
investigated the extremes of life in the last years of
pop's naivety. It's no wonder that people look back
on his brief reign with a hint of jealousy.

"Very few people on this planet are called to dance

the shaman's dance," says Manzarek. "It takes a
certain unique, slightly cracked
individual...something slightly aberrant in their
behaviour. But because of that aberration you also
get that intoxication and the intoxication is
magnificent. But you have to live with that
aberration when you're not in that state."
"He tried to stay in an ecstatic state onstage and
off, but offstage John, Robbie and myself weren't
there to make the rhythm and there weren't 15,000
people in front of him. He tried to keep that high
going and his body wore out. He bloated out and
then...he just imploded and died. It reminds me of
the temptation of St Anthony in the desert like a
Bosch painting. St Anthony is in the desert being
attacked by these demons and all the images
are from within his own mind. That was Morrison."

Simon Witter, 1991

Take out a Subscription to the Resurrection: Jim
Morrison
Steve Turner, The Independent, 23 March 1991
PRE-LACHAISE CEMETERY is bizarre enough in
itself 100,000 sepulchres crowded into a busy
Paris suburb and rolling down hillsides like an
invading army from Hades. But nothing prepared
me for Jim Morrisons resting place in division six.
Not even the warning of Danny Sugerman,
Morrisons biographer, who told me the week before
my visit that it was "pathetic and were embarrassed
by it and there is nothing we can do".

Demons definitely marred Jim's ecstasy. His

alcoholism may have seemed like a tribute to
Dionysius, but it was far from appealing, and his
death was simply pointless. Jim was in Paris with
his longtime companion Pamela, relaxing and
writing new material for a future Doors project.
Heroin was one of the few drugs he never did, but
one day he got hold of Pamela's stash and chopped
out two huge lines. He snorted them, got in the bath
and the lethal cocktail of heroin and alcohol shut
down his central nervous system. Pamela returned
to find that the singer, philosopher and delinquent
she loved had accidentally killed himself.

The grave is not difficult to find. For Ff10 you can

buy un plan du cimetire on which the final
destination of Morrison one of 200 celebrity

430

departees is indicated. The company he keeps

these days is impressive. He is two blocks from
Chopin and Bellini, a short stroll from Wilde, Stein,
Piaf and Ernst. Two weeks before his death
Morrison, as an American tourist, had visited some
of these graves.

Paris was a good place to shake off his celebrity.

He dressed down, let his hair grow wild, put on
weight and pounded the streets unrecognised. But
Paris was not a good place to dry out, especially
when you have arrived with a head full of Rimbaud,
Baudelaire, Hemingway and Fitzgerald.

Without a map you can locate the plot either by

following anyone young with a black leather jacket
and a camera or by watching out for the graffiti
arrows and "Morrison Hotel" scrawls on other
peoples memorials.

"Jim was very aware of the literary romanticism, of

Henry Miller in Paris and of Hemingways
moveable feast," says Sugerman. "He was aware
of writers and writing in Paris but also of Paris,
writers and drinking. Eventually he lived that
tradition to its fullest."

Arriving at Morrisons grave, set one row back from

the narrow pathway, is like stumbling across an illicit
drinking party or a meeting of the Dead Poets
Society. Young fans in jeans and trainers, none of
whom would have known Morrison as a living,
singing, member of the Doors, sit on the ground or
sprawl nonchalantly on nearby tombs. Most of them
are drinking wine or beer. Empty bottles litter the
ground and have been dumped inside gaping holes
in the grave next door.

The Morrison trail begins at the Hotel George V at

31 Avenue George V, just off the Champs Elyses.
This is where he joined Pamela Courson (together,
right), his long-time girlfriend, who was already
enjoying the city with a circle of rich junkie friends.
The five-star hotel, with seventeenth-century
tapestries, antique furniture and marbled bathrooms
did not appeal to Morrison though. "Its like a New
Orleans whorehouse," he said.

Here, all traditional notions of respect and

reverence are deliberately flaunted. The headstone
itself and all available flat surfaces in the vicinity are
daubed with fan messages. Someone had attached
a cigarette stub to the last letter "o" in the inscription
"Jim Morrison 19431971". The only flowers are
jammed into wine bottles and an empty Holstein
can.

So they rented a third-floor apartment at 17 rue

Beautreillis. This long narrow street runs south from
rue St Antoine near Place de la Bastille in the less
attractive end of le Marais.
Like so much of Paris, rue Beautreillis has been
desecrated by spray-can vandals but, interestingly,
there are no Morrison slogans beside the large
green doors that front No. 17. Inside is a broad
flagstoned passageway with entrances to 17 and 19
off to the left and right. There are pigeonholes for
more than thirty residents. At the far end is a
courtyard that Morrison would look over as he
wrote.

The fans themselves around twenty from France,

America and New Zealand appear aimless. To
them there is no incongruity in remembering a
mans life by discharging the debris of a consumer
culture on his grave. They sit in the dirt and
dampness looking at nothing and waiting for
nothing.

Michael McLure, a San Francisco poet who became

a close friend of Morrison, is one of the few people
to see almost everything he wrote in Paris.

The remaining members of the Doors have tried to

erect a proper memorial. Last summer, Danny
Sugerman came to Paris on their behalf to see what
could be done but discovered that their "hands were
tied". Only the estate of Jim Morrison can make
such arrangements and the senior Morrisons have
consistently avoided anything that would perpetuate
the myth of the son who hated everything they
stood for.

"He was mostly writing poetry," he recalls. "His

ambition was to write for the theatre. I dont think he
had any prose ambitions. Ive seen things of Jims
which I am afraid are now lost. A major work of his
was lost."
It was while living on rue Beautreillis that he
stumbled into the life of Herv Muller (together, left),
then a 22-year-old economics student. Very early
one morning in May 1971, Muller was asleep with
his girlfriend in their top-floor apartment at 6 place
Tristan-Bernard, in the lEtoile district, when there
came a loud knock at the door.

Jim Morrison arrived in Paris in March 1971. He

partly wanted to escape his identity as a rocknroll
star by regaining his anonymity and by writing
poetry rather than songs. He partly wanted to dry
out. At the age of 27 he was a terrible alcoholic
whose celebrated wild behaviour was now more by
accident than design.

431

"It was a friend of mine called Gilles Yepremian,"

remembers Muller, "and he said he was with Jim
Morrison. It was pretty strange. Morrison was
absolutely drunk and had been carried up the six
flights of stairs. He had his washed-out fatigue
jacket on and looked like a hippy tourist."

distinctive wood-panelled exterior and red awning,

but the doorway is barred by a grille, the pavement
outside is forlornly empty and the glass of the four
large windows has been painted white. On the
corner of the pane someone has written: "Jim was
here".

He had been discovered by Yepremian on the

pavement of the rue de Seine after having been
ejected from the RocknRoll Circus, a club that
would later play a significant role in the rumours
surrounding his death.

The following weekend Muller was invited to lunch

at Morrisons apartment. He still has the piece of
square notepaper on which Morrison wrote his
address in capital letters.
"I remember that Jim was sober that day and we sat
together in the front room," says Muller. "He talked
about art, eastern European cinema and French
literature. He hardly ever mentioned rocknroll
except to say that he thought the Doors might get
together every couple of years to make an album
and that 27 was too old to be a rock star.

*
"He just managed to wave his hand and say Hi
everybody and then he crashed on our bed near
the door and went to sleep. I was baffled! I was
thinking: this is Jim Morrison and hes asleep at the
foot of my bed?"

"It was in that room on another day that I first heard

the album LA Woman. Jim had just received it and
was very excited by it. Rightly so, in my opinion.

He woke up at eleven oclock with no recollection of

the events that had led him there and decided to
take his new-found friends out for a meal at the Bar
Alexandre, 53 avenue George V, where he was
already known to waiters who had learned to
tolerate his loud behaviour. They took a table
outside and Morrison sat looking towards the
Champs-Elyses.

"Pam very much had her own life her in Paris

among her junkie friends. Jim was trying to get LA
out of his system. He loved Paris because to him it
was this mythical, intellectual city. He liked to walk a
lot, just to go in the streets and follow his own
curiosity."
If he walked up rue Beautreillis and crossed rue St
Antoine he would have entered the narrow streets
of le Marais, an area that was falling into decay
twenty years ago but which is now filling with
galleries and boutiques. The excellent Muse
Picasso opened in 1980 in a formerly dilapidated
mansion on rue de Thorigny.

Here Muller began taking some of the only

photographs of Morrison in Paris. In one of the
shots he gazed dull-eyed into the camera, in
another he had wrapped a serviette around his face
like a cowboy mask. In two months of knowing him
Muller regrettably shot only one roll of black and
white film, and nothing in colour.

He certainly travelled south and on to the Ile St

Louis where he looked at the seventeenth-century
Htel de Lausun at 17 quai dAnjour, where
Baudelaire had an apartment and where Fernand
Boisard founded the notorious Club des
Haschichins.

"We had a great time," says Muller, "but then he

started to get weird. He was paranoid. It was
obvious that he was very lonely and very lost. When
he was drunk, all his problems came out. One
moment he was asking Yvonne to get a woman for
him and the next he was crying on her shoulder.

His final poems show that he visited Notre-Dame

and stared at the guttering rows of candles that
brighten the natural gloom of the towering cathedral
and it seems unlikely that he would have missed
the opportunity to browse in Shakespeare And
Company, a wonderfully eccentric English-language
bookstore at 37 rue de la Bcherie. Since the early
fifties it has been a refuge for expatriate writers. On
Sundays at 4 p.m. the owner, George Whitman,
hosts an open tea party in the library.

"After we left he sat on a bench and wouldnt move.

We got him back to our apartment but at the thirdfloor he started getting aggressive again. It was as
though he was fighting demons. He sat on the stairs
and shouted racist remarks. It was because of his
behaviour that day that I eventually lost my
apartment."
The Bar Alaxandre recently closed when Japanese
developers bought the corner. It retains its

432

The Left Bank beyond was one of Morrisons

favourite stomping grounds and for a brief time he
took a room at LHotel, 13 rue des Beaux Arts,
where Oscar Wilde had lived and died. Renovated
in 1968 (it was the Hotel dAlsace when Wilde knew
it) it is a small discreet hotel with drawings by
Cocteau and cracked leather-bound volumes of
Hugo and Voltaire.

RocknRoll Circus. From there it was discreetly

driven back to 17 rue Beautreillis and placed in the
bathtub.

He proudly showed me a copy of the death

certificate that had taken him three years of tugging
at French red tape to get hold of. Filed under the
name of Douglas Morrison, he was described as an
crivain.

Muller has recently tracked down the doctor who

was one of only four people known to have seen
the body. He has also spoken to figures from the
drug-smuggling underground who have talked of
Chinese heroin arriving in Paris the day before the
death.

The caf life of Saint-Germain excited him. He

loved the legends of Sartre, Picasso and Gide that
still clung to the brown panelled interior of Les Deux
Magots at 6 place Saint-Germain-Des-Pres, and he
was fascinated with the idea that characters as
diverse as Leon Trotsky and Zelda Fitzgerald had
eaten beneath the painted columns of La Coupole
at 102 boulevard du Montparnasse.

The official version remains that Morrison had a

heart attack while taking a bath. To the fans who
gather at Pre-Lachaise, where he was buried in
the presence of five mourners on 7th July, it hardly
matters which is true. The point is that Morrison
died of hard living. He didnt let death intimidate him
into living a life of moderation.

The fact that he had put on a lot of weight and was

wearing cheap clothes meant that he was almost
never recognised in these placed. One of Pamelas
friends suggested that he could have been
mistaken for a college senior from Middle America.

That is why his resting place is the scene of such

irreverence. If Jim had no respect for death why
should they? After all, images of the Virgin Mary
and the crucified Jesus, which abound at PreLachaise, would be inappropriate on the grave of
the man whose best-known song line was "Cancel
my subscription to the resurrection".

"I think there was a deliberate attempt on his part to

destroy that angelic look," says Muller. "I never saw
him in leather. Only once at the Rosebud Bar (11
bis, rue Flambre) did someone recognise him and
that made him nervous and he said: Lets go."

Steve Turner, 1991

But it was also in Saint-Germain that he became

reacquainted with the downward pull. He spent
nights with Pamela at the RocknRoll Circus,
located among chic art galleries at 57 rue de Seine.
It had been the top Parisian rock club of the latesixties but by 1971 it had lost its reputation and had
become a haven for heroin addicts and pushers.

Jim Morrison: The Anatomy Of Madness

Simon Reynolds, Melody Maker, 13 April 1991
This year's superstar is a bloated, bearded
would-be poet who died 20 years ago. SIMON
REYNOLDS investigates the dark influence and
deep fascination JIM MORRISON still exercises
over rock music today.

Today it is the Whisky a Go Go, with a garish pink

neon sign on the street outside and fresh-faced
clients in duffel coats and Manchester-sized denims
who pay a Ff90 entrance fee and stay through until
6 a.m. Dance music is played in the vaulted cellars
where the walls and ceilings have been coated with
a sparkling purple crust.

Its almost impossible to have a natural, unforced

response to The Doors' music, to hear it clearly
through the encrustation of platitudes left by the 20
year criss-cross of mythologisation and debunking.
In recent years, the only pop figure to suffer a
similar fate of over-analysis is Prince. This probably
explains why, in cooler-than-thou circles, it's hip to
argue that both Purple Imp and Lizard King are
absurdly overrated; nobody likes the taste that
clichs leave in the mouth.

According to one widespread rumour it was in this

cellar that Jim Morrison died during the early hours
of 3rd July 1971 after sniffing a line of pure heroin
while in an alcoholic haze. His body was then
passed through the rear of the building and into
LAlcazar de Paris, a saucy nightclub at 62 rue
Mazarine whose kitchens backed directly on to the

433

Unlike Prince or other over-explicated

phenomenons (The Beatles, Stones, Hendrix,
Presley), Jim Morrison gave the critics a headstart
by providing his own, extremely lucid commentary
on what he was trying to do. In The Doors' very first
press release, Morrison declared, "I am interested
in anything to do with revolt, disorder, chaos, and
especially activity that seems to have no meaning".
Morrison was remarkably conscious about his quest
for unconsciousness, supremely self-possessed in
his pursuit of self-loss. Perhaps that's why he drank
so much a crash course in how to learn to forget,
an escape route from self-built cage of having it all
worked out in advance.

For Morrison, Dionysian music meant pre-castration

Presley, the Stones, the blues. Apollonian pop?
Well, he died before he could suffer the socially
conscientious pop of The Style Council or Sting. But
there was a distinctly Apollonian tenor to the
counter culture: a longing to return to the garden of
paradise, to a lost tranquility and order. As a
Dionysian, Morrison believed that nature wasn't
benign but the enemy without and within a
wilderness that was both threatening and alluring,
offering an "eclipse of the self". As Densmore puts
it: "Jim's message was endarkenment", not the
enlightenment sought by the Love Generation. The
Doors lay somewhere between the black leather
nihilism of the Velvet Underground and the
kaleidoscopic bliss-out of West Coast psychedelia.
It was fitting that their base was Los Angeles, the
city whose vibe lay somewhere between San
Francisco (idyllic, temperate, perpetual spring) and
New York (vibrant, uptempo, nerve-edged). L.A. is
as divorced from nature as New York, but less
characterful, more phantasmic: city-as-wilderness,
whose endless freeways offered a soulless version
of the Beatnik dream of travelling but never arriving.

*
JIM MORRISON WAS the first pop deity to stagemanage his own self-mythologisation, to have a
critical understanding of the mythical dimensions of
rock 'n' roll. While that newly born species, the rock
critic, was making its first stumbling comparisons
between pop and Greek tragedy (Richard Meltzer),
and its first paeans to the Dionysian madness of
pop (Nik Cohn, Lester Bangs), Morrison was
already articulating all that in his songs, in his
performance, in his life. He was the prototype of the
critically-minded rock deviant (Iggy Pop, Nick Cave,
Perry Farrell, et al).

"Our music is like someone not quite at home,"

Morrison said. The Doors' version of psychedelic
experience was one of the estrangement and
disorientation (Strange Days), not blissful
communion with the cosmos. The Doors' songs did
not sound trippy so much as uncanny. The root
meaning of uncanny is a feeling of not being at
home in the world. Freud used "the uncanny" to
refer to when an object or person seems to have an
abnormal, ominous aura (literally, a shadow cast by
the unconscious). Morrison actively sought out this
feeling of disorientation, driven by Baudelaire's
Great Malady ("horror of one's own home"). As
with most rebels, he equated domesticity with
domestication, and thus castration. Morrison owned
nothing and lived nowhere; he lived like a bum and
by all accounts stank like one too.

Morrison had a voracious appetite for what Meltzer

calls "edge substances" (LSD, peyote, amyl nitrate,
dope, alcohol). But more important were the
cultural edge substances: Artaud's Theatre Of
Cruelty; Blake's "doors of perception"; Celine's
"journey to the end of the night"; Rimbaud's "sacred
disorder of the mind"; Baudelaire's "perpetual
drunkenness". From these Romantic and decadent
influences Morrison derived the idea of the artist as
a "broker in madness", an explorer of the frontier
territories of the human condition.
But the most lethal intoxicant that Jim Morrison ever
imbibed was the febrile writings of poet-philosopher
Friedrich Nietzche. In his memoir Riders On The
Storm, Doors drummer John Densmore goes so far
as to say "Nietzche killed Morrison". Nietzche's
Birth Of Tragedy has been described as "a
philosophical road map to The Doors"; from it,
Morrison drew the opposition between Apollonian
art versus Dionysian art. Apollonian art promotes
contemplation, calms the soul and ultimately serves
social stability. Dionysian art, named after the god
of drunkenness, incites pagan delirium,
derangement of the senses, and the volcanic
eruption within man of the untamed forces of
Nature.

*
MORRISON TOOK THE PHALLIC MODEL of
rebellion (transgression, penetration into the
unknown) to the limit. But the ultimate outcome of
that stance (the refusal to accept and affirm limits)
ultimately leads nowhere. As Albert Goldman put it:
"The flipside of breakthrough is estrangement.
Once you've broken away, it's pretty bleak out
there. The rebel cuts himself off." Morrison himself
expressed regrets that The Doors had never done
"a song that's a pure expression of pure unbounded
joy... like the coming of spring, or a celebration of
existence a feeling of being totally at home."
Instead, he stuck with the dark side. But as

434

Densmore says: "Look where darkness gets ya!"

the gloom of the tomb.

WHICH BRINGS US ROUND to the matter of the

current necrophiliac frenzy surrounding the dead
Door: what would he have make of it? Yet more of
the ghoulish voyeurism that drove him in later years
to abuse his audiences and test their passivity to
the limit? Vicarious living through someone else's
exploits is the name of the game in pop; filtered
through the lens of nostalgia, the prospect of real
liberation seems remoter than ever. But who
knows? Nietzche wrote that the effect of great
music should be that "the future digs like a spur into
the flesh of every present". Despite all the overkill of
the present resurrection, maybe something of Jim
Morrison's impossible dreams will abide unscathed
and spur us to seize the time, not "waste the dawn".

The Oedipal psychodrama of The End still divides

opinion, but whether you reckon it an epic or
embarrassingly contrived method melodrama, it
takes us to the core of Morrison's rebellion. "Kill the
father, f*** the mother" was Morrison's catechism.
Basically it meant: reject all lawgivers (from the
conscience to the State right up to God), accept no
limits to desire. But according to Freud, it's the
Oedipal complex that makes us human; if you do
not go through the Oedipal trauma ie abandon the
infant's delusions of omnipotence, you become
psychotic. What the edge substances offered
Morrison (the extremist art or deranging intoxicants
that he indulged in) was a temporary trip into
psychosis. And this connected with his ideas about
the rock idol as shaman. "Shamans," said Morrison,
"are professional hysterics, chosen precisely for
their psychotic leaning... heroes who live for us and
whom we punish."

Simon Reynolds, 1991

Hubert
Sumlin

*
WHETHER HE GENUINELY HAD such a psychotic
leaning, or merely aspired to it, Morrison's
behaviour was an amalgam of asshole and
visionary. His press officer, Danny Fields, described
him as an "adorable monster." His lust to transcend
the human condition necessarily meant that he also
left behind such prosaic human decencies as
punctuality, hygiene, consideration, moderation-inall-things, and eventually bladder control. All these
were the casualties of Morrison's drive to be a poet,
rather than simply produce poems.

Hubert Sumlin: The Wolfs Man

Alan Paul, Guitar World, 1998

INTRODUCTION: I had heard that Hubert Sumlin
was a genuinely nice guy. But before I ventured
uptown to a Manhattan club to interview him, there
was no way I could have grasped the warmth,
humor and deeply entrenched good-time vibe given
off by the guitarist whose pithy, perfectly placed
lines put much of the sting into the great Howlin
Wolfs most famous sides with Chess Records
--easily some of the greatest blues ever recorded.

As for the status-as-poetry of his work, the jury's still

out. Some reckon the Doors were best as a pop
band concise, punchy, sexy (Hello I Love You,
Light My Fire). I personally favour the more
outrageously pretentious and over-reaching stuff:
The Soft Parade (nine minutes long, five different
sections, intentionally hilarious lyrics like "cobra on
my left, leopard on my right") or The Celebration Of
The Lizard (17-minute song-cycle of mysticoFreudian tosh that still prickles my flesh as it did
when I was an impressionable 16-year-old). I can
even find some merit in An American Prayer, the
poetry album released posthumously, against
Jimbo's wishes, with backing supplied by the
surviving Doors; an album that is generally
regarded as either a calamitous exposure of the
singer's poetic pretensions, or as a rape of the
poet's original vision.

Walking into the "dressing room" at Mannys Car

Wash, the Manhattan club where Sumlin was
performing, and where we were supposed to do an
interview, I was immediately surrounded by a dozen
or so bodies crammed tight into the tiny room. Most
of the occupants were white and in their twenties,
like me, which is to say a different race and some
four decades younger than their host, who was
holding court with a crooked grin pasted across his
face.
I introduced myself, but rather than commencing an
official interview, I was swept up into his orbit, and
became another party guest. A beer was placed in
my hand and we started talking, with my tape
recorder rolling. But the tiny room was directly
behind the stage, where an opening band was
making it hard to hear one another, and was surely

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obscuring our conversation on the tape. The

situation wasnt helped by the party going on all
around us. We chatted until Hubert performed a
strong if sloppy first set, then resumed on his break.
It was then, I believe, that he invited me back to his
room after the show to finish the interview, an offer I
accepted. I drank beers and watched Hubert
perform until he had wrung the last bit of vibrato out
of his purple ESP guitar for the night, which was, of
course, actually early the next morning.

of those experiences that is extremely vivid while

its occurring, but as soon as its over, it feels like a
dream or hallucination. But a day or two later, I
started transcribing my tapes, and they were even
better than I had hoped.
The article was printed, and Rob soon called to
thank me .A month or two later, he called again and
said Hubert was playing the Roadhouse soon and
he was trying to get several guest stars to appear,
in hopes of garnering some publicity. The Allman
Brothers were in town, for one of their first Beacon
runs, and he wanted to know if I had any way of
contacting Gregg, to invite him to perform with
Hubert. I told him that as, a matter of fact, yes, I did.

At that point, I had had a great night, but was still

far from accomplishing my mission. I had filled a 90minute tape with our rambling, noisy conversations,
but I had no idea what was actually on there. As I
waited for him to load up so we could go back to his
room and finish the interview, I noticed that most of
his partying dressing room guests were still hanging
around. I started to get a little nervous as I realized
that they may well be accompanying us back to
Huberts room, where I had hoped to have a quiet,
one-on-one conversation.

At the time, Warren Haynes was actively pursuing a

solo career on the side of his Brothers gig (this was
pre-Govt Mule), and was playing a showcase gig at
the Wetlands on one of the Brothers off nights. I
spoke with the bands road manager Kirk West who
told me that Gregg would be attending the show,
and getting there early, and that if I arrived then, Id
be able to ask him if he would appear with Hubert.

As we headed back to his room, in a relatively

cheap and seedy west side Manhattan hotel, we
were indeed accompanied by a couple of young
blueshounds, including one hippie kid I recognized
as a busboy from the Lone Star Roadhouse, at the
time still New Yorks best roots music venue. He
turned out to be Rob, Huberts "adopted son," and
constant protector.

I got to the Wetlands and sure enough, Gregg was

there, accompanied at the time by a burly, bikerlooking bodyguard type. Kirk introduced us, we
chatted a bit, and I told him about Huberts gig and
said that I had been asked to invite him to perform a
song. "Sure," Gregg replied cheerfully. "Id be happy
to, man. Me and Hubert go back a long way."

Back at the room, Hubert had cans of Spam and

sardines sitting around. I remember wondering if he
carried them with him everywhere he went. Sitting
on the couch was a beat-up hat box held together
by duct tape, in which he transported his crisp,
beautiful stage Fedora. Rob and I discussed the
fact that he should have a more dignified transport
for his sky piece, and over the years I have thought
often that I should have bought him one. Thinking
about it now, as I write this, I just may do it.

I told him that I would get the details the following

day, and we were chatting a bit when Rob suddenly
burst into the room and ran over towards us,
screaming at Gregg, berating him, yelling that he
didnt respect Hubert, he had abused and ripped off
his music and the blues in general, and other
charges which I was too freaked out to process,
much less recall all these years later. Here I was
standing there with Gregg Allman, resplendent in a
fur coat, and Kirk, who had made the introduction,
when the very person who had asked me as a favor
to ask Gregg for a favor should appear out of
nowhere to verbally abuse him -- just after he had
agreed to said favor. The tirade was too insane for
anyone to elicit anything other than shock and
amusement. I don't really remember what
happened next, but I think I muttered "sorry" or
"never mind" and slinked away, as we all shook our
heads in amazement.

Once we started talking, Rob and the others sat on

the floor, rapt with Huberts still sharp memories
about his days helping make the music of one of
Americas greatest performers even greater. It was
a role he relished. Throughout the long, early
morning conversation, Hubert never lost his good
nature or his mischievous, impish grin. He really
was just as nice as his guitar lines were nasty.
We talked the night away and by the time I climbed
into a cab to head home, dawn was approaching. I
barely had time to get a few hours sleep and a
shower before grabbing a cup of coffee and
heading into work. Everything was a little fuzzy that
day, and I wasnt sure the whole night had really
even happened as I had remembered it; it was one

Rob explained his rationale to me in a later phone

call, a tale too torturous to explore here. Suffice it to
say, the whole experience was discomforting
enough to obscure from my memory just how much
fun my night hanging out with Hubert had been
--and how well the interview came out. I began to

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think about all this again recently when I head

Huberts excellent new disc Wake Up Call on Blues
Planet Records. It led me to go back and reread my
original story, and enjoy every minute of it. I hope
you agree.

day, a week, a month or a year, whatever it took.

"Come back when youre ready," he said. "When
you figure out how to play my stuff, then youre
hired." I went home and prayed and slept with my
guitar under my pillow trying to figure something
out, because I knew that this man was serious Wolf did not bullshit.

I had played with a pick for eight or nine years, and

I couldnt put it down. Then I woke up one morning
and started playing without a pick, and the first thing
I thought of was Smokestack Lightnin. I played it
better than I ever had and realized, "I dont need no
pick. I dont need anything but my fingers." And that
was it.

HUBERT SUMLIN IS one of the greatest and most

influential of the Chicago blues guitarists. From the
time he joined the legendary Howlin Wolfs band in
1954 until the singers death in 1976, Sumlin played
a central role in crafting some of the most
memorable electric blues ever recorded. His
economical, stinging fills, unusual rhythmic
approach and perfectly placed bent notes are
integral to classics like Spoonful, Smokestack
Lightnin, Killing Floor and The Red Rooster. The
recently released Howlin Wolf Chess Box, a 71song collection, is as much a tribute to Sumlin as it
is to his immortal boss.

AP: Everything fell into place when you got rid of

the pick.
SUMLIN: Exactly. I started playing with a lot more
soul. I never used a pick again - that was my secret
to unlocking everything. My tone, my sound,
everything happened right then. People cant
understand how I play - the average guitar player
dont know what Im doing. But its my thing. Its
what God gave me; I dont need a pick, because I
got five fingers - how can one pick compete?

Sumlins playing had a particular impact on those

rock guitarists who cut and bloodied their teeth on
Howlin Wolf tunes: Jimi Hendrix, who often covered
Killing Floor; Keith Richards and The Rolling
Stones, who continue to play The Red Rooster;
Robby Krieger, who helped The Doors remake
"Back Door Man"; Stevie Ray Vaughan, who took
Sumlins signature glissandos and made them a
staple of his own bag of tricks, and who paid the
blues man explicit tribute on May I Have A Talk
With You, [The Sky Is Crying]; and Page, Clapton
and Beck, all of whom flattered Sumlin by imitating
him on Spoonful and Smokestack Lightnin.

AP: One unusual aspect of your style is that you

dont play a lot of chords.
SUMLIN: No, I dont, but I play a lot of tricks. Like
Muddy Waters once said, Ive got a lot of gimmicks
up my sleeves. I know when to get in and when to
get out. Lots of guitarists just miss out on that
aspect of playing. I know how and where to put it,
which is what its all about.

Sumlin backed Howlin Wolf for 23 years, a stretch

broken only by six months in 1956 when he worked
for Wolfs arch-rival, Muddy Waters. After Wolfs
death, Sumlin launched his long-delayed solo
career, becoming a Chicago blues club fixture and
making occasional festival appearances. Over the
past five years, however, he has picked up steam,
touring often and recording three albums: 1986s
Blues Party (Black Top), 1988s Heart And Soul
(Blind Pig) and 1990s excellent Healing Feeling
(Black Top). Sumlin seems to truly enjoy
performing, grinning broadly as he roams a small
New York stage, his purple ESP Strat - a gift from
Buddy Guy - held in place by a red and white
music-note strap - a gift from Stevie Ray Vaughan.

AP: Did many of your personal playing trademarks

develop as a result of playing with Howlin Wolf for
so long?
SUMLIN: Yes and no. I also played with Muddy
Waters for six months and, Lord, I learned a lot from
Jimmy Rogers [Waters lead guitarist]. I picked up
from every guitarist I ever worked with. Id take a
note from here and a note from here, a lick from
him and a lick from him, and put it all together thats the Hubert Sumlin style. And thats what I
would recommend any guitarist do - listen to
players you like and pick things up from everyone
and everywhere.

ALAN PAUL: Did Howlin Wolf explicitly tell you

what to play?

You have to learn how to use your instrument to its

fullest. You got five different Es, you got five
different As, and you got to use them all. If youre
all over the neck, youre better. Thats why I never
used a clamp [capo] like Muddy or Albert Collins or

HUBERT SUMLIN: Not really. When I first got with

him, he told me that I wasnt ready to play his
music, so I should go home and think about it for a

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Jimmy Rogers: Why limit yourself? Youll notice that

kids coming up today play great, and they dont use
a clamp. Because theyve got better knowledge of
the instrument.

Robert Johnson and the other guys you mentioned.

At the same time, you also exerted a huge influence
on the next generation - rock guitarists who werent
really all that much younger than you.

AP: Theres one element of your background thats

almost unique among bluesmen: you studied guitar
at The Chicago Conservatory Of Music. What was
the extent of your formal training?

SUMLIN: Im very proud of that, and I got to meet

those guys. I met Eric Clapton in 1970 when I
played on Wolfs London Sessions [Chess]. I wasnt
supposed to be there, but Clapton said, "If Huberts
not there, I dont record." Then Wolf said he couldnt
record without me, so they had to bring me. Wolf
was on a dialysis machine right in the studio, with
doctors tending him night and day. He was so sick
that on a couple of nights, we didnt even record.
We just sat in the studio and got high. Mick Jagger
and Bill Wyman came in and we partied all night
long, man. The cleaning lady came in the next
morning and everyone was laying there on the floor.
Mick Jagger had his head up inside the bass drum.
[laughs] It was wild. We had a ball.

SUMLIN: I studied for six months with this old guy

who was with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. It
was the first time I ever saw a dude who played
both opera and blues on his guitar. It had a huge
impact on me, because I didnt know the piano
keyboard and I didnt know how to read - I didnt
know an F from an A, an A from a B or a B from a
C. That guy showed me so much in just six months.
AP: Even though you always played electric guitar
with Wolf, your sound often had a bit of a country
blues vibe. Is that where you come from, musically?

AP: Did you spend much time with Clapton?

SUMLIN: Actually, when I was a kid I wanted to be

a jazz player like Charlie Christian more than
anything. But I also loved and heard the blues. They
were all around me, and at a certain point, I realized
how great all these dudes I listened to were:
Charley Patton, Lonnie Johnson, Robert Johnson,
all those guys. Peetie Wheatstraw, the "devils sonin-law": Jesus, man, he was something. Then when
I got with Wolf and Muddy I realized that they
actually played with these guys, and that blew my
mind. Ill never forget my old 78 of Charlie Patton.
He was a wizard, man, a genius. I tried to ask Wolf
about him and he said , "Aw, you young punk,
youre too young to understand." It always hurt me
that I missed out on seeing and playing with those
old guys, because they wrote the book that Wolf
and Muddy electrified and expanded. If Wolf and
Muddy were the fathers of rock and roll, then those
acoustic guys were the granddaddies.

SUMLIN: Yes. One day, Eric sent a limousine for

me, and we drove for 30 or 40 miles outside of
London to his big old mansion in the country. A
gorgeous place, like a castle. We had a beautiful
dinner, then he took me down to the basement,
where he had all these guitars. It looked like a
factory - three-and-a-half walls of a room lined with
every kind of guitar you can imagine.

AP: It sounds like Wolf was very conscious of the

age difference between you two.

He said, "Hey, man, I told you to pick any two you

want from those that are up against the wall." I said,
"I know, but this Fender sure sounds good. Is it your
regular?" He said, "It sure is." I said, "I knew it,
because thats the one." He said, "You mean to say
youre going to take it from me, man?" I said, "No, I
cant do it. I dont want none of these." He said,
"Take it, man. At least I know its got a good home.
Just promise me that if I ever want it back youll
give it to me."

He said, "Pick out a couple of those guitars, Hubert.

Im giving you two of them." I walked all the way
around the room, looking at every one of them.
Then I saw this case sitting in the middle of the
room. I sat down on the floor and said , "Whats in
there?" He said, "It aint nothing, man." I asked if I
could take a look. He said. "You dont want that." I
opened the case and took out this beautiful Fender
Stratocaster and started playing it there, sitting on
the floor.

SUMLIN: Yeah. He told me one time, a couple of

years before he died, that he was "40 years too
early." He said, "I plowed mules barefoot in
December, with snow on the ground, the dirt frozen
as a rock." I said, "Dont lie, man." And he said, "Im
not lying. Im 40 years too early. Things are getting
better all the time." The next year he got sick and
went on a kidney dialysis machine.

I kept it for two years and hardly ever played it.

Then we were both at the Montreux Jazz Festival,
and I brought it over to him. He asked me how
much money I wanted, if there was anything I

AP: It can be said that you are the link between the
Delta bluesmen and rock and roll. On the one hand,
you played with Wolf, who was a contemporary of

438

needed. I said, "Nothing man, its your guitar. Dont

embarrass me." He just gave me a hug. Hes a nice
guy, a beautiful guy.

said that Wolf had been sitting in his car in front of

my house all night long. I went out there and he
apologized, and gave me money to fix my mouth.

AP: Did you have any sense that you were making
history when you recorded those classic tracks with
Wolf?

I left to play with Muddy because he tripled my

salary. They were rivals, and Muddy wanted to take
me away from Wolf.

SUMLIN: No, and I really didnt care. But I knew

that he was going to be one of the greats. And I was
so devoted that I wanted to push him to the top.
When youre recording for people the caliber of
Howlin Wolf, youre going to do your best. And in
those days, there wasnt even a question, man: you
were going to play your guts out. There had been
some days in the past when my stomach ached
from not having anything to eat. When I recorded, I
would remember those days, and remember how I
never wanted to go back to them - and I would play!

AP: Was the rivalry between Wolf and Muddy

apparent to everybody?
SUMLIN: Sure. They were jealous of one another;
they were enemies: "You stole my shit." "You did
this." "You did that." It was endless because they
were the two biggest dudes in Chicago, and they
were always arguing and competing about who was
number one. [laughs] Ill never forget the day we
played the Ann Arbor Blues Festival, and Wolf and
Muddy sat down and talked and made friends. They
shook hands and said, "No more enemies." That
thrilled me so much, I went and got a beer. This is a
business which we do every day and love to death,
and I never understood that jealousy. Its music.
Who cares whos the best?

AP: What kind of personal relationship did you have

with Wolf?
SUMLIN: We were like father and son, although we
had some tremendous fights. he knocked my teeth
out, and I knocked his out. None of it mattered; we
always got right back together.

AP: What are your memories of Jimi Hendrix?

SUMLIN: He was just a little ol dude living in
England. It was before his band, the Experience, hit
it big. We played in Liverpool, the Beatles home,
and in walked Jimi Hendrix, a little ol hip guy
wearing earings and a bandanna. Wolf said, "What
the fuck is this guy? I aint saying nothing to that
motherfucker." He came right up to Wolf and asked
if he could play his guitar. Wolf nodded and Hendrix
picked it up, turned it over and played it with his
teeth. [laughs] He played the hell out of it. Wolf
looked at him, big-eyed, and said, "You hired, man,
you hired!" He said, "No, thank you Mr. Wolf. But I
admire you and the blues. You guys are 100
percent. Beautiful, man."

AP: You fought with Wolf? He was a huge man.

SUMLIN: Oh man, he was big - he could wrap one
of his fingers around my guitar neck three times.
One time after a gig, we were loading up the truck
and I wasnt there, because Id run off with this cute
girl whod been sitting on my amplifier, smiling at
me all night long. When I got back they were just
finishing loading, and Wolf was standing on top of
the stage. He started yelling at me, calling me every
name you ever heard - and some you couldnt
imagine - because he had to load my gear. I was
embarrassed, man, because this was right in front
of the whole band.

I never played with him after that, but I saw him do

his thing in New York, after he hit, and I fell in love.
The guy was great! Just a little ol skinny youngster.
He was in his twenties, but he looked 16 or 17, and
he was good, man. I mean, really good.

So I thought, "He cant do this to me. He cant

humiliate me." So I waited until he was looking the
other way, and I hit him in the face as hard as I
could. He didnt move. He just turned back real slow
and slapped me with the back of his hand. I fell and
rolled down the ramp that was pushed up to the
stage to load the amps. I got up and walked back,
screaming at him. When I got to the top he did the
same thing again, and I rolled right back down,
spitting out teeth.

AP: Hendrix often called you a big influence. Your

playing on several tracks from the 50s represents
some of the earliest instances of guitarist using
distortion. How did you do that?
SUMLIN: I was just using my Gibson and my
Wabash amp, which I used for a long time. It was
one of the first amps to have 15-inch speakers. I
also got an Echoplex right when they came out, and

AP: Is that why you left to play with Muddy Waters?

SUMLIN: No. Me and Wolf patched it up right away.
In fact, the next morning, my wife woke me up and

439

combined with those 15-inch speakers, that made

"distortion."

The crowds in San Francisco Hendrixs three

February nights there were the biggest in the
Fillmores history were drooling for Hendrix in the
flesh. They got him. This time he didnt burn his
guitar ("I was feeling mild") but, with the blatantly
erotic arrogance that is his trademark, he gave
them what they wanted.

AP: What sort of Gibson did you play?

SUMLIN: A Les Paul - I believe it was a 56. I often
played them. I also had a Kay guitar. For four years,
Wolf didnt have a piano or even a bass - just two
guitars and drums, so Jody Williams [Wolfs second
guitarist] and I coordinated our parts closely and
decided that we would both play Kays. I didnt like
that Les Paul all that much, but I sure do wish that I
had it now. [laughs]

He played all the favorites, 'Purple Haze', 'Foxy

Lady', 'Let Me Stand Next to Your Fire' and 'The
Wind Cries Mary'. He played flicking his gleaming
white Stratocaster between his legs and propelling
it out of his groin with a nimble grind of his hips.
Bending his head over the strings, he plucked them
with his teeth as if eating them, occasionally pulling
away to take deep breaths. Falling back and lying
almost prone, he pumped the guitar neck as it stood
high on his belly.

Alan Paul, 1998

Jimi Hendrix

He made sound by swinging the guitar before him

and just tapping the body. He played with no hands
at all, letting the wah-wah pedal bend and break the
noise into madly distorted melodic lines. And all at
top volume, the bass and drums building a wall of
black noise heard as much by pressure on the
eyeballs as with the ears.

Jimi Hendrix 1968

Michael Lydon, New York Times, March 1968

"Will he burn it tonight?" asked a neat blonde

of her boyfriend, squashed in beside her on
the packed floor of the Fillmore auditorium.
"He did at Monterey," the boyfriend said,
recalling the Pop Festival at which the
guitarist, in a moment of elation, actually put
a match to his guitar. The blonde and her
boyfriend went on watching the stage,
crammed with huge silver-fronted Fender
amps, a double drum set, and whispering
stage hands. Mitch Mitchell, the drummer,
came on first, sat down, smiled, and
adjusted his cymbals. Then came bassist
Noel Redding, gold glasses glinting on his fair
delicate face, and plugged into his amp.

The black Elvis? He is that in England. In America

James Brown is, but only for Negroes; could
Hendrix become that for American whites? The title,
rich in potential imagery, is a mantle waiting to be
bestowed. Within his wildness, Hendrix plays on the
audiences reaction to his sexual violence with an
ironic and even gentle humor. The D.A.R. sensed
what he is up to: they managed to block one
apperance with the Monkees last summer, because
he was too "erotic." But if Jimi knows about his
erotic appeal, he wont admit it.
"Man, its the music, thats what comes first," he
said, taking a quick swig of Johnny Walker Black in
his motel room. "People who put down our
performance, theyre people who cant use their
eyes and ears at the same time. Theyve got a
button on their shoulder blades that keeps only one
working at a time. Look, man, we might play
sometimes just standing there; sometimes we do
the whole diabolical bit when were in the studio and
theres nobody to watch. Its how we feel. How we
feel and getting the music out, thats all. As soon as
people understand that, the better."

"There he is," said the blonde, and yes, said the

applause, there he was, Jimi Hendrix, a cigarette
slouched in his mouth, dressed in tight black pants
draped with a silver belt, and a pale rainbow shirt
half hidden by a black leather vest.
"Dig this, baby," he mumbled into the mike. His left
hand swung high over his frizz-bouffant hair making
a shadow on the exoploding sun lightshow, then
down onto his guitar and the Jimi Hendrix
Experience roared into 'Red House'. It was the first
night of the groups second American tour. During
the first tour, last summer, they were almost
unknown. But this time two LPs and eight months
of legend preceded them.

The Jimi Hendrix Experience, now doing a two

month tour, was formed in October, 1966, just
weeks after Hendrix came to London from
Greenwich Village encouraged by former Animal
Chas Chandler. Mitchell, 21, came from Georgie
Fames band, a top Engliush rhythm and blues
group, and 22-year-old Redding switched to bass

440

from guitar which he had played with several small

time bands. Their first job, after only a few weeks of
rehearsal, was at the Paris Olympia on a bill with
Johnny Hallyday.

shouting, yeah, yeah. We dont want everybody

up. They should just sit there and dig it. And they
must dig it, or we wouldnt be here."
A John Wayne movie played silently on the
television set in the stale and disordered room, and
Hendrix started alternating slugs of scotch and
Courvoisier. He stopped and turned toward the
window, looking out over San Francisco. "This looks
like Brussels, all built on hills. Beautiful. But no city
Ive ever seen is as pretty as Seattle, all that water
and mountains. I couldnt live there, but it was
beautiful."

Their first record, 'Hey Joe', got to number four on

the English charts; a tour of England and steady
dates at in London clubs, plus a follow-up hit with
'Purple Haze', made them the hottest name around.
Mens hairdressers started featuring the
"Experience style." Paul McCartney got them
invited to the Monterey Pop Festival and they were
a smash hit.
But Jimi Hendrix, born James Marshall Hendrix 22
years ago in Seattle, Washington, goes a lot futher
back. Now hip rocks enfant terrible, he quit high
school for the paratroopers at 16 ("Anybody could
be in the army, I had to do it special, but, man, I was
bored"). Musically he came up the black route,
learning guitar to Muddy Waters records on his
back porch, playing in Negro clubs in Nashville,
begging his way onto Harlem bandstands, and
touring for two years in the bands of rhythm and
blues headliners: the Isley Brothers, Little Richard,
and King Curtis. He even played the Fillmore once,
but that was backing Ike and Tina Turner before the
Haight-Ashbury scene.

Besides his music, Hendrix doesnt do much. He

wants to retire young and buy a lot of motels and
real estate with his money. Sometimes he thinks of
producing records or going to the Juilliard School of
Music to learn theory and composition. In London
he lives with his manager, but plans to buy a house
in a mews. In his spare time he reads Isaac
Asimovs science fiction. His musical favorits as he
listed them are Charlie Mingus, Roland Kirk, Bach,
Muddy Waters, Bukka White, Albert Collins, Albert
King, and Elmore James.
"Where do you stop? There are so many, oh, man,
so many more, all good. Sound, and being good,
thats important. Like were trying to find out what
we really dig. We got plans for a play-type scene
with people moving on stage and everything
pertaining to the song and every song a story. Well
keep moving. It gets tiring doing the same thing,
coming out and saying, Now well play this song,
and Now well play that one. People take us
strange ways, but I dont care how they take us.
Man, well be moving. Cause man, in this life, you
gotta do what you want, you gotta let your mind and
fancy flow, flow, flow free."

"I always wanted more than that," he said. "I had

these dreams that something was gonna happen,
seeing the numbers 1966 in my sleep, so I was just
passing time till then. I wanted my own scene,
making my music, not playing the same riffs. Like
once with Little Richard, me and another guy got
fancy shirts cause we were tired of wearing the
uniform. Richard called a meeting. I am Little
Richard, I am Little Richard, he said, the King, the
King of Rock and Rhythm. I am the only one
allowed to be pretty. Take off those shirts. Man, it
was all like that. Bad pay, lousy living, and getting
burned."

Michael Lydon, 1968

Jimi Hendrix: A Funeral In His Home Town

Early in 1966 he finally got to Greenwich Village

where, as Jimmy James, he played the Cafe Wha?
with his own hastily formed group, the Blue Flames.
It was his break and the bridge to todays Hendrix.
He started to write songs he has written
hundreds and play what he calls his "rock-bluesfunky-freak" sound.

John Morthland, Rolling Stone, 29 October 1970

Seattle, Washington It had been very hot and
sunny the last few days in Seattle, most unusual for
this time of year. But on Thursday, October 1st the
sun didn't quite make it all the way out.

"Dylan really turned me on not the words or his

guitar, but as a way to get myself together. A cat like
that can do it to you. Race, that was okay. In the
Village people were more friendly than in Harlem
where its all cold and mean. Your own people hurt
you more. Anyway, I had always wanted a more
integrated sound. Top-Forty stuff is all out of gospel,
so they try to get everybody up and clapping,

Down in the coffee shop of the Hilton Hotel, right by

the airport, Jimi Hendrix's friends and associates
were slowly gathering for breakfast. At the Hendrix
family's house in South Seattle, the family was
getting ready. They would all meet at Dunlap Baptist
Church on Ranier Avenue South, where Jimi's
funeral was to be held.

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Nearly two weeks after his death in London, Jimi

Hendrix was back in Seattle, his home town, to be
buried. The results of the inquest had been relayed
from London; it was an "open verdict" in every
sense of the word, but at this time nobody was
really concerned with how he died anyhow. The
reality of the present situation Jimi's funeral
said all that seemed to be said.

And I said fly on my sweet angel,

Fly on through the sky,
Fly on my sweet angel,
Tomorrow I'm gonna be by your side.
Sure enough this woman came back to me,
Silver wings silhouetted against a child's sunrise.
And my angel said to me,
Today is the day for you to rise.
Take my hand,
You're gonna be my man,
You're gonna rise.
The she took me high over yonder.
And I said fly on my sweet angel,
Fly on through the sky,
Fly on my sweet angel,
Forever I will be by your side.

The funeral was to begin at the church at 1 P.M.

The Hendrix family had requested a small, private
funeral for friends and relatives only. A pool reporter
and pool photographer were allowed inside the
church, but that was all. Rope barriers had been
strung along either side of the walkway leading up
to the church door, and press and onlookers stayed
behind it.
The Seattle longhair community was most
respectful of the family's wishes. They stood quietly
behind the ropes and watched as people walked
into the church. They had also come to pay tribute
to Jimi, for no other reason, and they provided none
of the problems with crowd control that Seattle
police had prepared for, just in case.

At the end of the short service, the people filed past

the open casket and out of the church.
Then the pallbearers Dave Anderson, James
Thomas, Steve Phillips, Herbert Price, Eddy
Howard, and Danny Howellcame out, bearing the
coffin. With the exception of Price, who was Jimi's
chauffeur and valet in Hawaii this summer when a
film was being made, all were friends from Jimi's
childhood.

The church itself was very simple, even dull. A small

building, the chapel had no stained glass windows.
At the front were the pulpit, the coffin, and a floral
arrangement dominated by a large and striking
guitar.

From the church, the procession of perhaps 100

cars made the 20-minute drive to Greenwood
Cemetery, in nearby Renton, where, after a few
more words from Rev. Blackburn and a chorus of
'When the Saints Go Marching In', Jimi Hendrix,
age 27, was returned to the earth.

Dunlap Baptist Church is attended by Janie, Jimi's

nine-year-old sister. The Hendrix family had
determined funeral arrangements, and chose to do
it very traditionally. Participants were the Rev.
Harold Blackburn, Mrs. Freddie Maye Gautier, a
close friend of the family, who read the eulogy, and
Patronella Wright, another family friend, who sang
three beautiful spirituals backed by a gospel piano.

It had been a hectic week in Seattle prior to funeral.

The ceremony itself had been put back a few times
because the autopsy in London had been put back.
Funeral arrangements handled primarily by
Michael Jeffery, Jimi's manager, through his father,
James Allan Hendrix had been sometimes
chaotic, an endless series of meetings and phone
calls with Seattle officials.

In her eulogy, Mrs. Gautier read from Jimi's own

works: 'Electric Church' and 'Angel'. The latter is the
last song Hendrix wrote and recorded at Electric
Lady, his New York studios, before he left for
Europe in August to play the Isle of Wight. It is an
ominous song. Even more so in the context in
which it was read:

Initially, there was talk of a huge rock and roll

memorial service and jam. That was scotched
quickly, partly due to lack of time to organize such
an event, partly because the City of Seattle freaked
at the idea. "If we can't do it right, we won't do it at
all," Jimi's father said, and that settled that.

Angel came down from heaven yesterday.

She stayed with me just
Long enough to rescue me.
And she told me a story yesterday,
About the sweet love between the
Moon and the deep sea.
And then she spread her wings
High over me.
She said she's gonna come back tomorrow.

"It was never a really special thing when Jimi played

Seattle," promoter Tom Hulett said Thursday as we
were driving away from the cemetery. "The press
never played it up like the return of the home town
boy, it wasn't like a special gig for Jimi, and the kid's
did not really relate him to Seattle. When the press

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last week heard about the possibility of a big

memorial concert, I think they started getting scared
of something like another Woodstock. That was
certainly one of the things."

Burdon also claims Jeffrey, his former manager,

took him to the cleaners. Jeffrey, however, says that
it was Yameta, a Bahamian management firm, that
is unable to account for the money that Burdon
says is missing, and that he, Jeffrey, lost out as
well. Jeffrey also says that he offered to jointly sue
Yameta with Burdon, but Burdon turned around and
filed suit against him instead. The outcome of that
will be determined by New York courts.

Hulett had promoted Jimi's four Seattle gigs, as well

as other West Coast dates. As one of Jimi's closest
friends in Seattle, he had been game to organize
the memorial concert were it ever a real possibility.
He did get together the gathering and jam session
for friends and family that took place after the
funeral.

As concerns Hendrix, though for the constant

inference, never stated outright, is that Jeffrey was
bilking Hendrix his money all went straight to an
independent New York accountant (who also
handles finances for Barbra Streisand and Dustin
Hoffman), and Jeffrey produced more papers to
show that he never sees a cent until the accountant
pays him the standard manager's fee, out of Jimi's
earnings, per the contract agreement. Such papers
are pretty hard to argue with.

Meanwhile, Jeffrey himself had come under much

criticism after Jimi's death, and, while he insisted he
didn't want to "bad-rap" anyone, he felt compelled
to answer charges against him. That meant mostly
to answer Eric Burdon, as well as Buddy Miles.
Miles felt Jeffrey had cheated him financially when
he was a member of the Band of Gypsys, and, from
that, he inferred that Jimi had been cheated too.
Jeffrey produced papers that bluntly disproved
Buddy's charges, and the rest of their dispute
centered around basic personality conflicts. The
bad feelings between them had all but subsided by
Thursday, out of respect for Jimi, and Thursday
night, the drummer said he wanted nothing but to
forget the whole unpleasant affair.

All of this seemed pretty irrelevant to Jimi's friends

and fellow musicians, who started arriving at the
Hilton in Seattle in large numbers Tuesday, and
continued coming in right up to the day of the
funeral.
Noel Redding and Mitch Mitchell the other twothirds of the Jimi Hendrix Experience got in from
England Tuesday night, along with roadies Jerry
Stickles and the perpetually cheerful Eric Barrett.

Burdon was something else. He had gone to BBC

television shortly after Jimi's death and made some
statements that appalled Jeffrey and most everyone
else. He claimed that Jimi had "made his exit when
he wanted to"; that he used a drug to phase himself
out of this life and go someplace else."

"Look at the beauty in his music and lyrics; what

more can you say?" asked Redding.
"I think people are trying to make it like some kind
of Judy Garland syndrome. It's getting too fucking
theatrical," said Mitchell. "All I hope for is the man is
in peace at last. All he ever wanted to do was play
his guitar, he just wanted to play music which says
'Here, I've got this energy, and go and do what you
want, but direct it somewhere'."

He also said that he had a poem which Jimi had

written just before he died it was not presented
at the inquest, and he could be prosecuted for
withholding evidence and added that Jimi was
" handing me a legacy to continue the work of
bringing the audio-visual medium together." His first
project, he says, will be a film called The Truth
About Jimi Hendrix, and he further plans to use the
poem as the climax of the film.

"Last week I was looking at a film script Jimi was

working on, and in the margin he had written 'Don't
raise me up; I am but a messenger.' That's definitely
the direction he was going in," Jeffrey said. "He
realized the power of soul, as one of his own songs
said. He was an up, one of the highest people I've
every known, and he was getting more and more
spiritual. To my mind, his music was the music of
the new religion.

Burdon never showed for the funeral.

He was in San Francisco the next weekend,
though, appearing with his new group, War. He said
that he didn't go to the funeral because Jimi had
told him before that he hated Seattle, and Eric
thought it improper to bury him there. He also says
now that if he ever described the poem as a
"suicide note" which he did he meant it
figuratively.

"His stage image halted him, though, and that was

frustrating for him. That old ghost from the past
the humping the guitar, the 'Foxey Lady' stuff.
Because that wasn't the true Jimi Hendrix, that
ballsy, raunchy image. And as he was becoming

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more and more spiritual, he wanted more to fling

that image off, and just play his music."

head. If you could ever transcribe the sound in a

man's head directly onto the tape Whew!"

Johnny Winter and his manager, Steve Paul,

arrived. Paul's New York club, The Scene, was one
of Jimi's favorite places; he spent many evening
there jamming with whoever wanted to get up on
the stage with him. John Hammond Jr. slipped in
quietly with Al Aronowitz, the New York music writer
whose column in the Post has included some of the
most lucid words about Jimi and his art. Miles Davis
checked into another hotel downtown, and came to
the funeral Thursday. He said afterward that Jimi's
were the only albums he listens to at home. Buddy
Miles and his whole band were at the Holiday Inn.

Jimi left behind, according to Kramer, about two

albums worth of studio cuts, and a superb live
album recorded at Royal Albert Hall. They will be
released soon. There's lots more Hendrix tapes that
few will ever hear, however; if they can't cut what's
already cut, Jimi's associates feel, it wouldn't be fair
to his memory to release them.
The gathering that followed the funeral was
described by many as a wake, and it was certainly
closer in spirit to Jimi Hendrix than what had
preceded it that day. The musical tribute was held in
the Food Circus building of the Seattle Center,
directly below the Space Needle left over from the
World's Fair. Hulett had arranged for music, there
was food and the atmosphere was much lighter.

Abe Jacob, who did the sound on two Hendrix

tours, arrived. "He was the easiest person in the
business to do sound for," Jacob said. "He was
loud, but he was so careful himself with the sound."

The Buddy Miles Express played a full set. From

there, it turned into a free-wheeling jam, started off
by Miles, Redding, Winter and Hammond. Pretty
soon Mitchell took over on drums, the two guitarists
fell out, and it was like that for the rest of the
afternoon, with the musicians stepping in and out,
or trading axes. Jimi's young cousin, Eddie Hall,
displayed a fast and fluid blues guitar, and the
music went on into the early evening.

Chuck Wein, who had filmed Hendrix in Hawaii

several months earlier, discussed the movie. "Jimi
was extraordinarily sensitive; he could talk to
someone just a minute, and know right where their
heads were at. He was aware of the whole planet,
and his relation to it," Chuck said. "The movie will
surprise a lot of people; it shows a side of Jimi that
few really knew at all." It's called Rainbow Bridge,
and Chuck is still editing. It will still be released, as
a tribute.

John Morthland, 1970

And late Wednesday night, Eddie Kramer, the

dapper chief engineer at Hendrix's Electric Lady
Studios, arrived. He has spent as much time in a
recording studio with Jimi as anyone and
Hendrix spent hours upon hours in studios and
Thursday morning he was talking about the spate of
Hendrix albums that will undoubtedly be released
now.

Jimi Hendrix: The Cry Of Love

Charles Shaar Murray, Oz, March 1971
"Well I'm sitting here in this womb/lookin' all around,
I'm looking out my belly button window/and I see a
whole world frowns, And I wonder if they want me
around..."

"I'm certain there's all kinds of unscrupulous people

in the business, who shall remain nameless, that
will release tapes of Jimi now. We'll just have to try
to do our best with Warner Brothers to stop it. The
thing is, these people will put them on the basis that
any Jimi Hendrix music is good music.

Jimi Hendrix's last 45 minutes of music. The

product of a series of sessions at his Electric Lady
studios, broken for his loW gig. He died the night
before he intended to go back to lay down two more
tracks and do the final mix. Still, here it is, Definitely
the last Hendrix tapes, say Track, possibly to justify
the price (2.40/48/-).

"And that's not true! I know it and Jimi knew it. He

had to have everything just perfect by his
standards, and he never did that same thing twice.
He'd lay down tracks, and every time he put his
guitar over it and played it different. Sometimes he'd
take tapes home and listen to them all night, and
the next day he'd come in and do it entirely
different. You should have seen him he'd be
down there grimacing and straining, trying to get it
to come out of the guitar the way he heard it in his

If this album had been substandard, it would have

been an unbearable disappointment. As it is, it
contains come shattering but nevertheless worth
while material. Hendrix being ho-hum is still better
than most people being brilliant.
Hendrix's infinite potential shines out of everything
he ever recorded, but sometimes he failed

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miserably to tap it. This dependence on inspiration

is what separates the Jimis and Janises, the Dylans
and Lennons from the hardy professionals. The
likes of the Zep or, on a much higher plane, Johnny
Winter have their show so tight and together that all
they need to do is go out on stage and DO it.
Inspiration doesn't come in to it. Some gigs Jimi
was terrible, some nights he was as good as it ever
gets. His records generally contained, an equal mix
of absolute killers, real total mindfuckers, and
interesting little also-rans, marking-time things,
ultimately just fillers.

MAYBE ITS JUST my imagination, but the Jimi

Hendrix section of my local record bin seems to
have been growing at an astonishing pace lately. In
recent weeks, weve been offered a bland semi-jam
with Lonnie Youngblood (who?) on Maple Records,
a collection of ancient tapes with the Isley Brothers
(a product of Buddah, from whom it would have
been nice to say that they shouldve known better),
and a large assortment of bootlegs, all seemingly
taken from the same series of Los Angeles Forum
concerts.
But The Cry of Love is the genuine article, Hendrixs
final effort and it is a beautiful, poignant testimonial,
a fitting coda to the career of a man who was
clearly the finest electric guitarist to be produced by
the Sixties, bar none. This record seems more
complete than the album Janis left for us, but like
Pearl, it too seems strangely foreshortened, a
venture caught in the process of becoming and
suddenly halted. The fact that The Cry of Love is
still as good as it is must serve as some sort of
reminder as to just how large looms the shadow of
its creator.

The Cry Of Love is very beautiful. Some of the cuts

are messy and inconclusive, but at least half of it is
ultimate Hendrix. That indescribable, incomparable
sheet-lightning guitar is there all the time, either
softly curling into the cool darkened chamber back
recesses of your lobes or else strobing your head,
electronically galvanising your helpless reflexes. He
can even take absolutely shagged-out heavy riffs
and build them into entirely new structures. For
instance, 'In From The Storm' takes Blind Faith's
'Had to Cry Today' riff, builds into a tearing piece
similar to Johnny Winter And's 'Guess I'll Go Away'
and finishes with Jeff Beck's 'Rice Pudding'. And yet
it all sounds brand new.

As a pure musician and this is not even touching

his grace as a performer, or his role as the first nonTop 40 superstar Hendrix was strangely unique
in a field bred on familiarity. He was an intense
craftsman, of course, as one of his earliest sides,
'Red House', attested; a fluid-fingered picker who
could ripple off runs with an unexpectedly perfect
style, bursting out with phrases that filled up every
loose chink in a song as if they had been especially
inscribed for the occasion. But more than that,
Hendrix was a master of special effect, a guitarist
who used electricity in a way that was never as
obvious as mere volume. He took his bag of toys
the fuzz-tone, the wah-wah pedal, the stack of
Marshalls and used them as a series of
stepping-stones to create wave upon wave of
intense energy, proper settings for a scene of wrath
and somehow healing destruction. It was rock and
roll that was both quite in tune with and yet far
ahead of its time, and in a way, Im not sure that
weve ever really fully caught up.

Basically, 'Drifting' and 'Angel' are gentle

dreamweavers like 'One Rainy Wish' from Axis:
Bold as Love, 'My Friend' features Jimi sticking to
rhythm guitar, backed only by clinking glasses,
conversation and mouth harp as he recites a rather
Dylanish tale of being on the road. With one
exception, all the other cuts are Hendrix stormers of
varying quality. The exception is the album's last
track, 'Belly Button Window'. A solo track, with a
Canned Heatish rolling blues lick as its basis,
overlaid with quirky wah-wah pedal work, the song
explores the thoughts of a baby in the womb waiting
to be born. Even without getting into any pseudomystical crap about premonitions, it's hard to take if
you're the least bit sentimental, or if youre as
emotional a Hendrix obsessive as I am. "If you don't
want me, make up you mind"
All the way through this piece, I find myself referring
to Jimi Hendrix in the present tense. As Eric Burdon
said, "I know Jimi Hendrix is alive because I heard
him on the radio".

Still, and its important to view The Cry of Love in

this light, it seems that Hendrix found it hard to
sustain his creativity once he had made his initial
breakthrough. His first album, Are You
Experienced?, was as near a total statement as he
made, each cut caught in its prime and done in a
way that allowed for no waste or superficiality, and
try as he might, he was never able to come as close
to that completeness on any of his subsequent
releases. Indeed, the strengths that Hendrix
displayed in his debut effort were to remain his
strengths throughout his career. For one, he

Charles Shaar Murray, 1971

Jimi Hendrix: The Cry Of Love
Lenny Kaye, Rolling Stone, 1 April 1971

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showed off an astonishing ability to construct a

song: the opening lines to 'Purple Haze' are not
only remarkable in their dumb simplicity but for the
mayhem which logically follows. For another, his
music had an incongruous element of lyricism, a
tender second side that could hardly be explained
in the context of 'Foxy Lady,' such things as 'May
This Be Love' or 'The Wind Cries Mary.' And last,
and probably most significant, he built a
magnetizing presence, an overwhelming personality
which totally dominated each cut, creating a flesh
and blood image that had to stay with you long after
you had left the record and gone home.

reserved for late night listening. Electric Ladyland,

which came out not too long a time after, showed
that things were wearing thin. The best cut on the
double-record set was, almost ironically, a sort of
loose blues jam around 'Voodoo Child,' and despite
such silver-studded highlights as 'All Along The
Watchtower' and 'Crosstown Traffic,' the album
never really got itself together.
Why? More of the reason is tied up with Hendrixs
personality and artistic temperament than well ever
be able to guess. But the problem, as I see it,
appears to have been one of material, rather than
any disintegration in his style or approach to that
material. Hendrix learned his chops in blues and
rhythm and blues, where a musician is given a
formalized, set structure to work with, and operates
within that structure, embellishing and interpreting
as he will. Hendrix, however, chose to make his
stand in the dawning field of rock, which though it
was easily as formalized a music, still carried a
different set of traditions with it: for our purposes
here, the two most important being that you write
your own music and that, though it should always
sound familiar, should never be note-for-note the
same as something you did before. Where Hendrix
could spend two years backing up Little Richard,
who essentially did the same song in a variety of
minutely different ways, he wasnt about to be able
to pull off the same thing on his own.

There were other things involved, of course, but

they have more to do with the stream of rock and
roll at that time rather than with Hendrix himself.
The concept of the rock trio, for instance, was just
beginning to strike gold, and it was bolstered by a
dynamite combination of English decadence over
Seattle black man that helped propel him towards
success. In the end, though, even if that first album
had arrived at your door in a plain blank cover, we
would have known that here was something to be
reckoned with, a massively exciting interstellar
achievement.
But the question was, and remains, what can you
do for an encore? Very early, it seemed that Hendrix
had been almost captured by his audience, trapped
by the totality of that first release, and he was never
given room to grow. As in sports, every artist needs
to work off a challenge, to have a spur in his side
that makes him top himself, time after time after
time. After Monterey, though, there was no
challenge. At concerts, he was applauded for even
the meagrest of performances, standing ovations at
the most lackluster of guitar smashings, and as a
result, he just didnt try as hard. Perhaps if his
supporting musicians had been stronger (and this is
not to slight either Noel Redding or Mitch Mitchell,
who backed Hendrix to the hilt during these early
years) he might have been able to work off them
and move onto some new and fresher ground. But
Hendrix was a musical giant who never found
anyone quite as tall as himself, and so, like all great
men, he stood alone.

And so after the first album and parts of the second,

where his creativity was able to function under the
new ground rules, it was becoming clear by the time
of Electric Ladyland that he couldnt keep it up. In
that sense, its interesting that when he took on
other peoples material (such as 'All Along the
Watchtower') he turned-in a job that was nothing
short of marvelous. But as for his own
compositions, it was as if he had lost the touch.
They sounded contrived, put together because he
was bored with the old stuff and needed something
new, and the consequent artificiality only caused
him to fall back on his crowd-pleasing tricks, things
that time had taught him would generate some kind
of response.
After Electric Ladyland, Hendrix seemed to retreat
back into his guitar. The Experience dissolved,
there was talk of new bands, but nothing that
amounted to much. He seemed to move away from
areas that were troubling him, back to the things he
knew best. In large part he gave up studio recording
concentrating on live appearances and jamming
instead. When he appeared with Buddy Miles and
Billy Cox at the Fillmore on the New Years Eve
spanning 1969-70, it was more with the intent to be
a member of a band than a solo star. Buddy did a
large part of the singing and clowning around, and

In actuality, Hendrix never made a bad record his

worst was usually far above most anyone elses
best but increasingly his albums began to break
down into Good tracks and Not-So-Good tracks.
Axis: Bold As Love never really lived up to the
promise of its cover, composed as it was of refined
explorations of some of the places 'The Wind Cries
Mary' had visited. Much of it was quite excellent
Hendrix was obviously looking toward moving into a
new style but it lacked the drive and kinetic force
of Are You Experienced?, becoming an album to be

446

Hendrix seemed content to move in the shadow,

working his guitar with a flair that brought all his
assets to the fore. He played his instrument better
than anyone else I could dream of that night, and
his best moments came not in his song solos, which
tended to overextend themselves, but in his fills and
punctuations, the little added extras in which he
most seemed to delight.

the pint, and there isnt a wasted moment. The cut

fades at the end and then returns with a sudden
lick, almost as an afterthought a nice touch.
'Night Bird Flying' starts sluggishly, as if most of the
musicians werent quite sure what to do with it, but
picks up a little as Hendrix begins to jam with his
own guitar work on another track.
'My Friend', with its tinkling glasses and nightclub
noises, could just have been the usual end-of-sideone throwaway, except for a set of lyrics which
Hendrix almost casually injects. The style is Dylanesque, circa 'Subterranean Homesick Blues':
slightly surrealistic, a lot of friendly nonsense, and
some very aware, deeply personal lines. 'And, uh,
sometimes its not so easy, specially when your only
friend/Talks, sees, looks and feels like you/And you
do just the same as him...' Not much. Just a little
something to think about.

This was the way he spent his last two years

playing around, building a new studio, everything, in
fact, but recording a new album and now, after
the end, we have The Cry of Love. In the sense of a
breakthrough, its not anything we might not have
expected from Hendrix. Still, the songs are all
uniquely his, stylized in his unique way, and after so
long an absence, they are more than welcome.
Because of the general excellence of the
engineering and production, its hard to say just
how complete the album was before his death, but
it is clear that if these tracks were mostly finished
and in the can, then the only thing holding up their
release must have been Jimi himself. They are that
good.

'Straight Ahead' greets you as you turn the album

over to side two, and its not a particularly
noteworthy way to begin. Hendrix plays a nice wahwah guitar, but the song is dragged down by some
fairly obvious Socially Significant lyrics and a
lethargic reading. 'Astro Man' is a whole different
story, however. Of all the cuts on the album, this
one has the most incomplete feel, with nobody
really sure of where the song is heading. Yet
building from the same science fiction chords that
the Jefferson Airplane used to open 'The House on
Pooneil Corners', it easily overcomes any of its
deficiencies, loose limbed and rocking at every turn.

The album opens with 'Freedom', all flashes and

exuberance, and it pointedly sets the tone for the
record. The tune is one of Hendrix best, full of
straining tensions and masterful releases, ripping
along at a pace that is not to be believed, picking up
spend as it goes. Hendrix always knew how to kick
a band, and he is at his peak here. Mitch Mitchell
follows him along perfectly, and shows a few of the
reasons why he was always Hendrixs greatest
foundation.

If whoever put together the pieces of The Cry of

Love had a flair for the melodramatic, 'Angel' might
have been placed at the end of the record, its
death-like images of salvation and resurrection
providing the final touch to a memorial album. But
programmed as it is, side two, band three, it stands
on its own merits, a beautiful piece of work. It
moves nicely into a frantic 'In From The Storm',
Hendrix shining at his most furious, changing the
structure of the song three or four times until things
finally run out of steam. The final touch is saved for
'Belly Button Window,' a kind of slow and mellow
blues which Hendrix performs accompanied only by
his guitar, a sly smile on his face, a few light
whistles as the fade comes in. You can almost see
him waving as he moves the distance.

If 'Freedom' exemplifies one side of Hendrix, the

next cut, 'Drifting', aptly show off his other. As a
composer (though that word seems somewhat out
of place in this setting), Hendrix had the uncanny
knack of molding his music perfectly to his lyrics.
'Manic Depression' is the obvious example here,
though this quality tended to come through better
on his slower, prettier material. 'Drifting' is no
exception. A beautiful guitar figure opens the track
soft and formless, and waits as the rest of the
instruments slowly slide in, seemingly revolving one
around the other. Hendrixs vocal is right up front,
almost studied, filled with lovely images of
'Driftin/On a sea of forgotten teardrops/On a
lifeboat...' and floating off from there. Its a ghostly
cut, one of the most moving pieces Hendrix ever
created, and it says much for the breadth and
scope of his talent.

So there you have it. The Cry of Love had come out
while Hendrix was alive, we probably would have
said it was a good album, bought a million copies,
and left it at that. but now that hes gone, it has to
become that much more precious, something to
savor slowly because therell be no other. It does
him justice no mean feat and I dont think we
could have ever wanted anything more than that.

After these two opening classics, The Cry of Love

seems to get down to business. 'Ezy Rider' is a
rocker, plain and simple, and Hendrix and Co. light
into it with a fury. The guitar leads are short and to

447

awe. He was a mesmerizing performer and you can

see it in the movies. Sometimes you can even see it
in the stills. Jimi had all the moves, he'd studied with
the masters so long he'd become one himself.

I once knew a guitarist who could, upon request,

imitate any and all of your favorites. Ask him for
Danny Kalb, and his fingers would fly so fast that
theyd be a blur on the fretboard. Jeff Beck? He
could play anything from Truth, note for note, with or
without the record. Request Eric Clapton, and Youd
have 'Spoonful,' complete even to the hint of a Jack
Bruce bass line underneath. Jimmy Page? Alvin
Lee? Jerry Garcia? He had them all down, one by
one.

I think, in fact, that the music Jimi made live is often

the best music that he ever did make. Live At
Monterey can make you weep, not just because
Hendrix is dead, but because when the man was on,
as he is there, he was absolutely majestic in stature.
'Like A Rolling Stone' and 'Wild Thing' from Monterey
possess a totality of power that is rare in any
medium. The force of their sound isn't just in Jimi's
guitar, either; it's the force and power that exists at
the rim of rock, wherever the Champion of the
Moment is tearing away at the edge of the limb.

I asked him once upon a time to do Hendrix for me.

He smiled a little bit, set up his fuzz-tone, hooked
up an echo unit, threw a few switches here and
there, and gave it a try. He couldnt do it.
And neither, for that matter, could have anyone
else. Whatever his secrets, Jimi Hendrix took them
with him.

This power is felt frequently on In the West. I don't

like 'Red House', because I'm not a Hendrix fan, per
se. His guitarisms didn't impress me very much;
rather, they left me cold and unmoved. Jimi moved
me most when he sang, and when the guitar sang,
not when it talked. The Jimi Hendrix I remember and
love was the Hendrix that made 'All Along the
Watchtower', 'Voodoo Chile', 'I Don't Live Today' and
'Little Wing'. When Jimi decided to rock, he could
overwhelm you, and there was something comforting
in the way that he did it.

Lenny Kaye, 1971

Jimi Hendrix:
Hendrix In The West

Yet, even while being overwhelmed, you couldn't help

but be impressed by Jimi's terrific sense of
emergency. Some of the music on In the West is
infused by so much urgency that it's almost too swift
to hear. What is really remarkable, though, is not just
that it conveys this sense but that Jimi managed to
make the kind of music he did so volatile it was liable
to explode with the most subtle indication that the
people making it were not in total control, and make
it coherent and almost visible.

Dave Marsh, Creem, May 1972

I DON'T KNOW if there, is even

anything to add to Jimi's legend. You
can build it up or tear it down but it
remains almost intact, weathering
heavy storms even so recently after
his death.

Even when he missed there was an excitement

present you don't find very often. I think 'Red House'
misses, and that 'Blue Suede Shoes' and 'Lover Man',
do too. You can listen to them anyway, because the
mark Jimi set was so high a little bit one way or the
other wouldn't really make anything unlistenable,
just frustrating.

Some of the reason it's not much fun to write about

Jimi lies in the fact that so much has already been
said, but that's not the only problem. There was a
real schizophrenia about the man, the difference
between being a dazzling star (in the most positive
sense of that word you can imagine) and another
guitar player, even the best guitar player in the
world.

And when he succeeded! 'Voodoo Chile' is among the

half dozen best things Jimi ever recorded; it
epitomized what he could do both as a vocalist and a
guitarist. If the ending is a little cheap in retrospect,
it reflected when it was made an honest concern
for his audience.

Jimi's guitar work mattered because he understood

electric guitar and electricity better than anyone
before or since. He had the kind of comprehension of
his instrument that Robert Johnson had of his: he
made it human, just as Johnson made blues the
source and resolution of human agony. Jimi made
technology sing, and he made it sing on his own
terms, which matters even more.

The other song that impresses me most is 'Little

Wing', perhaps the most poignant thing Jimi ever
wrote. The guitar carries this, and it carries this
because it can sing. It's like a bulldozer that learned
to dance; you are amazed that so much power can
have so much grace.

They say that people didn't begin to sit down at rock

concerts until the first Experience tour, but that's not
quite accurate in implication. Sure the audience sat
but it wasn't out of any sense of drag; they sat in

448

Plus, of course, the added treat of 'Johnny B. Goode'.

Nothing wasted, no "We're gonna rock and roll you"
banners. But when they do it, they do it good. Even
a dancing bulldozer still has to bulldoze sometimes,
after all.

that a household broomstick was a guitar until his

father gave him a real instrument a year later. He
joined the army in 1963, entered the paratroops and
made a total of 25 jumps. Injured on the 26th, he
was discharged, and moved inexorably into the
world of rhythm and blues road shows.

If he wasn't consistent and he isn't anymore

consistent here than he ever was Jimi Hendrix was
occasionally able to explode into something that
made listening to him worthwhile, something that
very few other people have ever possessed. This is
the reason why we keep listening to his music, and
it's as neat a summation of In the West, I think, as
could be found.

It was a dues payment Jimi would remember with

mixed feelings. While it did give him an opportunity
to consolidate the guitar knowledge he had picked
up in the army, sharing stages with the likes of the
Isley Brothers and Little Richard, he felt burdened
and enclosed by the often tiresome mechanized
role he was expected to play. "I was always kept in
the background," he once told Melody Maker's
Chris Welch, "but I was thinking all the time about
what I wanted to do. I used to join a group and quit
them so fast. I dug listening to top 40 R & B but that
doesn't mean I like to play it every night."

Dave Marsh, 1972

Jimi Hendrix
David Dalton,Lenny Kaye, Rock 100, 1977

Hendrix made his break in late 1965. Changing his

name to Jimmy James, he organized a band called
the Blue Flames and began appearing along the
circuit of semi-rock coffeehouses dotting New York's
Greenwich Village. He toiled at the Cafe Wha? for a
span of months, took a step upwards to the
influential Cafe Au Go Go, and finally sensed his
luck about to turn when ex-Animals' bassist Chas
Chandler volunteered to become his manager and
take him to England.

THIS IS NEWARK, THE NIGHT AFTER MARTIN

Luther King's assassination. Jimi Hendrix is playing
the Symphony Theatre to a crowd of white,
modishly dressed hippies. "Oh, it's so boring up
here," shoulders roll, a laconic twitch, swinging his
Stratocaster around in howling protest. He glances
down at his watch. "Ho hum, another twenty
minutes to go..."
The concert skitters to anticlimax. Jimi takes off his
guitar, framed in slow motion, tangential. He looks
at the audience once, as if to freeze their strain
beyond the footlights, their voyeuristic desire
flushed with excitement. He closes his eyes in
acceptance, lifts the machine, and with no sense of
incipient melodrama piledrives it into the wooden
slats of the stage. It lies there, a scarred instrument
of resignation, waiting for the curtains to finally
close. Nor is there an encore.

It's not hard to see what Chandler immediately

sensed as so powerful in Jimi. His songwriting was
at best undeveloped, his ruffled and studded
personality still embryonic. Yet his stage presence
ran rampant, garnished by a consuming display of
gnawing his guitar, all the while constructing runs of
remarkable fluidity and grace. He was a craftsman
who liked nothing more than to lay back and play
formal blues (as the definitive 'Red House' will
attest); and a master of sound effects, utilizing
gimmickry with a kind of brazen openness.
Electricity was never mere amplification for Hendrix,
but rather the unfolding of an alien terrain to be
roamed at will.

As an artist, Jimi Hendrix robed himself in paradox

and frustration. If he had been anything less than a
pure musician, he might have been able to sidestep
the web of his image; but bursting on the scene at
the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival with a fully
realized, uniquely cataclysmic blend of theatrics
and technical wizardry, he found himself without the
logical room to maneuver granted more pedestrian
performers. It was a conflict that was to follow him
in several variations throughout his meteoric life,
setting the backdrop for both his greatest triumphs
and moments of despair.

Chandler and co-manager Michael Jeffrey put their

pieces together carefully. The idea of a black
guitarist breaking and entering white ranks could
only be looked on as natural in England, in a
country where American blues artists were lionized
long after they'd been forgotten in their homeland:
and Chandler-Jeffrey sweetened the mix further bv
dressing Jimi and back-up musicians Noel Redding
(bass) and Mitch Mitchell (drums) in all manner of
exotic finery. Jimi would become a sinister and
sensual figure, with catlike violence lingering
beneath the surface of a foppish dandy. It was a
duality of stereotype, and it worked.

He was born James Marshall Hendrix in Seattle,

Washington, on November 27, 1942. The son of a
landscaper, he passed a comfortable, middle-class
childhood in a predominantly white area, leaving
school when he was sixteen. At ten he pretended

449

He was a front-row sensation wherever he went, a

visual and tonal assault that left club audiences
gaping. The band, christened the Jimi Hendrix
Experience, played a debut performance with
Johnny Halliday in Paris, then moved to conquer
London. By the beginning of 1967 their first single,
'Hey Joe', had entered the English charts. Their
major introductory British tour started in March, the
first guitar burned shortly thereafter. The rapidly
congealing underground claimed him as their own.
His initial album, Are You Experienced, quickly
became the de rigour waxing of that hopeful spring.

Canada, where he was arrested for possession of

drugs (the charge was later dismissed). As his
personal quandaries mounted, his music seemed at
a virtual standstill. While Jimi never made a bad
album (most are acknowledged classics), he
foundered on a lack of good material, his style and
virtuoso approach often not enough to pull him
through unscathed. Axis: Bold As Love, his second
release, programmed a refinement of Are You
Experienced, and the double-set Electric Ladyland
proved even more spotty. Jimi appeared searching
for a new vehicle, less contrived and artificial, a
more organic direction to frame his guitar intricacies
and free-form lyrics. It was only through other
people's standards Dylan's 'All Along The
Watchtower', Jimi's sonic rearrangement of 'The
Star Spangled Banner' that he eased enough to
fully play what was on his mind.

Jimi's reputation slowly filtered back to America,

and he was asked to join the bill for the upcoming
Monterey Pop Festival. There, in the midst of
intensely stellar competition, he carved a
triumphant set out of sheer determination. At first
nervous, he found secure footing with 'Like A
Rolling Stone', dropping to his knees to torch his
instrument in the midst of a raging 'Wild Thing', The
crowd erupted. Hendrix was home and through the
gates. Unbeknownst to Chandler and the group,
Jeffrey immediately flew to New York to sign the
Experience to play on an incipient Monkees tour. As
thousands of preteen fans looked on
uncomprehendingly at Forest Hills Stadium,
Chandler and Jeffrey took reward when a hastily
conceived tale of mass protests by the Daughters of
the American Revolution was widely reported to
have "banned" Jimi from the show.

The Experience dissolved in late 1968, due in part

to Jimi's dissatisfaction with his progress. Jeffrey
and Chandler had exited earlier the same year. On
his own, he drew away from concerts and recording
studios, preferring the informal atmosphere of guest
stopovers and afterhours jamming. With the
pressure off, his live appearances took on new fire.
More often than not he would let another musician
drummer Buddy Miles, for instance, at a 1970
New Year's Eve bash at the Fillmore East handle
the showboating.
He built a new studio, Electric Lady, and prepared
to lay tracks for a series of future albums. Jimi was
taking his time, gathering his resources, waiting
until he felt he had something worthy of laying
before the public. After an opening party for the
studio in New York, he flew across the ocean to
play the third Isle of Wight festival. He was tired, the
band (by this time featuring old army buddy Billy
Cox on bass) made an effort, but the performance
was ragged. A short European tour faltered in
Germany, and when Cox became ill Jimi returned to
London. Though disappointed, he spoke hopefully
of his coming directions, feeling he'd turned full
circle at last.

Nothing could stop him. Are You Experienced was

released in America to general accolades, 'Foxy
Lady' to 'Purple Haze' to 'The Wind Cries Mary', and
before the year was out he was a familiar and
highly regarded face on the tour circuit and record
racks. Feedback became a common household
word. He was absorbed into the pop whirl with
growing furor, and there were times when it looked
as if the passion of legend might have the potential
of outracing its subject.
For Jimi, at least, it quickly became a hollow victory.
His first album had promised a new wave, a total
portrait in which artist and music were fused in
indelible presentation. But once the preliminary
breakthroughs had been made, the gold records on
the wall, the soldout crowds wildly cheering even
the most rudimentary efforts, a vital momentum
seemed to melt away. Unchallenged either by his
backing musicians (who, in fairness, were tightly
leashed by Hendrix) or his audience, he had only
himself to rely on for artistic spur. He found it a
difficult road to travel.

By then, it was loo late. On Friday, September 18,

1970, he was found unconscious at the apartment
of a girl friend, Monika Danneman. Pathologist
Donald Teare noted that the cause of death was
due to "barbiturate intoxication." No hint of suicide
was turned up, and from the buried tapes now
seemingly uncovered everyday, there is no basis for
even idle speculation. Each casual jam, each songin-progress shows a new range of music Jimi was
attempting to absorb, from jazz to soul and forms
beyond, to find a place for himself and his guitar. To
kiss the sky, excuse me.

Jimi called it "pop slavery." Management quarrels

erupted. His public notoriety resulted in troubles
with the police, first in Sweden and then later in

450

 David Dalton, Lenny Kaye, 1977

Coincidentally, last month I walked through my

village, Ewell, behind a florid-faced Kenneth
Wolstenholme, the TV commentator for that classic
game 30 years ago. I wanted to ask him what it was
like to be commentating when Hurst scored that
final goal for his hat-trick, but its all too long ago.
You have to ask these questions at the time.

Jimi Hendrix Burns His Guitar For The First

Time
Keith Altham, Q, 1994
Date: March 31, 1967 Location: Astoria Theatre,
London

Just like I wouldve liked to have asked Jimi why the

hell he didnt make that meeting with Chas the day
before his death to reappoint him manager. It might
have saved his life. I completed his last interview for
a Radio One programme called Scene And Heard
at the Cumberland Hotel (room 507) just three days
before his death on September 18, 1970. He had
written his own epitaph a few years earlier.

THE BRIGHT LITTLE pyromaniac who told Jimi

Hendrix to set fire to his guitar? Yup, thats me.
Thirty-three years in the music business. A decade
as a music journo and two more as a P.R. for
people like The Rolling Stones, The Who and Sting.
And yet my main claim to fame remains the same:
as the man who told Jimi to torch his axe. Shit, it
could be worse.

"When I die, I just want people to play my music

and freak out. Just do things that they want to do."

Im immortalized in black-and-white. On page 114 of

Scuze Me While I Kiss The Sky by David
Hendersen, on page 47 of Are You Experienced by
Noel Redding, and on page 45 of Charles Shaar
Murrays estimable Crosstown Traffic. It is in the
books, so it must be true. Now for a quick rifle of the
memory banks. Like the man said, When the facts
conflict with the legend print the legend!

*
LEGENDS DONT SPRING from nowhere. Jimi had
already played as a session guitarist in America for
the likes of The Supremes, Slim Harpo, Jackie
Wilson, The Womack Brothers and Sam Cooke.
During 65, he had toured in backing bands for The
Isley Brothers and Little Richard.

The debut of the flaming guitar was, in fact, March

31, 1967, at Finsbury Park Astoria (latterly The
Rainbow) when some promoter with a misguided
sense of humour billed the greatest electric rock
guitarist the world is ever likely to see with The
Walker Brothers, Cat Stevens and, God help us,
Engelbert Humperdinck. Jimi was bottom of that
incongruous pile.

At our first interview for the teen mags, Jimi told me

a few stories about the famous old rockers he had
worked for. The previous year, for instance, Little
Richard had sacked him for wearing a fancy
shirt!
"He just turned up in his silks and satins and took
one look at my new ruffled shirt and said, Sheet,
theres only room for one pretty boy on this stage
and the Georgia Peach is here to stay youre
fired! Richard re-hired me the next day, after I had
sold the shirt."

However, my personal association with the great

god Guitar had begun a year earlier, when his
manager, Chas Chandler, played me a few demo
tapes and tried to enlist my help to name-drop his
protg in some of the gossip columns I was writing
for, teen magazines like Rave, Fabulous and Look
Now.

A year later and Jimi had most of the rock glitterati

by the genitalia as The Beatles, the Stones, The
Who and our own young guitar princes, Clapton,
Page, Beck and Townshend, fell at his feet in The
Speakeasy, The Bag ONails and The Marquee, the
London clubs where he played.

I met what looked like the Wild Man of Borneo in his

managers office in Gerrard Street, Soho, in
September 66. He came on like whispering Smith.
However, you quickly learnt with Jimi that although
he had a shy, almost diffident approach, it masked a
quite waspish sense of humour.

I saw Clapton invite him on stage to jam with Cream

at Ronnie Scotts and eventually Eric quit in midsong to slink off to the downstairs dressing room.
Chas Chandler hurried after to him to make sure he
had not been upset by something and discovered
him with his head in his hands alone in the dressing
room. He looked at Chas and said simply, "You
bastard! You didnt tell me that he was that good!"

*
LOTS OF LEGENDS occurred in 1966. I was
behind the goal when Hurst hit his hat-trick at
Wembley and England won the World Cup.

451

After just a few months in London, Jimi had affected

some of the more outrageous dress attire that he
had seen Little Richard adopt. To the flamboyant
boa and headbands which were trademarks of his
former boss, he added a Crimean military jacket,
tight red pants and a little psychedelia with medals
and some tie-dye ribbons. One of the national
tabloids ran a story about him insulting the British
army by wearing his jacket on stage. He spoke to
me about it in a later interview:

My Dog with deep social significance. His rendition

of Im Gonna Get Me A Gun was much enlivened
on this tour by Mitch Mitchell keeping time on the
back of Cats head with a water pistol!
This was the package that Jimi would later refer to
in a postcard home as "that silly little tour". One of
the few bright spots was Humperdincks bass
player, Jimmy Leverton, who became good mates
with Jimi and The Experience. He was sacked by
the end of the tour for "associating with
undesirables." Jimi later accused Humperdinck of
killing the whole show every night:

"This coat is history and, who knows, maybe the

guy who wore it died fighting for his country. They
want his coat to hang up unseen in some cupboard
to go mouldy and forget him. I honour his memory
by wearing it."
Later, Jimi was mortified to learn that the jacket was
actually that of a strictly non-combatant veterinary
surgeon, but then he figured that anyone who
looked after the donkeys who pulled the cannons
could not be all bad. He reasoned they really had
the "shit end of things."

"I was setting the stage on fire for pretty people

and then Engelfluff would go and stop it dead.
Some of it was fun though, like when the guy
jumped 20 feet from a box in Luton onto the stage
just to shake hands with us. We made the mistake
of going out of the stage door and thinking the fans
wouldnt bother with us the teenybops tore us to
pieces. We were good in something called
Leicester too"

IT WAS A FEW hit singles later, in the spring of 67,

that the genius agent had that bright idea of
packaging the extraordinarily diversified talents of
The Walker Brothers, Cat Stevens, Engelbert and
Jimi together on the same bill. The Astoria was the
first night of the tour and found Chas Chandler, road
manager Gerry Stickles, Jimi and myself in the
dressing room, trying to plot some way of stealing
the press thunder from under the fringes of The
Walker Brothers, current screamage wonders and
top of the bill.

BACK TO THE ASTORIA. I had already made my

obeisance to Scott, who had just announced his
departure from The Walker Brothers, and left him
staring Narcissus-like into his dressing room mirror
and clawing at his face.
Ten years later, when I became P.R. for The Police,
I was struck by the similarities of Scotts difficulties
and those faced by Sting, another blond bass
player, in a trio, with a face that launched a million
singles, desperately trying to escape from the
shackles of his own teen appeal. Sting was
mentally tougher and Scott was never able to take
the strain. However, anyone who read J.D. Salinger
and Jean-Paul Sartre and liked Tom Waits and
Jacques Brel cant be all bad. Now, which one was
that? They all begin to look alike in the end. At least
neither ever had to contend with the kind of crap
Jimi did

Scott Walker was currently number one in the

teenage heart-throb stakes and had the sort of
good looks which launched a thousand teen
magazines. "Damn. Every time I run into that boy
he looks so miserable that I want to kiss him and
make it feel better," Jimi informed me of his first
impressions of the tormented boy wonder. "Damn.
Hes prettier than Engelfluff."

It was my first experience of New York and my first

experience of that unique species, the Brooklyn cab
driver. I hailed one to take us to Greenwich Village
from the Chelsea Hotel. He was the original model:
baseball on the radio, unlit cigar between his teeth.
Everything he said sounded like "toityturdandturd"
except "Whats dat piece of shit you just put in the
back of my cab?" Like an idiot I actually looked to
see what he was talking about. All I could see was
Jimi, a cold look on his face. "Dat piece of black shit
in the girlies hat," our driver further volunteered.
"Get out of my cab."

His impression of Engelbert was somewhat

coloured by witnessing a rehearsal which the Hump
had completed in a tuxedo. Afterwards, Jimi
volunteered the opinion that he had all the charisma
and stage presence of a giant penguin.
That just left Jimi to make the acquaintance of Cat
Stevens, who even in those Pre-Elijah days could
bore the pants off a journalist at 50 paces with his
attempts to imbue Matthew And Son and I Love

452

The penny finally dropped. He was talking about my

friend. I volunteered an observation on his
parentage and suggested that he should drive us
straight to the nearest cop, where we could go over
the subject of race relations and the rights of a
citizen. Jimi meanwhile was pulling me bodily out of
the cab, and cursing me.

"Its a pity you cant set fire to your guitar," I said,

hesitantly, "but, of course, a solid body would never
burn."
There was a significant pause while I waited for the
ridicule to being, but Chas was smiling and staring
at the road manager. "Gerry, go and buy some
lighter fuel."

When we got on the sidewalk and the arsehole had

driven off, he explained to me in no uncertain terms
that I was never to do anything like that again. "Ive
been soaking up shit like that all my life," he said. "I
know how to handle it and you do not, so dont do it.
You are going to get us killed. You see his gun? No,
of course not. Well, I did. I thank you, but no thank
you. One day they all going to grovel for my
autograph, and take me as a fare for free."

Hendrix was now giggling about setting the place

on fire and Chas was busy explaining to me the
chemistry of pouring lighter fuel on the guitar so that
it simply burnt off the top. "It will go up like a torch."
He enthused.
"How about me?" mumbled Jimi, but he was
already hooked on the whole idea.

Two years, and a few million album sales, later, I

phoned Jimi at his New York hotel where he had
been staying whilst recording at Electric Lady
studios. I was eventually put through via an ultra
polite receptionist who announced, "I have Mr.
Hendrix on the line for you."

The guitar went up about halfway through Wild

Thing, with Jimi straddling his Fender and applying
several matches before the instrument caught
alight. There was a pathetic little pile of used
matches on the stage afterwards. It was not exactly
a towering inferno, but Jimi made the most of it by
whirling the guitar around his head and throwing in
a touch of the mad axeman for good measure.

"You hear that, Keith?" said Jimi. "Im not the nigger
in the silly hat any more, Im Mr. Hendrix!" His
problems with cab drivers had not abated, though,
as he had just finished a session at which that
nights cab driver had turned up afterwards begging
Jimi to let him play drums in a jam at the studio. "He
was the worst drummer I have ever heard. It took
three hours to get rid of him," said Jimi. "But what
can you do? He was a real fan and had gone back
to the Bronx especially to get his kit."

In the wings, the Astoria fire officer was having a

blue fit, screaming retribution and recriminations.
"What the fuck do you mean by starting a bloody
fire hazard and then whirling it around your head?"
he demanded, as Jimi hurriedly exited stage left. "I
was just trying to put it out," said Jimi with a
nervous grin as he ran past him and disappeared in
the direction of the dressing rooms.
Chas caught up with Jimi backstage, wrapped a
crepe bandage round his wrist and told him to wear
it for a week. "You have just left for the burns unit of
St Barts Hospital," dramatised Chas. "Now get the
hell out of here before the shit hits the fan."

*
MARCH 31, 1967 AND the preparations for the gig
at the Astoria. Opening night of the tour. Press
present. Jimi, Chas Chandler, roadie Gerry Stickles
and I sat in the dressing room trying to plot how to
steal the thunder from the other stars.

The agent (who rejoiced in the highly appropriate

name of Tito Burns and whom Jimi had taken a
shine to after learning that the fellow had once been
a cabaret artist whose act involved a monkey and
an accordion) had been let in on the stunt. He
appeared briefly around the dressing room door to
give Chas a theatrical scolding for the benefit of the
watching security officer: "and whats more
following that irresponsible act in which you put at
risk the audience, the theatre and my good name,
you will never work on this circuit again."

"The destruction thing is being done to death," I

said. "You cant do that or youll be accused of just
copying Townshend. Now even The Move have
taken to smashing up TVs on stage."
"Mebbe I could smash up an elephant," suggested
Jimi quietly.
"We just need to pull a stunt that will grab the
headlines," said Chas. "Something outrageous."

From my position, leaning against the far wall, I

could just glimpse the neck of Jimis Fender guitar
poking out of the bottom of Titos full-length

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raincoat. With a wink unseen by the jobsworth, Tito

turned and disappeared with Exhibit A.

As well as this unlikely white company, you could

also place Hendrix in a black lineage of studio
science and producer wizardry Lee Perry, George
Clinton, Sun Ra, Prince. In the Afro Futurist
pantheon, the band leader or producer orchestrates
all the sonic strands into funkadelic symphonies,
using texture, polyrhythm, and multi-track spatiality
to weave what critic Kodwo Eshun calls "sonic
fiction". A crucial aspect of this producer-led
approach is that effects and studio as-instrument
processing are as important as the musicianship. In
Hendrix's case, the two things were always
inseparable: using wah-wah, sustain, distortion,
fuzz-tone, feedback modulated by the tremolo arm,
etc, to create what musicians call chromatics, he
refracted the blues into a vast spectrum of timbres.
And this was a pretty radical idea at the time. When
Jimi did a session for Radio One, the crusty old
BBC engineers were hopelessly confused, and in
the end the producer had to speak up: "Look here,
Jimi, I'm terribly sorry, but we seem to be getting
quite a bit of distortion and feedback and can't
seem to correct it."

*
AND THATS THE STORY of Jimi Hendrixs burning
guitar, a stunt which he only performed three times
in his career (the other two occasions were at the
Monterey Festival and at Brian Epsteins Saville
Theatre, in London). Another "hat-trick", like Geoff
Hursts, to live in the memory of those of us who
were there. One of these fine mornings I will
summon up sufficient courage to tip-toe up behind
Kenneth Wolstenholme as he walks through Ewell
village and yell in his ear, "You think its all over it
is now!"
Keith Altham, 1994
Jimi Hendrix: Black Secret Technology
Simon Reynolds, Uncut, July 2000

As Hendrix's music evolved, its timbre-saturated

colour motion got more ultra-vivid and
kaleidoscopic. It also got more spatialised. 3rd
Stone From the Sun, a sirocco roar of controlled
feedback and one of the few songs on Are You
Experienced? to extend beyond three minutes,
looks ahead to Ladyland's studio-spun immensities,
and further still to the drone swarm daze of My
Bloody Valentine (who worked with Roger Mayer,
the geezer who built FX pedals and technical
gizmos for Jimi), to Husker Du's wig-out blizzardry,
to Sonic Youth's "reinvention of the guitar". Jimi's
guitar becomes increasingly gaseous and
contourless, like radiation or a forcefield in which
the listener is suspended. Contemporary rockcrit
Richard Meltzer described how Hendrix replaced
the "tunnel space" of conventional rock production
(the guitarist distinctly positioned in the stereo-field)
with "paisley space" (a wormholey, fractal
surroundsound with Jimi coming at you from all
sides, from behind you, sometimes seemingly from
inside you). Electric Ladyland had a 3D sound that,
Jimi later complained, the technicians who
transferred the masters to vinyl "screwed up they
didn't know how to cut it properly. They thought it
was out of phase." Jimi's music was about space in
another sense. His lyrics are full of extra-terrestrial
journeys and kosmik imagery 3rd Stone's
Barbarella-like request, "may I land my kinky
machine?", and bizarre narrative about aliens
visiting Earth, deciding chickens are the smartest
species, then blowing up the planet; the imagery of
"Jupiter sulphur mines/Way down by the Methane
Sea" in Voodoo Chile; the solar system tour guide
of The Stars That Play With Laughing Sam's Dice,

Hendrix wasn't just the original firestarter, all

flash and dazzle. He was a scientist of sound.
Think Hendrix, and the first image that comes to
mind is the onstage Jimi a sensual inferno of
improvisatory creativity, fingertips ablaze; Jimi the
aural arsonist, sonically torching the Stars and
Stripes; Jimi the Dionysian dandy, the
pyrotechnician who put the flambe into
flamboyance. But and you knew this was coming
right? there was another side to Hendrix that runs
against this pat if not entirely misleading image:
Hendrix the diligent, patient craftsman, the studio
rat who methodically pieced together Electric
Ladyland over several months of 10 hours per
night, all week long work. Some Ladyland songs
were re-mixed 300 times. If Jimi onstage was a
case of never-mind-the-Pollocks, a volcanic
spermatozoic splurge of garish gushing
expressionism, in the studio he was more a
landscape painter, endlessly layering overdubs,
tweaking equalisers and echo buttons, trying out
new effects and arrangement ideas. With Electric
Ladyland, Jimi exhibited the kind of obsessive
detail-oriented perfectionism you associate with
ultra-white, classicist-not-Romanticist auteurs such
as Brian Wilson, Paul McCartney/George Martin,
Todd Rundgren, even Brian Eno. This isn't a
Dionysian lineage (frenzy, intoxication, orgiastic
chaos think Stones, Doors, Stooges) but an
Appollonian one (Apollo being the god of serenity,
sanity art as contemplation, Nature garden).

454

a title that non-coincidentally acronyms the

hallucinogens STP and LSD; unreleased songs like
South Saturn Delta and Valleys of Neptune. Jimi
was an avid consumer of sci-fi, fantasy, and all
forms of mysticism. His obsessions included the I
Ching, numerology, astrology and the symbolist
poets' belief that there are synaesthetic
correspondences between colours and sounds; he
believed he had ESP and could recall astral travels.
All these traits came together in his dream of an
"electric religion". He died before he could pull
together the overtly transcendentalist double album,
First Rays Of The New Rising Sun, his hymn to the
Eternal Cosmic Feminine, featuring songs like Hey
Baby (The Land Of The New Rising Sun about a
female messiah leading humanity to the promised
land.

with all the myriad components painstakingly

assembled and then mixed live in a way that
anticipates both dub reggae and ambient. All
undulating flow and flickering refraction, this is rock
un-rocked and un-cocked, androgynised, Jimi
exploring the anima kingdom inside his own soul.
There is nothing else like it in rock except maybe
Robert Wyatt's similarly oceanic/amniotic Rock
Bottom, Can's moonstruck Come Sta La Luna,
John Martyn's dubby-bluesy shimmerscapes, I'd
Rather Be The Devil and Big Muff.
Electric Ladyland is sometimes accused of being
somewhat self indulgent and over-produced, but if
anything it's not self-indulgent enough. The doublealbum was, however, the climax of his burgeoning
relationship with engineer Eddie Kramer, who was
able to implement Hendrix's vague desires ("I want
the sound of underwater") and who gradually
displaced the Experience as Jimi's foil and
launchpad. With Ladyland less like a power trio
than a 300-piece guitar orchestra, songs like All
Along the Watchtower and Burning of the Midnight
Lamp are stately constructions rather than
spontaneous combustions haciendas and
pagodas gyrating in the sky.

Like other Afro-Futurists, Hendrix was as interested

in mythic antiquity as in the outerspatial tomorrow
Nubia, Atlantis, the whole "ancient to the future" (Art
Ensemble of Chicago) shtick. His song Pali Gap
was named after the Hawaian goddess of the
volcanoes aka Pele (beating fellow space cadet Tori
Amos by a couple of decades). Purple Haze was
influenced by Hopi Indian myths, and Voodoo
Chile taps into West African magick via Haiti and
New Orleans. In terms of his own mystique, Jimi
achieved a double-whammy, being half black and
half-Native American. For the beats and the hippies,
blacks and Red Indians represented two kinds of
authenticity and exoticism that beckoned as
alternatives to consumerland emptiness: blacks
incarnated passion, sexuality, energy, soul, and
Native Americans represented mystery, ritual,
ceremony, a non-alienated relationship with the
environment.

Simon Reynolds, 2000

Eight Little-Known Facts About Jimi Hendrix
Gary Pig Gold, www.inmusicwetrust.com,
November 2000
THE LINES, MUSICAL and otherwise, between
Fact and (Science) Fiction tend to blur quite a lot
whenever one dares speak of (a) Our Heroes,
and/or (b) The Sixties, and a better example of such
dayglo-gray areas can scarcely be found than when
one considers the life, art, and especially times of
the one and only Jimi Hendrix.

The culmination of all these tendencies the black

science fiction, the studio wizardry, and the
alienation from contemporary Western industrial
culture was Ladyland's closing song suite, 1983
(A Merman I Should Turn To Be), and Moon,
Turn the Tides Gently, Gently Away. The lyrical
scenario is Jimi and girlfriend abandoning a war
torn, despoiled Earth for a subaquatic paradise,
ignoring their sceptical friends who argue "the
machine, that we built, would never save us it's
impossible for a man to live and breathe under
water anyway, you know good well it would be
beyond the will of God". Flouting the patriarchal
reality-principle, Jimi and his babe are reborn as
aquanauts in a womb-like wonderland beneath the
waves. Sonically, 1983/Moon is a masterpiece of
stereo panning and guitar-treatment techniques
(slowing down and speeding up tapes to depict a
shoal of fish swimming up to check out the human
visitors, then darting away again; seagull noises
created from headphones feeding back into mics),

I haven't quite decided whether it's simple

sentimentality at play (he was the star of the very
first rock concert I ever attended), or because
despite having a guitar close at hand myself ever
since that fateful night three decades ago I STILL
can't finger out exactly how he did what he did, but
I've always reserved a very special place in my
heart (and a quite sizable portion of my record
collection) for the man I consider the greatest
musical paratrooper ever to fall out of the Pacific
Northwest.
That all said then, and in commemoration of the
latest batch of re-issued Hendrix albums and even
made-for-TV biopics, I, Gary Pig Gold, respectfully
submit...

455

"EIGHT LITTLE-KNOWN (and most likely Rightfully

So) FACTS ABOUT JAMES MARSHALL
HENDRIX"

5. Like all good transplanted-English psychedevians

basking in the Summer of Love, Jimi Hendrix saw to
it he padded out his concerts to say nothing of his
albums! with mega-minute dollops of chemicallyderived stereophonic noodling, the most exemplary
of which remains 1983 (A Merman I Should Turn To
Be) (...not to mention the rest of Electric Ladyland
side three), extracts from which can still be heard
squeaking beneath scratchy archival footage of
love-ins and de-lousings circa Journey To The
Center Of The Mind. Yet hidden away on the
Experience's European B-sides are some of this
dubious genre's "best," though least heard, doses
of aural indulgence. For example: Guess what
Stars That Play with Laughing Sam's Dice (flipside
of Burning Of The Midnight Lamp) stands for? (and
you thought Lucy in the Sky with Dinah was hep!)
And even more, well, fascinating was Jimi's original
"teenage opera to God," entitled Brave Ulysses'
Long Lost Stash Hast Imbrued Tonto. This typically
incoherent twenty-seven minute excursion into the
realms of, as it was explained at the time, "electric
tribal sky church rainbow music" found itself, in a
brief lapse of (in)sanity, chopped off the Axis: Bold
As Love LP (but is threatening to be exhumed soon
as part of MCA/Exxon's Essentially Rare
Reprogrammed Hendrix In The Studio As You've
Never Heard Before, Sorta 12-CD Boxing Set).

1. Let's get one thing straight right off the top here:
Jimi Hendrix was not the illegitimate mutant
offspring of wild Indians, raised by wolverines deep
within the celestial ice caverns of Venus third moon.
No, Jimi make that Jimmy grew up in relative
normality in Seattle, Washington, I kid you knot, and
his old man was a gardener fer gosh sake!
Confusion similarly surrounds the other end of his
life as well: For even though Jimi died in the same
London flat Mama Cass (and later Keith Moon) did,
it was, if you care to subscribe to such legends,
Cass who was felled by a tuna-fish sandwich. Jimi
choked to death on something else... still foodrelated, however.
2. And contrary to popular rocklore, Jimi Hendrix
was not the first guitarist to break the sound barrier
atop an upside-down Stratocaster. Credit 'n' cudos
for that particular innovation must go to none other
than crazed pick-buster-cum-airborne-survivalist
Dick "I Always Refer To Myself In The Third Person,
Just Like Bob Dole" Dale. Yes, he who, a decade
before Pulp Friction, literally blue with one Echord tied behind his back! Stevie R. Vaughan off
the stage in that cinematic treasure Back To The
Beach. Yesirree, the self-anointed King of the Surf
Guitar was busy fusing speaker cones, to say
nothing of unsuspecting adolescent eardrums, way
back when Hendrix was nothing but a medicallydischarged-without-honors paratrooper, soon to be
a black-up guitarist on the quasi-legendary chitlin
circuit. Which reminds me:

6 (a). DRIED (as opposed to SOUR) GRAPES

DEPT.: Jimi's former drummists haven't exactly led
stellar careers or lives for that matter since
September 18, 1970. Buddy Miles, who beat behind
the Hendrix Band of Gypsys was, after having been
sprung from several hoosegows, the brains, to be
incredibly gracious, behind the California Raisins.
And Mitch Mitchell, who you should all recall was at
least one-third of The Jimi Hendrix Experience,
ended up hawking his road stories and then some
to the highest bidder (Harmony Books), before
disappearing deep into the Delete Zone. The bigger
the drum kit, the harder they fall.

3. Little Richard really did teach Jimi Hendrix

everything he knew! (along with, need I remind
anyone, James Brown, The Beatles, Prince, Boy
George, Madonna, Snoopy Dog Dog and, of
course, Michael Jackson) (and I know Richard will
be letting us all know if I've left anyone out).

6 (b). Meanwhile, Noel Redding, the four-strung

genius wholly responsible for She's So Fine and
Little Miss Strange (...don't ask), not to mention Fat
Mattress (...but that's another Little Known Facts
list!) now tours New Jersey's most picturesque
dives fronting a combo called (I bet this took a
while) The Noel Redding Experience. He spends
his off-time, of which I reckon he's got an
abundance, lazing in line alongside dozens upon
dozens of other ex-rhythm sections, managers,
publishers, producers, promoters, valets, conga
tuners, and seamstresses who, armed with the
finest lawyers credit can buy, patiently await their
very own turn to gnaw away at the lawsuit-ridden
corpse of their former bandmate.

4. TOO MUCH MONKEE BIZNESS: Each and

every rockin' popologist worth their VH-1 now know
Hendrix's first major North American jaunt was as
opening act for Davy, Micky, Peter and Nesmith. But
did you know that when said tour hit Chicago, and
the notorious Plaster Casters appeared backstage
to, umm, immortalize each bands member(s) in
clay, several myths were forever shattered when it
turned out Jimi's family jewels failed to measure
anywhere near up to those belonging to none other
than "Dumb Monkee" Peter Tork! Jeez, and we
always thought Mike was the biggest prick in the...
oh, never mind.

456

7. Within a few blocks of Jimi's still-extant Electric

Lady Studios (in NYC's once-happening Greenwich
Village) are not only several of the world's best rare,
used, and/or pirate record boutiques (highly
recommended: the Brian Wilson Smile Sessions
seven-box set) but, even more fattening, the one
and only Waverly Restaurant: The finest eatery east
of the Mississip! (Tuesday Night's Special? Roast
duck with salad, bread, choice of potato and
vegetable, beverage and dessert a regular steal
at $8.95) (that's at 385 Avenue of the Americas;
phone (212) 675-3181... and don't forget to tell'em
Gary the Pig sentcha!)

own ability, forming Fat Mattress and, later, the Noel

Redding Band.
Noel always said that he loved Jimi like a brother
and paid him his highest accolade by always
making reference to him over the years as a "gent".
But eventually like most brothers they fought and he
needed to split in order to find his own musical
identity. He called Jimi "'Endrix" to his face and to
the end it was both a term of affection and an
indication of equality with a brother musician. Jimi,
Mitch and Noel were like three musical musketeers
in the early years: silly pranks and fights with
deodorant canisters were a regular feature in the
dressing room as they pranced around in their
pants like naughty school kids at venues like the
Finsbury Park Astoria (where I laid my claim to
fame by suggesting "the guitar flambeau" idea to
Jimi).

8. Hey, and remember that time Jimi got busted at

Toronto International Airport for drugs? I hear Yoko
set him up... ;-)
Gary Pig Gold, 2000

Noel was born David Redding in Folkestone, Kent.

His home was in Clonakilty in Ireland and he loved
the area, the people and the life style where he'd
lived for almost 25 years. He was always "grand"
when asked, and everything else was "grand" right
up until the last few days of his life when we last
spoke. One of his close friends, Blues Band
drummer Tom McGuinness (whose parents still live
in "Clon"), told me the story of how his older,
straighter cousin a postman and J.P. in the area
had a warning for him.

The Angels Did Sing: Noel Redding 1945-2003

Keith Altham, Rock's Backpages, May 2003
MY FIRST TRIP to the U.S. for the New Musical
Express was with The Jimi Hendrix Experience for
the Monterey Festival. So the sad death of Noel
Redding, who became a good friend over the years
I sometimes stayed at his spiritual (Guinness in
the main) home in Clonakilty, Southern Ireland
had a particular poignancy for me. He was a "grand
lad" in all senses of that peculiarly apposite
Irishism.

"I dont think you should be coming out here to see

that Noel 'Reeding" he warned sternly. "'And why is
that?'" asked Tom. "I do believe there may be drugs
out here," he warned. "Surely not," responded Tom
straight-faced.

Noel Redding was born in Kent and went for a job

with Eric Burdons New Animals as a guitarist in
l966 but found the vacancy had been filled. He was
therefore asked by Chas Chandler if he would like
to try out as a bass guitarist for the new talent which
he was about to manage in the UK and launch as
the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Noel was someone who lived his life to the full. He

was full of music, joy and the love of life. He
revelled in local gigs at Barrers, where he played
every Friday night. He often caused a stir after
being spotted by American tourists. "Are you the
real Noel Redding?" one asked him once. "I'll check
to be sure to be sure," Noel would reply before
disappearing round the back to emerge a few
minutes late. "So I am, so I am," he told them and
happily signed autographs.

Jimi liked the fact that Noels uncontrolled mass of

Dickensian curls and granny glasses were almost
as outlandish as his own Wild Man of Borneo
image. He liked Noel's unorthodox bass style which
was the result of being a guitarist masquerading as
a bass player. The meeting led three weeks later to
Noel becoming one third of one of the most
influential groups in the history of rock music, and to
Jimi recording songs like 'Little Miss Strange' and
'Shes So Fine'.

Noel soaked up Ireland, the Guinness and the

people. He loved the life music and the craick. He
had a great sense of fun and I can still recall him
seeing the Bay City Rollers on TV for the first time
at his house here in Clonakilty, just rolling around
the floor, hugging himself with glee and laughing
uncontrollably that "they can't be serious."

The Experiences unconventional dress sense,

hairy image and wild stage act were an integral part
of the act and combined to make Noel a household
name until the late '60s. Eventually Jimis allpervasive talent meant Noel felt the need to free his

457

Noel was known and loved by all the great '60s

bands and many of those who came later and
regarded him as a seminal influence. At a lunch last
Wednesday for old rock and roll fogies to which
Noel had hoped to go, those who raised a glass to
Noel's memory were Bill Wyman, Sir Tim Rice, Reg
Presley, Noddy Holder, Tom McGuinness and the
legendary Clem Cattini.

War propaganda. Worse, Orwell died too soon after

the publication of Nineteen Eighty-Four to be able
to plead his own case: that he was a left-winger
through and through and that his books were
written from within the Left rather than as an outside
attack on it. Thus was the conscience of the Left
posthumously co-opted as a cheerleader for the
Right.

Noel was never phased by celebrity. Just three

years ago he ran into Bob Dylan at a lunchtime do
in New York. Dylan adored Endrix and suggested
after a party that he and Noel go out and talk about
old times. "Grand" said Noel. Uncharacteristically
Dylan actually turned up at Noels hotel room door
unexpectedly that night about 10.3O and asked him
to do the town with him. Noel poked his head round
the door and announced regretfully that "it's a bit
late... Ive just put me dressing gown on and made
me cocoa". Bob wandered bewilderedly away
shaking his head down the corridor. "Lets do
breakfast," Noel called helpfully after him. "I don't
do breakfast" mumbled Dylan as he got into the
elevator. "Pity" said Noel.

In Hendrixs case, for the Left read black showbiz,

and for the Right, white hippie rock. The mythology,
at least, states that Hendrix was rejected by his
home community, so he sought and found refuge
and acceptance from the other side, reinventing
himself in the UK and in the process becoming
some double-weird kind of honorary white, or what
Robert Christgau, seeing Hendrix for the first time
at the 1967 Monterey Pop Festival in the summer of
67, quotably dubbed a psychedelic Uncle Tom.
By no means was Hendrix the only black star with a
white following: Little Richard and Chuck Berry had
been worshipped as gods in the 50s; Stax and
Motown were seriously happening in Europe as well
as in the US, and 1967 was, after all, the year in
which Otis Redding had slaughtered the love
crowd at that selfsame Monterey festival and, just
as tellingly, dethroned Elvis Presley as Worlds Top
Male Vocalist in the Melody Maker readers poll.
The key factor was that theyd all started out in the
black arena and springboarded that success to
score in the white market: in other words, theyd
"crossed over." Crossover wasnt Hendrixs
problem. His problem was crossing back.

We will all miss him.

Keith Altham, 2003
Street Fighting: Jimi Hendrix
Charles Shaar Murray, Mojo, November 1999
Your starter for ten: what do Jimi Hendrix and
George Orwell have in common?

"If Im free," Hendrix once said, "its because Im

always running." He did indeed spend his whole life
running. If there is an experiential core to his music,
it concerns the interlocking terrors of rootlessness
and feeling trapped."There must be some kind of
way out of here," he sang in Bob Dylans 'All Along
The Watchtower', and it requires no great powers of
empathy to sense the intensity of his identification
with that line: it was the most significant line that he
ever sang that he didnt write. In his life as in his
songs, he was forever searching for a place of his
own. He escaped Seattle and school by joining the
armed forces; he escaped from the army into the
world of the road musicians, perpetually shifting
from group to group; he escaped from Harlem by
moving to Greenwich Village; by relocating to
London he escaped the codes of black showbiz and
their attendant rules as to what a black entertainer
could and should be, only, finally to be ensnared by
the more insidious webs of expectation and
assumption spun by his well-meaning new
admirers.

Well, you could suggest that Gorgeous George

wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four and Gentleman Jimi
recorded '1983 (A Merman I Should Turn To Be)',
which would score you a five-point consolation
prize, but the real answer is that both men were,
superficially at least, rejected by their notional
home communities and attained their greatest
acceptance outside those communities.
For Orwell, that community was the British Left,
historically dominated by the Communist Party.
When he returned from the Spanish Civil War with
the uncomfortable and unwanted message that the
Stalinists had actively worked to suppress, rather
than extend, the revolution, his publishers deserted
him; the CP and its mouthpieces denounced him;
and the enthusiasm with which his final novels,
Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four, were
vilified by the Left as reactionary, was excelled only
by the glee with which right-wingers seized on
these two epic attacks on revolution betrayed as
assaults on socialism itself, and therefore ideal Cold

458

Ten years ago, in Crosstown Traffic: Jimi Hendrix

And Postwar Pop (Faber & Faber), from which this
piece unashamedly samples large chunks of the
polemic, I set out to chart some of the routes Jimi
Hendrix ran in attempting to get to the other side of
town. The purpose of the book was to reassess
Hendrix specifically as a black musician working
within his native tradition, but also extending and
exploding it, just as, in 1980, Bernard Cricks epic
George Orwell: A Life (Secker & Warburg) and,
more recently, John Newsingers more radical
Orwells Politics (Macmillan) sought to relocate
Orwell in the Left.

His fondness for deep blues (of both the Muddy

Waters, Elmore James or Howlin Wolf-style
Chicago varieties and the more contemporary
stylings of BB King and Albert King) was considered
atavistic and old-fashioned, and his more disruptive
experiments with feedback and distortion which
paralleled some of what he heard bouncing back
across the Atlantic from the likes of The Whos Pete
Townshend and The Yardbirds Jeff Beck were
simply too anarchic and disruptive for the funky but
disciplined world of the soul revue.
So he drifted downtown from Harlem to Greenwich
Village, where loud and weird werent so much of a
problem. Whilst backing up-and-coming white blues
guy John Hammond Jr, he knocked the glitterati flat.
Miles Davis, Bob Dylan, John Phillips from The
Mamas And The Papas, Micky Dolenz from The
Monkees, Mike Bloomfield, Al Kooper and sundry
Rolling Stones all showed up and gave it up, and
they told their friends. Ex-Animal Chas Chandler, at
a loose end and looking to get into management,
heard the word from Keith Richardss then-girlfriend
Linda Keith: Hendrix signed the line, packed his
Strat, flew to London and was, nine months later,
re-exported to the US, complete with mad English
clothes and skinny English rhythm section, as the
last word in far-out British rock. With that single
amp-humping, guitar-burning performance, salting
his early repertoire with covers eclectically heisted
from Howlin Wolf, BB King, Bob Dylan and heh!
The Troggs, he had, as Pete Johnson wrote in the
Los Angeles Times, "graduated from rumour into
legend."

"He was ours," Eric Burdon passionately

announced in the recent BBC2 Reputations show
about Hendrix; he was referring to the British scene
which nurtured and launched Hendrix; but how
many others have claimed him in the name of
racial, rather than geographical, or cultural,
nationalism? And was Hendrix really a (black on the
outside, white on the inside) coconut?
Wherever Hendrix was, people always assumed his
real home was somewhere else. Bobby Womack,
who knew Hendrix when he was a penniless soul
sideman, believes, "he was tryin to fit in on his side
of town, but it wasnt his side of town. He needed to
be in another place... when he got to Europe, he got
with people that was like him, and I sure was glad
that he found a place." But to those people that
was like him, the story seemed very different. Pete
Townshend suggested that, "[In London] Hendrix
mustve thought he was in a madhouse, but one
that was great fun, sort of like going to Hong Kong. I
cant imagine what it was like for him: the idea of
him feeling comfortable is pretty preposterous. He
mightve been happy to find himself, like the eternal
hippies always talk about finding themselves in
India."

Europe had traditionally provided a refuge for

disaffected African-American artists. The likes of
Memphis Slim or James Baldwin could function far
more freely in, say, Paris than they could back
home (let alone down home) precisely because
they were (a) American and (b) artists. A
distinguished blues pianist like Slim or tyro author
like Baldwin could, and did, receive a very different
reception than would an impoverished student or
unskilled refugee from Senegal or Mali. Similarly,
Brits were aware that Americans came in a variety
of colours though some of us still seem to have
problems with the notion that the same applies to
modern Britons and Hendrix was welcomed in
London as a master musician whose mastery of
blues, soul and rock was simultaneously more
authentic and more progressive than anything the
local scene had to offer. He had the root musics
down cold, and he detonated them with his
awareness of Bob Dylans radical expansion of
pops lyricical possibilities, The Beatles
compositional and production innovations, and The
Whos showmanship: the fact that he was black was
simply the final badge of cultural purity. Like some

With success, Hendrix found what hed spent so

many years seeking. But at the same time, and by
the same token, much of what hed managed to
avoid came and found him.

*
A BRIEF HISTORY LESSON: brief because
Hendrixs background is too well known to require
any lengthy or detailed repetition. Hed done
several years hard labour in the soul mines before
winding up in New York City: working as a guitarfor-hire for The Isley Brothers, Little Richard, King
Curtis and myriad others less distinguished. He was
frequently derided for being too loud and too weird,
and he lost a lot of jobs for contraventions of the
soul-band code, musical, sartorial and behavioral.

459

improbable blend of Julius Caesar and Cinderella,

he came, he saw and he conquered, becoming the
hero of the hour and the belle of the ball. The ugly
duckling of the chitlin circuit reincarnated as a
gorgeous psychedelic swan.

On the other hand, the Nation of Islam (informally

known as the Black Muslims), were mystical racial
nationalists. They demanded separatism, albeit on
their terms, and considered white people to be
racially inferior devils: it was after joining the NoI
that Muhammad Ali had renounced his slave name
of Cassius Clay. Their stellar spokesman, Malcolm
X, had fallen out with the leader, Elijah Muhammad
and, following a pilgrimage to Mecca during which
he observed Muslims of all ethnic origins peacefully
worshipping together, renounced the NoIs
separatism in favour of the more inclusive spirit of
orthodox Islam. He died in a hail of bullets at a 1965
press conference, shot down by black gunmen.
Malcolms death benefited both the NoI leadership,
threatened by his challenge to one of their central
tenets; and the US government, to whom Malcolm
was infinitely more dangerous once armed with a
message which could appeal to whites as well as
blacks than he ever was as a radical separatist.

So far, so good, but even especially! in the

Summer of Love, the UK and the US were very
different places in very different circumstances and
very different social and cultural codes. Like the rest
of the planet, both countries lived under the shadow
of the same Bomb(s), but the domestic agendas
were drastically divergent. Britain was in the
process of shaking off the dowdiness, austerity and
general uptightness of the conservative 50s and
defining itself as a modern country; America was a
nation at war both on foreign soil and on its own.
The US was split across one serious fault line
because of its military involvement in Vietnam, and
across another because of the gathering intensity
and velocity of the Civil Rights movement.

And looming over the entire movement was Dr

Martin Luther King Jr, whose towering "I have a
dream" speech, delivered in Washington in 1963,
had extended his message from the South to the
nation, and to the world. Dr King was growing
steadily more radical, addressing not simply racism
but the war in Vietnam and the fundamental
premise of American society.

Black America had, by then, had way more than

enough. 1967 may have brought young white
groovy America the Summer Of Love, but for black
America it was the Long Hot Summer of "Burn,
baby, burn"; of "Rap [activist H. Rap Brown], Retha
and revolt." Detroit was in flames, and Aretha
Franklin was all over the airwaves demanding as
a woman talking to men, and as a black talking to
whites some much-needed "Respect."

Dr King exemplified the way in which one struggle

fed the other: African-Americans were
disproportionately shunted to the (literal) front lines
of the war, serving 28% of the combat missions
whilst making up only 2% of the officer corps. Wellconnected middle-class white kids could avoid
conscription via student deferments; poor black kids
(and, for that matter, poor whites) from the inner
cities and small towns didnt stand a chance. "No
Vietcong ever called me nigger," said Muhammad
Ali, neatly summing up the conflation of both issues
as he was stripped of his World Heavyweight
Championship title for refusing to be inducted into
the armed forces. Having already been honourably
discharged from the 101st Airborne after breaking
his ankle in a parachute jump, Jimi Hendrix didnt
have to worry about the draft: no way was he going
to Nam (although his music did), though the 101st
was sent into combat in 1965 and Hendrix would
almost certainly have ended up there with them had
he stayed in uniform.

Not only was the movement not monolithic, but it

didnt even represent a straightforward continuum
between extreme and moderate. True, at one end
were relative quietists, such as the National
Association For The Advancement of Colored
People (NAACP), whose name alone gives the
game away, who saw nothing much wrong with
American society except that blacks were denied
full participation in it, but elsewhere were such
radically different players as the Oakland-based
Black Panther Party For Self-Defence, and the
Detroit-based Nation of Islam. Apart from agreeing
that enuff was enuff, their policies and programmes
could not have been less congruent. The Panthers
wore paramilitary uniforms black leather jackets,
turtleneck sweaters, berets and shades: cooool!
and freaked out cops and squares alike by carrying
guns in public. The Panthers, formed and led by
Huey Newton and Bobby Seale, were essentially
socialists of the Maoist variety, happy to work with
white radicals who were prepared to endorse and
abide by their 10-point programme. Detroit rabblerouser John Sinclair did just that, forming his own
White Panther Party with the fabulous MC5 as their
musical wing.

And no way were any British youth going: Harold

Wilson confined his support for the American war
effort to strictly verbal endorsement, falling far short
of the actual British military participation which
President Lyndon B. Johnson had requested
(wherever you are now, arry, thanks for that,
knahmean?) Without this grim context, the London

460

underground which welcomed Hendrix to Britain

was primarily concerned with a gorgeously playful
and decadent exercise in lifestyle experimentation:
the Americans specialised in politics and the Brits in
behaviour, though each borrowed freely from the
other.

Furthermore, his bandmates were white, his

management was white, and the nearest his US
record company got to contemporary black music
was with Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Sammy
Davis Jr. (though, to befair, it should be pointed out
that at the height of the apartheid era, Reprise also
recorded Miriam Makeba and Hugh Masekela, two
determinedly oppositional South African expats.)

Hendrix was not, to put it mildly, a particularly

political animal. He was, first and foremost, a
musician and his entire focus was on being a
musician, improving his craft as a musician,
expressing his inner life through his role as a
musician and most fundamentally being able to
make some kind of a living as a musician. His views
on the Vietnam war were, initially at least, those of
an ex-paratrooper rather than a putative hippie
figurehead. In the BBC2 Reputations show, Eric
Burdon recalled a discussion of the war during
which Hendrix rolled out the whiskery (and
subsequently utterly discredited) domino theory
beloved of the US government and its apologists:
that if the North Vietnamese were not defeated,
then all the neighbouring Asian nations would
successively fall to the Chinese.

But even if Reprise had desperately wanted to sell

Hendrix to a contemporary black audience, they
wouldnt have known how to do so; and neither
would Hendrixs managers Chas Chandler and
Mike Jeffery, whose contacts and expertise lay
elsewhere. Furthermore, Hendrix himself couldnt
have cared less at that point: he was playing to
bigger and more appreciative audiences than he
ever had before, and he entertained few warm
feelings towards the soul establishment which had
marginalised him for so long.
And even if Hendrixs records had been promoted
to black radio stations and those stations had
played them (two very big ifs indeed), his music
would have sounded as bizarrely incongruous as it
did on white Top 40 stations. Robert Wyatt, who
toured the US with Hendrix as drummer for opening
act Soft Machine, points out, "It would have been
hard to imagine any of Hendrixs records with that
splashing drum sound and unfunky bass and all
that looseness sitting neatly in the tracks of a
Motown record."

That would change: and what changed it was,

essentially, the experience of returning to the US as
a celebrity whose views on life, the universe and
everything were sought and listened to. Hendrix
didnt so much get involved in the black and antiwar struggles as come to terms with the extent to
which, like it or not, he was already involved.

But for all this white acceptance, Hendrix must

occasionally have felt that his new friends and
admirers had grasped the wrong end of the stick
and, in the guise of appreciation, were beating him
with it. In Rolling Stone, John Morthland called him
"the flower generations electric nigger dandy, its
king stud and golden calf, its maker of mighty dope
music, its most outrageously visible force." Boil that
down, and hes still being called a nigger.

*
JIMI HENDRIX WAS A BLACK STAR with a white
audience. In a rational world, this wouldnt have
mattered, but in this particular respect as in too
many others it wasnt a rational world, and it still
isnt. Insecure white kids could go to see Hendrix
without having to worry about being seriously
outnumbered by black people, as they couldnt at a
show by, say, Otis Redding. Once again, Eric
Burdon had the apposite anecdote: during The
Animals first US tours, he was talking to a female
fan after a gig in Alabama, and she informed him
that Redding had played the same hall the night
before. He asked if shed seen the show. "Did I see
him?" she replied, incredulously. "You got to be
joking, man, the place was full of niggers."

But to say that he had no black constituency at all,

though, is to pander to myth, and racist myth at
that. "It had to be a new breed of blacks that would
find him," said Bobby Womack, who had toured
alongside Hendrix in the old soul-revue days,
"cause the [record] companies didnt think blacks
would relate to a nigger like him. Id start seeing
young black guys, fans, and theyd be dressin like
him and Id be thinkin, Damn, I never saw black
hippies before." Pioneering Hendrix biographer
David Henderson, in Scuse Me While I Kiss The
Sky, pointed out that blacks did attend Hendrixs
shows, even though the scale of white support
rendered their presence less conspicuous, and that
they did buy his records. What was incontestable
was that he received little or no airplay on black

We have no way of knowing whether this girl, two or

more years later, would have gone to see Hendrix.
If she did, she wouldnt have had that particular
problem. She might even have felt, as did Burdon
himself in a different context, that "he was ours."
Hendrix had been launched into the US market at
Monterey, an overwhelmingly white event.

461

radio. And that the easy acceptance of the notion

that he had no black following not only bound him
closer to his white audience, but reinforced Mike
Jefferys belief that he should cater to it exclusively.

theyd welcomed Hendrix; now they felt like guests,

and not particularly welcome ones at that. For
Redding, the crunch came when he arrived at a
session to find the control room crowded with
people he didnt know: there was nowhere for him
to sit, and he was even asked, none too politely,
who he was and what he was doing there.

The end result was that Hendrix found himself

becoming a human battleground, a site for the
cultural collision between whites attempting to leave
the bourgeoisie and blacks determined to escape
from the underclass. The late 60s was, after all, the
era in which modern notions of identity politics
were first formulated be black, brother, be black
and in the crucible of struggle which followed the
assassination of Dr Martin Luther King Jr, the
questions grew ever harder. In 1968, Hendrix
effectively relocated to the US, basing his career in
his homeland. Removed from the alien but
welcoming bosom of the UK, Hendrix was back
home but on the spot. Part of the result was the
dissolution of the original Experience or, to be
more precise, the departures of Noel Redding and
Chas Chandler.

The situation was complicated by the fact that an

old contract, dating back to Hendrixs New York
days, had surfaced. Hendrix had casually signed a
deal with producer Ed Chalpin and had neglected to
inform Chandler before the relocation to London.
The deal had never been cancelled and Chalpin still
had paper on Hendrix: not only had shoddy old
recordings flooded into trhe shops in the wake of
the US release of Are You Experienced?, but
Chalpin was demanding telephone numbers for
breach of contract. It was decided that Hendrix
would cut him an album as payoff; and that this
would be a live recording not featuring the
Experience, since nobody wanted to give him any
of the new studio stuff on which Hendrix had been
working.

The dispute with Chandler was primarily over

aesthetics and method. R&B fan though he was,
Chandler came out of a pop school of production:
he believed in tight, coherent songs recorded
quickly and efficiently, hence the sound and
construction of Hendrixs first few singles, and the
Are You Experienced? and Axis: Bold As Love
albums. It was certainly a winning formula even
today, many listeners still find that this era,
stretching from late 66 to the end of 67, generated
their favourite Hendrix music but Hendrix himself
wanted to move on. He wanted his music to loosen
up and open out; to use the studio as a brush rather
than as a canvas. His sessions became as far as
Chandler was concerned chaotic and
undisciplined. Chandler wanted out, so Mike Jeffery
bought him out (for $300,000); he relinquished the
production helm to Hendrix himself during the
sessions for what became Electric Ladlyland.

So instead, Hendrix booked himself into Bill

Grahams Fillmore East for a New Years Eve stint,
and put a new band together for the occasion,
featuring Billy Cox an old army buddy whod
replaced Noel Redding on bass and Buddy Miles,
an acquaintance from the old soul-revue days with
whom hed become reunited at Monterey, where
Miles was drumming with Mike Bloomfields Electric
Flag. This was Band Of Gypsys: and suddenly
Hendrix was fronting an all-black band. Gypsys
retained the Experiences power-trio format, but
with a very different emphasis.
Redding was fundamentally a guitarist even whilst
still with the Experience, hed launched a side
project, Fat Mattress, in which hed played lead
guitar but Cox not only played bass, he thought
bass. And Miles was a very different drummer from
Mitch Mitchell. Whereas Mitch was all fire and air,
with one foot in the jazz world of Elvin Jones and
Tony Williams and the other in the flamboyant
Britrock double-bass-drum tradition of Keith Moon
and Ginger Baker, Miles was earthed to the max
with on-the-one roots in deep heavy funk. He was
incapable of soaring into the up-and-out as Mitchell
could, but he could anchor Hendrix as Mitchell
couldnt. The Experience rhythm section was wiry,
wired and wild; the Gypsys were solid, meaty and
muscular. It wasnt just the musicians skins that
were blacker; the music was, too.

By the spring of 1969, Noel Redding was gone, too.

Hed also grown up with the codes of British pop:
soul fan or not, hed started out as a guitarist and,
according to Robert Wyatt, had wanted to be in a
classic beat group like Small Faces or The Move.
He didnt like having his bass lines dictated to him
or even, in more than a few cases, erased and
replaced by Hendrixs own bass work. Moreover, he
also sang and wrote songs, and he wanted the
Experience to feature his material alongside the
leaders. Axis and Ladyland had each included a
Redding song sung by the composer, but Hendrix
fundamentally wanted to run his own show, and he
figured hed earned the right to do so. The original
cosy collective didnt seem to work so well on the
other side of the Atlantic. As hosts, they felt that

Worse, as far as Mike Jeffery was concerned:

Hendrix was now out against the war. The
centrepiece of the Gypsys shows was a scarifying

462

new tune called 'Machine Gun', featuring some of

the scariest and most wrenching sonic-abstraction
guitar he ever played, which Hendrix would preface
in performance, "Id like to dedicate this one to all
the soldiers that are fightin in Chicago, Milwaukee
and New York... oh yes, and all the soldiers fightin
in Vietnam." Unlike many of his bourgeois white
contemporaries, Hendrix the ex-paratrooper refused
to take the easy option of slandering the troops in
Nam as sadistic reactionary babykillers: he knew
exactly why most of them were there, and he also
knew that they were as much sacrificial victims as
the Vietnamese against whom theyd been arrayed.

misses what the other could have brought to the

party.
Be black, brother, be black. "Black kids think the
music is white now, which it isnt," Hendrix once
said. "The argument is not between black and
white; thats just another game the establishment
set up to turn us against one another... and the
grooviest thing about it is that its not all this oldtime thing that you can cop out with. The easy thing
to cop out with is sayin black and white. Thats the
easiest thing. You can see a black person. But now
to get down to the nitty-gritty, its getting to be old
and young not the age, but the ways of thinkin.
Old and new, actually. Not old and young... most
[people] are sheep... thats why we have the form of
Black Panthers and some sheep under the Ku Klux
Klan. They are all sheep... "

Jeffery was a druggie who gobbled acid as

enthusiastically as Hendrix, but he was also a
political rightwinger who claimed to have been in
MI6, and a major control-freak who had very
definite ideas about what Hendrix should be doing
and who should be in charge. The look, sound and
ethos of Band Of Gypsys was definitely not what he
had in mind. Johnny Winter: "The white guys and
managers would say, Dont play with these niggers,
man; the fourteen-year-olds cant relate to all that
space stuff. Get the cute English guys back. And
the black guys would tell him he was selling out to
whitey. Jimi was a pretty sensitive person, plus he
was loaded all the time, and he didnt know what to
do."

Hendrix was being unfair to the Panthers: they

werent racial exclusionists like the Nation of Islam.
But the Black Panther street-vending the party
newspaper outside Hendrixs Electric Lady studio
knew that brother Jimi was generally good for a
sale, even though Hendrix withheld the public
endorsement which the Panthers sought from him.
After Dr Kings assassination, Hendrix had been
under more and more pressure to make explicit
statements concerning Americas burgeoning race
war. He was, after all, the only black rock star with a
massive white audience, and the Panthers and
others correctly perceived him as having a vast
influence on young whites. The Panthers came to
his shows "I sort of feel them there. Its not a
physical thing but a mental ray. Its a spiritual thing"
and were sometimes received in the dressing
room: Noel Redding had once been barred from his
own backstage by an over-zealous Panther minder
during one such impromptu conference.

The crunch came early in 1970. Hendrix and the

Band Of Gypsys were headlining a major anti-war
benefit rally at Madison Square Gardens, but
someone Buddy Miles claims it was Jeffery
himself handed Hendrix some extremely bad acid.
Two songs in, he dropped his guitar and left the
stage; Jeffery promptly fired Buddy Miles.
Today, critical opinion is divided on the subject of
Band Of Gypsys in general and Buddy Miles in
particular, and the division isnt in Miless favour.
That original Band Of Gypsys album was Miles
Daviss favourite Hendrix record, and this writer has
always enjoyed the contrast between the feel of that
music wherein Hendrix gets the chance to sit on
the rhythm section and the Experience
recordings, in which it often sounds as if Redding is
being hauled along in Hendrix and Mitchells furious
wake. Certainly the later combination of Cox and
Mitchell effects a groovalistic compromise between
the two radically different feels but, churlish though
it may seem, your correspondent has always
hankered after the chimerical mirage of a drummer
who could have combined Mitchells fire, flash and
flair with Miless earth, weight and funk, catering
simultaneously to both of Hendrixs most urgent
musical and emotional needs. Whichever drummer
is playing on any given recording, one always

If Hendrix overtly aligned himself anywhere in the

struggle, it was with the faction represented by Dr
King, to whom he made several substantial
donations, rather than the Panthers. He made his
contribution through his music, and through simply
being who he was. "You dont have to go round
making political statements on top of that," opined
Robert Wyatt, possibly the most politically literate
musician of his generation. "He was living a political
life of great importance."
As if to emphasise Wyatts point, Hendrixs most
profound and powerful political statement and,
indeed, one of the most profound and powerful
political statements made by any artist in any genre
either during this most turbulent of American eras,
or with reference to it in the decades which followed
was entirely wordless. When he performed 'The
Star Spangled Banner' at Woodstock in August

463

1969, he achieved something utterly unparalleled.

In the words of Vernon Reid, Hendrix "tapped into
the enire Vietnam experience. He is in it, completely
immersed, and it is beyond playing. Even the
feedback sounds like people crying and it sounds
like napalmed villages... he plugged into something
deep, beyond good or bad."

Pete Townshend announced mordantly seconds

before The Who cannoned into a pulverising 'My
Generation' finale, with guitars, drums and speakers
and mikestands flying all over the place, "is where
it... ends." That may have been where it ended for
The Who, but Hendrix had gone further. That was
showtime, but Woodstock, two years further on
down the line, was where Hendrix demonstrated
that he didnt have to haul out the lighter fluid to
burn down the stage.

The ironies were murderous. A black man with a

white guitar; a massive, almost exclusively white
audience wallowing in a paddy field of its own
making; the clear, pure, trumpet-like notes of the
familiar melody struggling to pierce through clouds
of tear-gas, the explosions of cluster-bombs, the
screams of the dying, the crackle of the flames, the
the heavy palls of smoke stinking with human
grease, the hovering chatter of helicopters. But the
purity of that melody is invaded by ghostly rogue
overtones; its stately unreeling derailed by the
sounds of riot and war, sirens and screams, chaos
and alarm. Hendrix was presenting a compelling
musical allegory of a nation bloodily tearing itself
apart, both on its own streets and in a foreign land.
Time and again, the rich clean statement of the
melody would resurface, a proudly waving flag
standing above the melee, and time and again, the
tide of violence and horror would swell to engulf and
drown it. Nation and melody alike were haunted and
swamped, hopelessly fragmented and lost, uneasy
dreamers drifting rudderless into nightmare. The
feedback and distortion ate into the melody like
acid, corroding everything it did not consume.

All of which serves to validate Robert Wyatts point:

that a man with the vision, courage and artistry to
deliver a performance like that in a context like that
was politicically involved whether or not he made
overt political speeches or toed any particular party
line. Whether Hendrix was a revolutionary in terms
of classic, formal political definitions is highly
debatable. To state that, with 'The Star Spangled
Banner' and, later that same year, with 'Machine
Gun', he was making revolutionary art, is not. West
Coasters like Jefferson Airplane or Country Joe &
the Fish certainly outdid Hendrix when it came to
flourishes of radical rhetoric in their lyrics, but they
never came anywhere near to challenging the
social and cultural status quo as profoundly as
Hendrix did.

To that idyllic faux-Rousseau setting, the archetypal

white hippie moment, Hendrix brought both the war,
and the war about the war which was being fought
on Americas streets and campuses, and across
dinner-tables in every American home. One man,
with one guitar, said more in three and a half
minutes about that peculiarly disgusting war and its
reverberations, its corrupting, distorting effect on
successive generations of the American psyche,
than all the novels, movies and memoirs put
together.

Nowadays, pop stars are not required to put

themselves on the line for their beliefs. Indeed, its
difficult to tell if anybody has any beliefs or not
these days: the silence of rocks lambs during the
Gulf War and this years Kosovo conflict was
positively deafening. During the 60s, and during
punk, such cop-outs would have been considered
inexcusable: even if artists werent required to put
their bodies where their lyrics were, they were
cheerleaders for change. The catalyst was Bob
Dylan, who came to rock from the folk scene,
bringing with him the folk worlds tradition of topical
left polemic; and Dylan albeit in his later
symbolist poet phase, his Rimbaud rather than
Guthrie period was Hendrixs primary influence as
a lyricist.

Hendrix was a man of peace whod been trained for

war. Amidst all the woozy rhetoric of love and
flowers which dominated the era, he was one of the
few artists prepared to acknowledge and channel
his own violence. At Monterey, one of the subsidiary
ironies was that, whilst it the US was the nation
which was actually at war both at home and abroad,
it was two of the imported acts Hendrix and The
Who who acted out the turmoil (The Doors, after
all, were a year away from breaking on through,
and The Velvet Underground and Mothers Of
Invention would not only not have been welcome,
but wouldnt have been caught dead at such an
event even if anybody had invited them). "This,"

But despite exceptions like Vanessa Redgrave or

Chrissie Hynde, even the most radical artists tend
to be artists first and activists second, as the likes of
Country Joe and David Crosby have cheerfully
admitted. Even Joe Strummer, punks leading
political loudmouth during the heyday of The Clash,
steered extremely clear of signing anybodys party
dotted line. "We were guitar-playing drug addicts,"
he acknowledges. "Its seen as completely nonrevolutionary, having a spliff. There was no way we
were going to put the Rizlas away and start
marching up and down. We were just going, Fuck
off, man! Smoke a bloody joint! Id like to think The
Clash were revolutionaries, but we loved a bit of

464

posing as well. Wheres the hair gel? We cant start

the revolution til someone finds the hair gel! And I
mean that!"

instrumental version of 'Have You Ever Been (to

Electric Ladyland)' to suss that one out. "Hendrix,"
according to the late Mike Bloomfield, who heard
our hero backing up John Hammond Jr in the
Village before the London relocation, "was the
greatest expert Ive ever heard at playing rhythm
and blues, the style of playing developed by Bobby
Womack, Curtis Mayfield, Eric Gale and others."

Similarly, Hendrix put his beliefs into his music and

by playing benefits like the aborted Madison
Square Garden stop-the-war show put his music
at the service of those beliefs. The one thing he
would not do, though, was limit his music, or the
perception, of his music, by playing the game of
classifying it as black or white.

By the same token, all jazz, from the earliest New

Orleans recordings onwards, is the result of AfricanAmericans getting their hands on the
instrumentation of the European military band.
White Americans have never had a problem with
black music: only with black people. American
music is an international, interracial, intercultural
colloquy and, ever since The Beatles, Brits have
been particpating in the conversation as equals,
rather than simply listening dumbstruck from the
sidelines. By coming to England, Hendrix
immeasurably enriched this conversation.

So, bearing in mind the dangers and pitfalls of such

a heavily loaded dialectic, lets do so on his behalf.
His earliest musical experiences were with his
parents record collection and radio: jump and jazz
and blues, Louis Jordan and Count Basie and, a
little later, Muddy Waters, Lightnin Hopkins, John
Lee Hooker. In his teens, he encountered the
archetypal rock and roll of the 50s: Chuck Berry
and Little Richard, Elvis and Eddie Cochran. In the
early 60s, stationed down south, he got another
heaping earful of the blues. On the road and in
Harlem, he worked either behind or alongside the
greats of R&B and soul, gigging with The Isley
Brothers and King Curtis, watching Sam Cooke, BB
King and Ike & Tina Turner from the wings. In
Greenwich Village, he heard topnotch folk and jazz,
simultaneously happening on Bob Dylan and John
Coltrane, whilst discovering the first and second
waves of the British Invasion: Beatles and Stones,
Yardbirds and Who.

So, once again, was Hendrixs music black or

white? All I can do by way of offering an answer is
to quote myself, rather than simply repeat myself. In
Crosstown Traffic, I wrote that Hendrix
"transgressed many boundaries; both arbitrary
musical definitions separating blues and soul, jazz
and rock, and also those more fundamental divides
between the archaic and the avant-garde, between
individualist and collectivist philosophies, between
blacks and whites, between America and Britain,
between passive acquiescence and furious
resistance, between lust for life and obsession with
death."

Put that all together and what have you got? Jimi
Hendrix.

When Billy Cox first wandered past the clubhouse

of the 101st Airbornes camp in Kentucky and heard
Hendrix playing to himself, he heard something
which sounded "like a cross between Beethoven
and John Lee Hooker." Hendrix listened to
everything, and made use of everything. Even when
he was touring the UK in 1967 with an unlikely
package tour which included gulp Engelbert
Humperdinck, he would stun his friends and
colleagues by catching the Humps set every night
because, conscious that he wasnt the loudest,
strongest or most in-tune vocalist in the world, he
admired Engelberts old-school vocal technique and
projection. The reason he went so far was that, in a
ceaseless spirit of self-improvement and self-tuition,
he went for what he didnt have. A born autodidact,
he was instinctively inclusive, and never allowed
snobbery to shut him off from anything which his
own muse could use. An omnivorous listener,
whatever he borrowed became his. His identity
could never be submerged, because he was so
hugely and quixotically himself. "I guess all songs is
folk songs," Big Bill Broonzy is supposed to have

In other words, he had the imagination and the

skills to hear the new white rock which was itself
an English mutation of African-American music
from the perspective of a musician who already had
a hands-on mastery of the root forms. More than
that, he could freel and empathise with the way that
the London hippoisie were hearing and adapting
those forms. And finally, he could stand above and
beyond it all, manipulating and extending both the
roots and the branches in a manner which was
uniquely his.
There is actually very little American music which is
racially pure. Even bluegrass, a theoretically
milkwhite genre, utilises an African instrument the
banjo and country shares with soul a common
ancestor in the form of the Baptist hymnbook. You
only have to listen to country guitar, and the kind of
post-gospel soul guitar stylings exemplified by the
likes of Pop Staples, Curtis Mayfield, Bobby
Womack and Steve Cropper not to mention
Hendrixs own variations on such usages, like 'The
Wind Cries Mary' or the rare but lovely solo

465

said, "I never heard no horse sing em." And

Hendrix was fond of quoting Louis Armstrong to the
effect that, "There are only two kinds of music: good
music and bad music."

Janis: Its a dirty town.

Peter:...and all that kind of crap.

The answer to all of our questions, therefore is yes.

He was all of the above. Not because he arbitrarily
stuck random things together in some postmodern
paste-up or hyphenated scratch-mix, but because
both the man and his vsion were to large enough to
comprehend, and to act on the comprehension, that
its all one music.

Janis: A very dirty town.

Peter: OK, yeah, it was filthy.
Janis: Theres no air there.
Peter: You know, you walk down the street and you
can hardly see the sides of the buildings. Anyway,
we drove to this place called Mother Blues, where
we were going to play; its a kind of high class folk
place...they used to have people like Judy Henske
and Chad Mitchell...

Any category to which one assigns Jimi Hendrix

turns into an obscene Bed of Procrustes: some
aspect of Hendrix, some part of the man and his
music, always seems to be arbitrarily lopped off.
Whether its a musical classification (blues, soul,
rock, jazz) or a national boundary (British,
American), a political division (left or right,
revolutionary or reformist, radical or conservative)
or a racial definition (black, white), it never seems to
be big enough for him. We can argue all we want
about where he fits in, or how appropriate each
description seems to be, but ultimately what it
comes down to is this: both implicitly and explicitly,
in his art and his utterances, Hendrix was both
playing and working towards a world and a society
in which such distinctions and classifications and
separations are obsolete, where they no longer
matter. A world without hatred, a world without fear,
a world without inequality, a society where
everybody is valued and no-one is excluded, where
all of this planet can provide a warm and safe home
to all of its people.

Janis:...and Bob Gibson you know, it used to have

a real adult folk music type audience, but they were
losing money, so they decided to go folk-rock.
Were you the first group they had?
Peter: No, they had the Jefferson Airplane before
us, and they got a good response, so they booked
us for four weeks. For about the first two weeks it
was fairly goodsome of the audience didnt know
who we were; they were just regulars who always
used to go there. After ten oclock, all the teenagers
had to leave, because from eight until ten was for
teenagers, and they didnt serve drinks. At ten
oclock they started to serve drinks and the older
crowd would come in, and like theyre white-collar
drunks and alla bad scene.

You want to honour Jimi Hendrix, to pursue the

spirit of his life and work and take it for your own?
Then as we used to say in the 60s tear down
the walls, motherfucker.

Janis: Yeah, but we finally unearthed some hippies

in Chicago, and they started comingthey were
there for about the last week and a half.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1999

Peter: When they first heard us they didnt

understand the music, couldnt dig it at all.hated
it, in fact. Then, after a couple of times, they started
to dig it. You see, whats happening in Chicago is
this; they have all the teenage nightclubs, the ones
that open from about 7 til 11, in the suburbs. In the
city itself, theres a curfew, so teenage nightclubs
arent too profitablethere are only about three on
Wells Street, which is like a Broadway scene, and
the rest of the places are like jazz, Dixieland, rock
and roll, and a couple of semi-topless things. The
rocknroll bands that were playing in these places
were just like mimic bands didnt do any original
material, though we heard about some groups, like
The Shadows of Knight, the Little Boy Blues, and
Saturdays Children, who did play their own stuff.

Janis Joplin

Big Brother & the Holding Company

Greg Shaw, Mojo Navigator, September 1966

GS: Can you tell us about your recent visit to
Chicago?
Peter: Alright; after arriving at the airport, we drove
down this immense freeway, which seemed to be
just smokestacks and smog...

466

Janis: Theyre really blues oriented in Chicago, you

knoweven the young bands dont do any folk
rock..none at all.

Peter: Oh, theyre going theyve got the contracts.

So the white kids go to hear groups like the

Shadows of Knight, and then move towards the
blues.they start going to see the bluesmen?

Didnt anybody there really listen to your music?

Janis: No shit? They are? I cant see it coming off.

Peter: Well, like I said, it was mostly white collar

people who came because they always used to go
there....we got lots of the "is it a boy or a girl?" sort
of crap.

Peter: Theyre too young....and there isnt anywhere

for them to go now. The place to go to used to be
Big Johns on North Wells Street, where they used
to have Muddy Waters, Otis Rush, Jimmy Cotton,
Howlin' Wolf, and so on, but they closed it down.
You had to be over 21 to get in, but it was about the
only blues club in the Old Town area. The only other
blues clubs are in the South Side, and like you just
dont go down there unless you have a spade friend
with you. So the teenies stick mostly to the clubs in
the suburbs I didnt get to any, but my cousin
was in a Chicago group and he used to play at
some of them.like the Pit and the Cellar, and they
have good music for a low price.

Janis: Some people were pretty appreciative and

kept coming back, and the last week was really
surprising. One guy, called Darnell, came in every
single night.
Peter: Yeah, and at the end, he told us hed come in
to steal our material.
Janis: Yeah, a lot of people from local rock bands
came in because we were doing original stuff and
no-one in the area had heard material like it before.

Has anyone tried to take Howl in Wolf and Otis

Rush and put them into the teenage clubs yet?

Peter: There was a dancefloor there, but the

teenagers wouldnt dance or hoot or holler or cheer
or anything.they just sat back and clapped.

Janis: Not that I know of.

James: Nobody gets stoned it was like they were

watching television or something thing.

How were you promoted?

Janis: Ugh.

Janis: Yeah they dont get stoned. Nobody was

having any fun, man, they were all just drunk.
Strange town.its really the Mid West.

Peter: We werent.they just had one notice in the

window. There were some reviews in the papers,
but the reporters mainly talked about the night life of
the place. The only review of the music wasnt the
most beautiful that Ive seen...

What about the recording you did for Mainstream?

Peter: Yes, we recorded four tracks at this session,
two of which are going to come out as a single on
October 10th. We dont know whichll be the A side,
but the songs are All is Loneliness, a Moondog
song, and Blind Man, which is folk-rock.

Janis: They said we were ugly.

Peter: They said we were an ugly group; exciting
but very ugly, and that the drummer had corny legs.

How did Big Brother start? Whats the history

behind the group?

David: Cant argue with that.

Janis: They said we werent as ugly as the Grateful
Dead, but that we were still pretty ugly.

Peter: Well, lets see; we started at 1090 Page

Street (a club in San Francisco) during one of their
jam-session kind of evenings. We started out with a
guy called Paul Beck, whos now in Chicago, who
got the group together with Sam, a guy called Dave,
Chuck Jones, and me. Paul played harmonica and
he was ok, but his songs werent very good.
Anyway, he went when we got our new manager,
Chet Helms, and we got rid of Dave what-d'ya-macallim I cant even remember his last name on
lead guitar because he was too young, and the
drummer, Chuck Jones.

Have the Dead been out there yet?

Peter: No, theyve only heard about them but
theyre going there soon. We were trying to
discourage them.Pigpen was horrified he
doesnt want to go.
Janis: I dont think theyll go.

467

David: Jim started in November (1965), I started in

March, and Janis came in June.

Sam, whats your comment for the interview you

havent spoken yet? In last months with the Dead,
Pigpen only made one remark throughout.

Janis: I was a blues singer before that, a folk-singer,

folk blues singer. and Jim hadnt played an
electric guitar until last December.

Sam: What was that?

He said "fuck it".

What do you think of the local scene? Do you

prefer the Avalon or Fillmore, or the clubs?

Janis: Hes a good blues singer, but he has a

terrible taste in wine.

Janis: I like the Avalon for its acoustics.

Greg Shaw, 1966
Peter: Yeah, I like the acoustics there, and the
audiences too. We played the Fillmore about two
months ago and the audience was pretty poor
there were a lot of people, but they werent very
receptive.

Janis Joplins Full-tilt Boogie Ride

David Dalton, Rolling Stone, 6 August 1970
LOUISVILLE, Kentucky Janis Joplin and her
newly-formed band, Janis Joplin Full-Tilt Boogie,
debuted here June 12th, their first gig since they
started rehearsing together a month and a half ago.
Freedom Hall, where the concert took place, is a
monster indoor stadium designed for wrestling
matches and basketball games, the kind of place
that looks empty even when it's full to capacity. With
an audience of about 4000, it looked pretty sad. To
make matters worse, the crowd, mostly younger
kids in neat hippy/mod threads, did not look like
Janis's crowd.

Janis: They werent really into the music too much

they just walked around trying to pick each other
up.
I saw you at the Avalon on Friday, and that was
good.
Janis: Yeah, I enjoyed it a lot.it was really good to
play there again. No shit, it was fun.
What if the single doesnt click, and the scene more
or less stays static in San Francisco? Will you just
continue playing and see what happens or what?

From the air, Louisville is like a letter dropped from

a giant alphabet, a T extending its arms nine miles
along the Ohio river and its tail curling up into the
hills. Aside from its topographic eccentricity,
Louisville is really unexceptional. Downtown is a
honky tonk, straggling, punky main street, where
soldiers drift in from surrounding barracks looking
for action and kids hang out on the corner.

Janis: Somethings gonna happen....it isnt just

going to carry on like this. Somethings gonna
happen.either we are all going to go broke and
split up, or else well get rich and famous.
Peter: If the record makes it, then the peoplell start
digging what were doing, and then well lay it on
them thick, with some freak rock things. I dunno, its
always good to drop new things on people.

Janis took a peek between the curtains before

going on and realized it was not exactly Angels'
Night at the Avalon Ballroom. "Shit, man, why do
those country club chicks in their panty girdles
always have to be sitting in the front rows? They are
probably so light they couldn't move if they wanted
to," said Janis in her gin-mama voice.

David: Thee are a lot of rock bands coming up all

over the country, and theyre really good and at
the same time, the audience is getting bigger and
bigger. If it keeps going at this rate, theres no limit
to how big it could become in this country.

It took a while for the audience to get into it, but

Janis was having her party, and she was just
waiting for them to come over.

I read somewhere that there are about 2000 bands

in the Bay area..which of the bands round here
do you find interesting?

"Some dance hall you got here," Janis said handon-hip, Bette Davis style. "You know, sometimes we
go into a place and take a quick look at the hall, a
quick look at the dressing rooms, and a quick look
at the audience, and we say, well, if we're going to

David: Let me think for a secondthe Dead are

good; theyre really very good. And Quicksilver too,
for certain reasons they turn me on really heavy
sometimestheir songs are so nice.

468

have a party here, we're going to have to do it

ourselves..."

exhausted but excited; the rain dance had worked.

As Janis and the band left the stage in the eternal
rock pantomine of unplugging guitars, the crowd
howled for more.

"Try Just a Little Bit Harder," a girl shouted out as a

request, and Janis yelled back, "I beg your pardon.
Im doing my part, honey."

Janis, beaming, took another sip of Southern

Comfort from a styrofoam cup and hit into the
encore, 'Get It While You Can', a blues written by
Jerry Ragovoy (who also co-wrote 'Piece Of My
Heart') which Janis has recorded for her next
album. As she stepped off the stage a longhaired
kid in a headband handed Janis a telegram: "COME
TO RIPPLE SOUTHERN COMFORT PARTY IN
YOUR HONOR..."

If things started slowly, the concert ended in a nearriot and the rent-a-cops in their mountie hats, not
sure whether they were at a concert or a
demonstration, blew their cool and began driving
back the kids rushing the stage with their clubs and
flashlights. Meanwhile Janis was ecstatic.
"I permit them to dance," she yelled to a burly
sergeant-at-arms; "in fact, I demand it!" And the
rent-a-cop marched up and down scowling and
fuming and shaking his fist at Janis in a gesture of
revenge, and for a minute it looked like one of those
movies about small southern towns where the good
hearted rain-makers gets run out of town on the
next train. But, in fact, everybody had a good time
except the rent-a-cops, who couldn't figure out what
role to play and ended up overacting.

The local papers the next day were as ecstatic

about the concert as the audience, the Louisville
Times called it a "love feast," and the Courier
Journal, in its article titled "Rock Queen Blasts Off
Like An Apollo Rocket," launched into some classic
pyrotechnic journalism: "Like an Apollo rocket
blasting off, that's the power of Janis Joplin's voice.
Howling, screeching, and penetrating the air with
such brilliance and force, you believe for a moment
she could fill the Grand Canyon with sound."

It all started when Janis began to get into 'Try', with

her jive about, "Honey, if you've had your eye on a
piece of talent and that chick down the road has
been getting all the action, then you know what you
gotta do..." and wham! the drum kicks into the song,
and Janis lays on her message: "Try a little bit
harder."

The success of the concert can in part be attributed

to Janis' new backup group, which has finally given
her the confidence she needs to put out.
"Basically, we are like studio musicians who were
put together for a session," Ken Pearson (right,
near left, with Janis and Brad Campbell), the
organist, explained. "Its not like we played together
in the garage for three years before making it. We
are still finding out what kind music we like. I'll go up
to John's room, and he'll play me something and Ill
say, you mean, you like that? You know, we're just
a group of musicians from really different
backgrounds, thrown together, slowly becoming a
family."

As, she got into it, she jumped off the stage, and a
kid in the front row started shaking it down with her.
That was all that was needed. Everybody got out,
onto, and over their chairs and stayed dancing,
shouting and clapping.
From there things just kept grinding on with
'Summertime', 'Kozmic Blues' and 'Move Over', a
blues Janis has written for her next album. By the
time she got into her last number, 'Piece of My
Heart', security had all the house lights turned on in
the hope that it would cool everybody out, but it had
just the opposite effect. The kids, saw that
everybody was standing, dancing up and down and
screaming, and it just made them wilder and
eventually the whole audience swarmed up to the
stage like a hive of bees.

Ken himself has worked with a lot of small rock and

jazz bands in Canada. He backed up folk singer
Ronny Abramson and played with Penny Lang's
Montreal Symphony 1500 before joining Jesse
Winchester about a year ago as a piano player.
Jesse had come North to avoid the draft and had
planned to head west with his four-man band in an
old bus, just stopping and doing a number wherever
they happened to be, when Robbie Robertson
offered to record him. Robbie had got together a
bass player and a drummer for the session, but still
needed a keyboard, so Jesse and Ken were the
only members of the original group to play on the
album. Ken would probably have stayed with
Jesse's band, but, when Jesse was billed to play a
gig last February with The Band, Jesse felt his
group would provide a better contrast to The Bands

In this conservative southern town, it was as if Janis

had flashed a vision of the Garden of Eden at them.
And they didn't want it to end.
They were grateful to Janis for taking them away
from where they were and putting their heads
somewhere else, and they showed it. Janis was

469

full sound if he played just with himself and a bass

player. So Ken was temporarily out of a job. It was
just at this time that Janis was looking to form a
new backup group.

develop an incredible number of really talented

musicians.
All the members of Janis' current band are
Canadians, except for Clark Pierson, who played
drums with Linn County. Janis discovered Clark
playing in the house band of the Galaxy, a San
Francisco topless club. His drumming has a funky,
heavy bump and grind beat, a perfect match for
Janis' raunchy voice. "You know, I've had drummers
that used to go-a-one, a-two, a-three...," says Janis,
"Clark just slams right into it."

Although Janis has said that one of the reasons she

left her last group was that she was always fighting
the volume of the horns, she misses the punch that
the horns gave her. "They gave me that umph when
I needed it." But it's unlikely that her audience will
miss them. The lead guitar and organ fill in
beautifully where the horn lines were, and they are
a better harmonic match for her voice.

"They just weren't happening for me," Janis says

about her last band. "They just didn't get me off.
You know, I have to have the umph, I've got to feel
it, because if it's not getting through to me, the
audience sure as hell aren't going to feel it either.
This band is solid, their sound is so heavy you
could lean on it, and that means I can go further
out, and extend myself. It's together, man, that's
what it is!"

When Janis left Big Brother, it was like a marriage

that broke up, and ever since she had been looking
for a partner that had the virtues of spontaneity and
freshness without being amateurish. Her new group
comes as close to that as time will allow. If they are
not quite what Big Brother was to Janis, it is
perhaps because they were not part of the original
Panhandle Park mythology. But, as musicians, they
are more together than Big Brother. Also, Janis can
relate to them: "These guys are on the same
wavelength as me," Janis says "It's more of a family
thing again."

Janis is obviously happy with the new group and it

shows in her singing that is more controlled and at
the same time more inventive than it was a year
ago. The new group puts out a wall of sound that is
a perfect foil for Janis' incredible range and
modulation. In its new context, her voice can go
through its almost impossible series of changes:
laughing and crying in the same line, singing
harmony with itself, cracking up, and finally, taking
off into the breathtaking and suspenseful endings, a
mind-blowing collage of sound patterns that make
her now, more than ever, one of the really great
gospel/blues singers of all time.

John Till (lead) and Brad Campbell (bass), are the

only two members Janis took with her from the last
band. Brad had been with the second band since
the beginning, but John joined Janis toward the
end, playing rhythym guitar. He is a subtle and fast
blues guitarist who joined Ronnie Hawkins band
three years ago when be got out of high school.
"Ronnie likes to get you real young and brainwash
you. He'll make you think you couldn't play with
anyone else even if you wanted to, and then he
puts you in a black suit and a store-bought hair cut,
and you just stay there until you've got the guts to
pull out." Brad, who also played bass in the last
group came from the now defunct Paupers (also
managed by Albert Grossman) where he replaced
Denny Gerard, and his bass is a solid match for
Clark Pierson's drumming.

Back home in Larkspur, Janis talked about her

future plans. "Well, you know, honey, we're still on
tour. Next week we're going to be in the L.A. area
Santa Ana, San Bernardino and one of those others
Sans, I don't know and after that... well, if that Mt.
Fuji gig comes off we'll be there in August."
Records? "Well, well be cuttin' a single as soon as
we can get some studio, but I don't know what it will
be. My producer's got one idea and Ive got another,
so we'll have to see. And an album... well, we've got
to fit recording time around the gigs. You know, we
rehearse, and I sing four nights a week, and my
voice can't take much more. We'll sneak into a
record studio sometime for the album, but I don't
know when. We'll figure it out."

Richard Bell (piano) also comes from Ronnie

Hawkins' band, and both he and John Till backed
the legendary Canadian harp player and singer
King Biscuit Boy, otherwise known as Richard
Newall. Bell's piano is, both honky-tonky and jazzy
and is a light improvisational, element, in a group
that is heavily rhythmic. Richard was in college
when Hawkins offered him "$50 a week and his
laundry" and gave him 30 seconds to make up his
mind. He took it. For all the unsavory stories
attached to his name, Ronnie Hawkins, like a
Canadian John Mayall, seems to attract and

David Dalton, 1970

Janis Joplin: Pearl/Big Brother and the Holding
Company: Be A Brother (CBS)

470

Charlie Gillett, Cream, May 1971

ignores the tunes, makes sure were aware its

Janis that were listening to.

THEY ALL AGREED, the people who went to see

her on stage, that Janis had something special. The
effect of her personality didnt come over so well on
records, but still they were worth having; they
helped to evoke memories of what she had been
like.

Yet its in these parts of the song that she is least

convincing; maybe it would be entertaining to see
her stomping around the stage, repeating words
and sound in a growling voice, but on record it
doesnt work.

So people will buy Pearl, as they have bought her

earlier LPs, and conjure the images she tried so
desperately to project of a woman torn to shreds by
the experience of living, unbearably wracked by
thoughts of love lost or never found.

But the band does a good job, bringing in guitar and

organ just as Jerry would have specified; maybe
therell be a temporary pick-up on the sales of
second-hand Garnet Mimms LPs, as a few people
get curious to find out what the original Cry Baby
sounded like. (Ecstatic, is the answer, and
remember while youre listening that it was done in
1963, and there was nothing Janis could do to
improve the concept or the sound.

The myth-makers have so successfully established

an image of Janis Joplin as Mother Earth for the
rock generation, she may well live on until this
generation dies. But that says more for their
gullibility than for her talents.

Theres a fast, Memphis type soul number (Move

Over, written by Janis) and a slow, Muscle Shoals
type song ('A Woman Left Lonely, written by Dan
Penn and Spooner Oldham), a novelty blues,
unaccompanied (Mercedes Benz), which is
probably the purest Joplin ever put on record, and
the track theyve put on a 45 to get radio play, Me
and Bobby McGhee. Not for the first time, a country
styled voice seems to suit a San Francisco singer
much better than the attempts to sound black; the
first half of Bobby McGhee has a more convincing
atmosphere then anything else Janis every
recorded, but even here she dissolves into the
mannered harshness that she seems to have felt
obliged to drop into every track.

She was, undeniably, a formidable personality. But

she was not, and probably knew it herself, a better
singer than many of those she tried to compete with
Etta James, Irma Thomas, Lorraine Ellison.
Nobody has suggested that her greatest despair
might have been at this level of artistic failure.
On her most famous LP, Cheap Thrills which she
recorded while still a member of Big Brother and the
Holding Company, Janis did her best to integrate
blues and soul songs into a contemporary rock
context; but most of the songs had their feelings
obliterated by insensitive feedback solos. Herndrix
might conceivably have matched her voice, but Big
Brother's guitarist certainly could not.

If Big Brother and the Holding Company had kept

going in the direction they seemed headed for on
Cheap Thrills, they should now sound unbearably
heavy. But, like many other San Francisco groups,
they have made a kind of retreat, back to styles that
were established before rock, to soul and, on one
track, country.

On Pearl, Janis used a five piece band called Full

Tilt Boogie who play for most of the time in one or
another of the classic soul styles Memphis,
Muscle Shoals, or Ragavoy. Its on the Ragavoy
tracks that Janis seemed to try hardest, and where
she asks directly to be compared to the other
singers who have used comparable styles. Jerry
Ragavoy was a Philadelphia R & B producer who
devised some of the most dramatic pop-gospel
arrangements of the Sixties Garnet Mimms Cry
Baby, Lorraine Ellisons Stay With Me, Erma
Franklins Piece of My Heart.

This may result from the influence of the singer they

have found to replace the departed Janis, Nick
Gravenites. Previously a Chicago contemporary of
Paul Butterfield, Mike Bloomfield and Charlie
Mussellwhite, Nick has lived in San Francisco for a
while, and now sings in a an under-stated soul
style. On stage, he has echoes of Bobby Bland and
Percy Sledge, but here he has dried them out,
properly aiming for something more original, but in
fact sounding very undistinctive. The musical
accompaniment, backed up on a lot of tracks by
horns from the Tower of Power, is soul-based, but
without the deep, compulsive rhythm of the real
thing, and only two songs stand up to much
attention, Heartache People, and Ill Change Your
Flat Tire, Merle.

Janis had already tried Piece of My Heart; here

she has done three Ragavoy songs, Cry Baby, My
Baby and Get it While You Can. Where she goes
straight for the lyric, shes good a competent,
expressive soul singer, but just lacking the spark to
make the song seem hers and nobody elses; and
so in each of them, she temporarily abandons the
restraints accepted by conventional soul signers,

471

Heartache People has a slow organ

accompaniment (yes, like House of the Rising
Sun, again) behind an interesting lyric, in which
Nick tries to fend off the losers who keep bothering
him. If only he sang it in a more interesting way, it
could have been a very powerful track. Flat Tire is
an answer from the longhairs to Merle Haggard,
who has recorded songs criticising the
underground; it begins quite wittily, but the last
verse is as small-minded as Nick says Merle is.

"Goddamn, hes missing great stuff here. Hey,

David! Get back on in here!"
The night before we reached Calgary, Janis was
dressed up for the journeys most glittering and
happiest hours. A "bacchanalian Little Red Riding
Hood with her beg full of tequila and lemons,
lurching from car to car like some tropical bird with
streaming feathers," as David described her, she
sat in with about fifteen musicians and sang
renditions of Youve Got to Hide Your Love Away
and Me and Bobby McGee. Finishing a song, she
said something and cackled, then turned around to
David, asking, "Are you remembering what I just
said, honey!" Transported and in deep reverie,
David mumbled a complaisant "Sure, Janis" a
Boswell caught thinking of everything but the
ineluctable modality of the visible and audible.
Jonathan Cott

Like the Glenn Miller Band, Big Brother might last

forever, carried by the Myth of Janis. But it doesnt
seem likely.
Charlie Gillett, 1971
Janis!
David Dalton, Rolling Stone, 17 February 1972

"IM GOING to write a book about you," David

Dalton told Janis Joplin when she was beginning
her first tour with her Full Tilt Boogie band in
Louisville, Kentucky.

JANIS IS reading, swimming off into a firmament of

her own, burrowing into the leaves of Zelda, its
jacket a nest of flamelike peacock feathers that
glow with greenish patina in her ringed hands, more
like a chunky bouquet than a book.

"Honey," Janis replied in partying manner and with

an eye to the future, "if you can pay for the plane
tickets, then you can follow me around for the rest
of my life."

Janis reads a lot, and these books (Tender Is the

Night; Look Homeward, Angel; The Crack-Up) that
she lugged about with her on her journeys had a
curious effect, that almost approached possession,
on her subterranean personal life, their words and
images, like spores falling on fertile inner tracts,
pollinating her daydreams.

In the beginning of July 1970, David and I were

riding the Festival Express, the amazing communal
train trip from Toronto to Calgary on which Janis
played a funky Eleanor of Aquitaine-Catherine the
Great queen to a court of jamming musicians
including the Grateful Dead, Delaney and Bonnie,
Buddy Guy, Eric Andersen, and Ian and Sylvia.

Strangely enough, and perhaps fortunately for

Janis, all this reading, absorption and general
intellectual turn of mind did not intrude on her
singing and songwriting, which always remained
very basic, gutsy, immediate and devoid of
reflection. Her considerable intelligence, in fact, did
not prevent her from producing the delicious, brassy
and super-corny imagery of some of her songs
(Love Is Like a Carrot from Move Over). She
somehow managed to separate the desperately
reflective side of her character from her music and
her presence on stage. In the quiet hours, however,
before going on stage, on planes, in airports and all
the vacant moments of life on the road, the tiny
roots of sympathy slipped out of the pages and
buried themselves in her minds eye, infusing her
walking dreams with the traces of fine summery
afternoons or sultry evenings of more than 60 years
ago.

One afternoon, as the train sped through the

Saskatchewan plains, Janis and Bonnie Bramlett
were conversing in the bar, having invited David
and his cassette machine to record the dialogue,
when Davids tape ran out. Janis was just beginning
to recount her experience of being on stage for the
first time with Big Brother and the Holding
Company.
"They threw these musicians at me, man, and the
sound was coming from behind, the bass was
charging me, and I decided then and there, that
was it, I never wanted to do anything else. It was
better than it had been with any man, you know.
Maybe thats the trouble Hey, wheres David!"
"He went to get a tape," I said.

472

Janis opens Zelda to the center where there are

photographs of her and Scott, old snapshots and
drawings, the comings and goings of a life. Zelda in
a ballet costume ruffles of tulle and ribbon
encircle her like a precocious flower. In a little
picture entitled "Folly" she is sitting in a field of
flowers as if shed just sprung up. Janis is as
familiar with all these hieroglyphs of Zeldas life as
she might be of her own. She seems to bounce on
and off the pages as if they were little gray mirrors
as out eyes walk about the pages. Heres a drawing
by Ring Lardner of Zelda thats been glued onto an
old newspaper clipping. She is dressed in a winky
Petty-girl jazzy coat as she steps onto this
unexplained ledge of question marks. On a
following page there is a more gloomy image
entitled ominously "Recovered," The intense,
staring, oscillating eyes, barely able to contain the
madness behind them, glare out of a tensely drawn
face framed by a short institutional haircut.

brought-up Southern girls grow up under similar

halters of tradition and confining social restrictions
as the Southern black. It was, perhaps, this
perverse affinity that gave such credence to Janiss
blues.
Both willful, headstrong girls, at the same time
sensitive enough to appreciate the lush romantic
tradition that they grew up with, Janis and Zelda
were torn between wanting to tear down all the silly
pretenses of this feudal society with its faint echoes
of Sir Walter Scott tiptoeing about Tara and living
gracefully within its many privileges. Such a conflict
had one day driven Zelda to write: " its very
difficult to be two simple people at once, one who
wants to have a law to itself and another who wants
to keep all the nice old things and be loved and safe
and protected."

What happened before and after these moments,

an afternoon in the middle of a field in 1916? They
are enigmatic as photos we now have of Janis.
Janis is fascinated by and envious of Zelda at the
same time, this wild Southern girl named after a
gypsy queen in a sentimental novel by her romantic
mother, growing up with the century the
automobile, the airplane, all the supercharged
cathexis of the American dream, which, similar to
Janiss Zelda, are magical chimeras bought with the
currency of wishes, half fantasy, half object. Janis
glumly points out the last photograph of Zelda in the
book. Appropriately she is standing rather stiffly in
the bucket of a huge crane as if about to be lifted off
the earth. "How our love shone through any old trite
phrase in a telegram," Scott wrote in one of his
jottings collected in The Crack-Up. This sentence is
realized in a photograph of Zeldas scrapbook
where cables from Scott are pasted like little white
clouds with devotional care.

How did you come to get into this strong

identification thing with Zelda?
I always did have a very heavy attachment for the
whole Fitzgerald thing, that all-out, Full Tilt, Hell
Bent Way of Living, and she and F. Scott Fitzgerald
were the epitome of that whole trip, right? When I
was young I read all of his books; Ive re-read them
all: autobiographies, The Crack-Up, all the little
scribblings and she was always a mythic person
in his life, you also have the feeling that he
destroyed her. You always get the feeling that she
was willing to go with him through anything and that
he ruined her. But in the book you find out that she
was just as ambitious as he was, and that they sort
of destroyed each other. He wrote her a letter one
time in which he says, "People say we destroy each
other, but I never felt we destroyed each other, I felt
we destroyed ourselves."

Growing up in the Deep South had a lot to do with

the concreteness of Janiss vision of herself the
gin-soaked barroom queen from Memphis
because the South with its ruminant, brittle gentility
like Tennessee Williamss vulnerable romantic
women whom Janis also resembled seems to
hoard up time, relatively sheltered as it is from the
changes of a more fluid society.

Yeah, Ive noticed a lot of things you are into are in

that 20s and 30s type of thing.
Im an anachronism, thats what it is.
How did you get that way?
I dont know, man. I mean Im not a 1930s anything.
Im just a 50s chick, but I suppose my thoughts and
fantasies go that more expansive, more
abandoned time, you know? Not those coy game
people like to play, not like the little first games, you
know More like," Well, boys?" Doesnt seem to be
doing me too much good either, but you know,
theyll all come around.

Janis also shared with Zelda the almost literary

tenets of Southern womanhood, the spirited veneer
of the legendary Southern belle with its attendant
charades of etiquette that are still a fact of life in the
Deep South. They both grew up in this
claustrophobic atmosphere with its elaborate
anachronistic modes of proper behavior which
unconsciously support a delicious irony: that well

473

I came down one morning to find Janis settled into

the motel bar as if it were a fat, familiar armchair. A
black cat is relating an interminable, maudlin epic
on Janiss right. His story cranks on and on,
bristling with details and turning on itself endlessly.
To her left a silver-tongued Southern gentleman is
peppering her by turns with come-ons and local
history.

*
JANIS WAS one of these naive people. Being naive
has nothing to do with how much you know or read,
it is expecting things to happen against all the
obvious indications, impossible hopes, expecting
things will turn out alright in the end.
Zelda, Bessie, Billie and Nicole Diver were her
immaterial doubles, cores which Janis reached by
intoxicating herself with their lives. Possession
induced by fantasies. Janiss flirtation with these
departed spirits was a very real traffic with "lets
pretend," encouraging all beautiful, silky, seductive
shades that try with their fatal suckers to attach
themselves to the living.

*
That was amazing last night.
Dig it, that was only our fifth gig, we were just now
getting our shit together. The band, for instance,
had never seen me jump off the stage before. I do
all kinds of stuff like that. They never see me say to
the audience, "Pow, come on and stand up," right to
those boys in the front row, and thats the country
club boys going "Aaaaaghhh, aaaaaghhh."

Janiss restlessness came from the static of all

these voices, the ceaseless chatter of those who
inhabit the possessed and make it impossible for
them to live their lives simply. At every moment a
host of presences is moving under the surface with
its mass of unlived lines.

That guy got up and really did it.

He grabbed my tits, thats the first thing he did.
Once you get down on the floor and start dancing
with them, unless theyre sound asleep, that usually
gets em up, because theres some kind of artificial
barrier built into their minds between stage and us
thats the stage, thats the show. Once you break
that barrier, and you jump down and walk out and
touch them, and you say, "Ill dance with you, man,
Ill get sweaty with you, come on, Im with you, man,
I just happen to be standing on stage" once that
barrier has been broken down, it just rocks right on
out, man. Its fun, its fun. I used to, and I still do,
cause I got a beautiful home, and Im sitting here in
Louisville, Kentucky, its raining, Im in the bar, its
noon, Im being treated rudely by four people out of
five. Regular bar conversation, I love bar
conversation, man theres four people talking,
nobody listening to anybody else, someone
constantly offending, and a third person constantly
apologizing. This third cat is saying, "Im really sorry
about a minute ago that I " Talk about cinema
verite. One thing I do not like is that star shit, man,
Im important so leave me alone, Im saying, "Im
paying for my own drinks, so you cant bother me."
Thats what I say to those cats in the bars when
they treat me funny and try to throw me out
because my tits show and my feathers. Its all
hippies, thats what Im talking about, Im not talking
about getting treated like a pop star, because they
dont even know that Im a pop star, and they dont
even relate to pop stars down here. What does a
pop star mean to an 80-year-old bartender, a big
flying fuck is what it means.

Perhaps Janis found refuge in this cosmic

narcissism that gradually became more real than
whatever remained for herself. These disguises
seemed to relieve her of the responsibility for her
own existence. Crawling into the lives of others she
set at rest momentarily the forces within her and
without her, triggered as they often were by her own
volition, which constantly seemed to seek out her
own destruction.
The impersonations (putting on Bessie for the
blues) were not simply representations but very real
identifications. They went beyond and preceded her
knowledge. Janis was already living out pieces of
Zeldas life before she knew who Zelda was.
Bar Talk
WHEN IT CAME to bars Janis was absolutely
fearless she would walk in anywhere. It was her
way of touching ground; shed plunk herself down at
the bar, a heel hooked around the rail and elbow
crooked in the padded ledge, as if to keep her from
drifting away.
In spite of the alcoholic fraternity of such places,
Janis was always alert, an acolyte in the services of
Fields devotional equation: "When you woo a wet
goddess, theres no use falling at her feet." She
would become repetitious and ornery but rarely
foggy or boring, and it was amazing, therefore, how
often she tolerated the most incredibly maudlin,
obnoxious drinking partners.

474

I went to a doctor the other day because one of the

people in my office thinks I have a drinking problem,
so I went to this doctor for special problems, and I
told him, "I did this when I was 22, and I did this
when I was 25, and I took this when I was 26, I
started this at 14, I started this at 18, whatever they
are, and Ive been drinking a lot lately." He looked at
me and said, "Man, I dont think you have a drinking
problem, I think youre doing great." Most of my
biggest problems now are what color scheme to
use on my next string of beads.

old, a great big man with a big belly and white hair
combed back on the top of his head. And he was
back there dishing out Polish sausages and hardboiled eggs and Grand Prizes and Lone Star, "an
other 18 Lone Star" dishin out the Lone Star. And
someone would say, "Mr. Threadgill, Mr. Threadgill,
come out and do us a tune," and hed say, "No, I
dont think so," and theyd say, "Come on, come
on," and hed say, "All right." Hed close the bar
down, and then hed walk out front, and hed lay his
hands across his big fat belly, which was covered
with a bar apron, just like in Duffys tavern. Hed
come out like that and lean his head back and sing,
just like a bird, Jimmie Rodgers songs, and he
could yodel God, he was fantastic. We used to
go there and sing every Saturday, and I was the
young upstart loudmouthed chick "that girl
sounds a lot like Rosie Maddox, dont she?" And Id
sing Rosie Maddox songs, and Id sing Woody
Guthrie songs, but one time an evening Id say,
"Can I do one now ? Can I do one now?" and theyd
say, "Okay, let that lady have a tune," and Id say,
"Give me a 12 bar in E," I sang blues, I could only
sing one a night, I made it there every night. Chet
heard me one weekend up there. He was famous,
he was one of the crazies that made it away from
Texas at a very early age, he had split at 18. He
was back in town on the way to the West Coast
from the East Coast all Texans come back to
Austin and he heard me singing and he said,
"That girls good, that girls good." I was wanting to
leave, I was wanting to get the fuck out of here, but
I didnt have quite enough nerve to leave by myself.
Chet was leaving, and he said he wanted me to
come with him and help him get rides. We
hitchhiked to San Francisco, and we slept on a
bunch of peoples floors, and I sang a couple of
times. I wasnt really that interested in singing, to
tell you the truth, I had a couple of opportunities, I
just wasnt that serious about anything, I was just a
young chick, I just wanted to get it on. I wanted to
smoke dope, take dope, lick dope, suck dope, fuck
dope, anything I could lay my hands on I wanted to
do it, man. Singing, singing just sort of faded out of
my life, and I went through a number of personal
changes drug problems, heavy drug problems
and ended up back in Texas trying to get myself
together, and I couldnt stand it down there. But I
was afraid if I came back here Id get fucked up
again. I had been down here about a year, which
was just enough time for me to get really sick of it.
How I really got in the band, it was really funny, it
was perfectly apropos, because who are you going
to fuck in Port Arthur? I was down there trying to
kick, not getting fucked, trying to get through
college, because my mother wanted me to, and I
was in Austin doing a little folk music gig, playing
the guitar, and this old boyfriend of mine came
this cat I used to make it with this was years after
I left Austin, it was 65, and I left in 61. I had gone

Thats the one thing Ive learned about being on the

road, that music and that hour you get on stage is
all. The rest of its fucked up, full of shit, people
trying to get something out of you, trying to talk to
you, trying to sleep, you cant sleep, at two the bars
are closed, it aint really a rocking good time. The
rocking good times you create, you bring the bottle
yourself and go to someone elses room and say,
"Lets rock." The road is just a hassle, the only thing
you got out of it thats groovy is playing. Any
musician that I see thats working, especially those
six-day weeks, theyre only doing it for their music,
theres no other reason, no money is worth that
grief, man. I have a beautiful home I could be at,
playing with my dogs and getting my friends to visit
me. Id rather be there than here with a hangover
trying to get myself together to go to a movie to
cure absolute abject boredom in Louisville,
Kentucky.
How did Chet Helms find you?
I was in a hillbilly band, mostly hanging out I was
supposed to be going to college, but I just went up
there so I could get it on. I was singing in this
hillbilly group called the Waller Creek Boys
Waller Creek runs right through Austin Pal St.
John was in the group and a young guy called
Lanny Williams who got married and had babies.
We used to sing at this place called the Ghetto and
just hang out and get drunk a lot, get in big fights,
roll in the mud, drink beer and sing, pick and sing,
pick and sing. Walked around carrying my autoharp.
Never went anywhere without my autoharp. We
were singing at this bar called Threadgrills on the
outskirts of town. It was a reconverted gas station, it
still had that awning and everything, youd pull the
car in and go in and have a beer, and Mr. Threadgill
was a hillbilly singer. Every Saturday night
everybody would go there. It was a very strange
amalgam of people. There were all these old Okies,
all the kids, little grand kids. Then there were a
bunch of college professors older cats that were
into country music intellectually the first of the
folk trend, and then there were the young upstarts
that were into it too, and that was us. And there was
Mr. Threadgill he surpassed them all. He was

475

to the big city and got good and evil and came back
home, with a little R n R, right! This cat came
down, and I was playing a gig, and after the gig I
was over at some peoples house, and I was sitting
there, and this cat came in and scooped me right
up, man, it was Travis. Travis just came and
scooped me up, threw me onto the bed, whoo,
baby! He just fucked the livin shit out of me all night
long! Fucked me all night long!, fucked me all
morning. I was feeling so good you know how
chicks are in the morning a copout. (A high
chicks voice) "Well, hi!" (Low mans voice) "What is
it?" He said, "Go get your clothes, I think were
going to California." I said, "Okay." Halfway through
New Mexico I realized Id been conned into being in
the rock business by this guy that was such a good
ball, I said, "Well, its bound to be, man." I was
fucked into being in Big Brother. But after I got here
and started singing I really loved it. So I got to San
Francisco and met all these strange guys. Chet
knew me, and Chet was managing Big Brother.
Chet had sent Travis down to try and talk me into
being the center of his group, because he thought I
was a good singer and would make it, but I had
never got it together. He happened to hit me at the
right time, and I came out to be in a group, but I
didnt know it. While I was gone, and Id been in
Texas for a long time, but when I was leaving
George Hunter was putting a show together. There
was no rock and roll in those days it was 64
when I left George was talking about putting me
in a rock and roll band, and he had this poster, the
first rock and roll poster. George Hunter drew it, it
said, "The Amazing Charlatans," I used to have it
on my wall and go, "Far out, what have these crazy
boys done now?" I came back to San Francisco,
and rock and roll had happened. Well, Id never
sung rock and roll, I sang blues Bessie Smith
kind of blues. They said, "Janis, we want you to
sing with these boys," and I met them all, and you
know how it is when you meet someone, you dont
even remember what they look like youre so
spaced by whats happening, I was in space city,
man. I was scared to death. I didnt know how to
sing the stuff, Id never sung with drums, I only sang
with one guitar. We finally did the song Down On
Me. I learned Down On Me. Its a gospel song,
and Id heard it before and thought I could sing it,
and they did the chords. So we practiced it all week,
and they were working at the Avalon that weekend.
They played a few numbers, and then they said,
"Now wed like to introduce " and nobody had
ever heard of fuckin me, I was just some chick,
didnt have any hip clothes or nothing like that, I had
on what I was wearing to college. I got on stage,
and I started singing, whew! What a rush, man! A
real live drug rush. I dont remember it at all, all I
remember is the sensation what a fuckin gas,
man. The music was boom, boom, boom! and the
people were all dancing, and the lights, and I was

standing up there singing into this microphone and

getting it on, and whew! I dug it, so I said, "I think Ill
stay, boys." Far out, isnt it? It sure did take me by
surprise, Ill tell you. I wasnt planning any of this, I
wasnt planning on sitting in cold dressing rooms all
my life, I didnt even know it existed. Even when I
was a singer I never wanted to be a star. I just liked
to sing because it was fun, just like people like to
play tennis, it makes your body feel good.
Everybody gave you free beer. I dont remember
much of the early period, we just worked around, all
of us starving, I got some money from my
parents.
I could have met Otis Redding twenty times and
married him, but once I saw him on stage, hes a
star, man. Ive never been that close to a star.
Youre a star, Janis.
Thats different and besides, I havent accepted
that kind of thing yet. You cant say you are a star. I
know me, Ive been around a long time, Ive been
this chick for twelve, thirteen years now. I was
younger then, more inexperienced, but I was the
same person with the same drives and the balls
and the same style. I was the same chick, because
Ive been her forever, and I know her, she aint no
star shes lonely, or shes good at something. I
have to get undressed after the show, my clothes
are ruined, my heels are run through, my
underwear is ripped, my bodys stained from my
clothes, my hairs stringy, I got a headache and I
got to go home and Im lonely, and my clothes are
all fucked up, my shoes have come apart, and Im
pleading with my road manager to please give me a
ride home, please, please, just so I can take these
fuckin clothes off, and that aint no star, man, thats
just a person. I have one thing I can do, and Im
getting better at it, too, which makes me proud. It
makes you feel like an artist rather than a fluke,
man, which I think I was. I just happened to have
the right combination at the right time. But now I am
learning how and thats my job to improve, and I
am, and that makes me feel good. Everybody can
do something at some time, but people arent
interested in what one person can do, and pass by
and always be a loser, but in another place and
time they just may come to you, and that doesnt
mean youre any better than anybody else. So
many people dont try, I mean people who really
fuckin try to be fair and to be good at what they do,
they really fuckin work, theyre artists, in artistic
bands, they really try. But I was just lucky, and I
know how lucky I am, because Ive been down, and
I had the same beads on and the same "Hi ya boys"
style so that I can get laid. Dont tell me Im a star,
man.

476

"You Left Me Here to Face It all Alone"

Janis took another sip of Southern Comfort and hit

into the encore. The first doomy notes of Ball and
Chain on the guitar always told of their end with the
inevitability of a pendulum, and as Janis wails into
the last impossible notes you realize that they are
outside of musical terms.

MORNINGS WERE always the worst for Janis, tired

and sodden, gluing herself together on the spur of
the moment for the trip to the airport. Some
mornings she looked as if shed been run over in
her sleep. Like a moth brutally caught in a blinding
light, she staggered out of her motel room into the
cruel glare of the early afternoon.

Janiss voice spews out in trills and shricks, cries

and moans, everything that was unresolved in her
life. Whirring horrors let fly from a deep pit and
wards of sorrow all attended and nursed to their
ecstatic moments by fierce, volatile "head notes"
that rush from every corner of the universe with the
dizzying trajectory of elementary particles to gather
up all the monstrous, painful and pathetic sounds,
human and subhuman, known and imagined, that
can bear witness to the bottomless sadness that
inhabited her. Noises full of real terror, the whining
of dogs, the croaking of drains, blind helpless
screams, shrieks of scraping metal, pitiful and cruel,
are all given Janiss body from moment to moment
and they toss her mercilessly. We are made to hear
the pain: two voices struggle for possession in a
cracked harmony, while an army of "i" stabs the air
with piercing points, and swords pile up in stuttering
hoarse clumps of confusion.

Pain scoped into her by day and evaporated at

night. First thing in the morning, even the Southern
Comfort tastes bitter. It was close to a chemical
infection. All this bred a low-grade despair in her
that fell into her head like water tapping at the
bottom of a deep well in which she could see
herself as clearly as the grotesque reflections that
suddenly appear at the bottom of a glass.

*
IN THE LONG HOURS that precede the show, few
things relieve the monotony. We are in a drab highceilinged dressing room with one bare light bulb.
Janis is making faces at herself in the mirror. Time
is spent mainly stringing her heads. Great Mother
Weaver of the World at her endless task. Oddly
shaped pieces of glass and stone, slipping knots,
trying off loose ends. Each strand represents hours
and days of boredom, waiting waiting, passing of
time. Each stone marks an hour, each know a
minute eaten up. The beads have their own syntax,
totally unconscious, the language of detached
fingers, emptied of thoughts, automatic, repetitious.
Perhaps if we could read them like a rosary theyd
tell a lot. Interior verbs and nouns of glass and
string speaking of opaque body rhythms.

Aaah want someone to tell me,

got to tell me
whyiiiiiiiiiiiii!
Just because I got to want your luuuuv
Honeh, jus because I need, need, need your love
I said, honey, I dont understand.
B-b-b-b-b-b-,honeh, I wanna chance to trrry
i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I!
try, try, try, try try, tri-I-I-I-I-I! huh-huh-huh-huh-huh!
As if awakened by her own voice in a dream, Janis
comes out of her trance and walks into a rap which
is incredibly moving because of the totality of its
correspondence: "I dont understand, how come
Youre gone, man I dont understand why half the
world is still cryin when the other half of the world
is still cryin, too, man, I cant get it together I
mean, if you got a cat for one day, man and say,
maybe you want a cat for 365 days you aint got
him for 365 days you got him for one day well, I
tell you, that one day, man, had better be your life
because you can say, oh, man, you can cry about
the other 364 but youre gonna lose that one day,
man, and thats all you got you gotta call that
love, man Thats what is, man if you got it
today you dont want it tomorrow, man cause you
dont need it cause, as a matter of fact, tomorrow
never happened, man, its all the same fucking
day."

Then comes the ritual of the bracelets, its incredible

formality. The procedure is almost Tunisian in its
intensity. Their elaborate shining rings glint in the
harsh light of the tiny cubicle like the host of white
birds that flew up after the birth of Cuchulain, each
with a silver yoke between them. The weight of all
that ripe amber and silver metal! It must feel like
carrying a spare arm around. Silver thinking circles
overlapping, crowding, burying each other. Its hard
to believe they dont serve some religious function.
Janis slips on each one deliberately like feathery
thin armor. Perhaps they do protect her in some
way as she steps nightly into her own arena. Its not
that the audience are cannibals, though in a sense
they are that too, because the battle is really for
them, with them against all the dull, wrongheaded
specters that have cropped up during the day in fat
wartlike growths.

PART TWO

477

BACKSTAGE LOUISVILLE

JANIS: I guess its that whole thing you hear about,

because theyre scared, thats what theyre trying to
say is because they dont like you is why, but why
they dont like you I dont know. Whether its a
reasonable reason or whether it is hung-up
prejudice reason, maybe their son is dropping acid,
or maybe they think youre trying to hold up the
banks. Basically, its because youre on a different
trip from them.

LADY REPORTER: Do you drink before going on

stage?
JANIS: I never drink until right before I go on. If I
drink three or four hours before I go on, an hour
before I go on, plus while Im on Im not gonna
enjoy the show because Im not gonna remember it,
and I decided a couple of weeks ago that the music
sounded so good that I wanted to be there, man.
People used to tell me, "Wow, you did this and
that," and Id say, "Wow, it sounds great, I wish Id
been there."

DAVID: I think they say, "Im not allowed to look like

that, how come they can get away with it?" Dont
you think?
JANIS: Maybe so. Maybe they just dont like your
fuckin ass.

DAVID: The band sounds great, really right there.

LADY REPORTER: Are you a pessimistic person?

JANIS: Honey, honey, Im telling you, theyre great,

man, Im so fuckin proud of them, Im just so jacked
to work with them, every day I just kiss em and tell
em I love em, man. Its better than its ever been
for me. Theyre right behind me, they follow me, do
you notice? When I go down they go "bob," when I
go up by they go "bop, bop, bop," theyre so great.
Really big talent.

JANIS: Aaaaaahhh, I used to think so. I was a real

pessimist, a real cynical bitch. Then I read
somewhere this definition that said "A pessimist is
never disappointed, and an optimist is constantly let
down." So by that definition Id be an optimist. But I
consider myself rather cynical They called me a
fine feathered bird last week, "Here comes the fine
feathered bird."

LADY REPORTER: How did you find them?

LADY REPORTER: Who said that?

JANIS: Oh, here and there. Albert found some of

them for me, some of them met somebody else.

JANIS : Oh, a friend of mine, one of my crazy

friends.

DAVID: How come you changed from horns?

She leaves. Janis asks me what do I think shell

write.

JANIS: Volume. Too many people complained there

was too much noise. I like having horns, man, I like
having the punch that horns give you, but theyre
too much trouble on the road, too much noise, too
much crowding on stage, it just didnt work out. I
like working with horns because it really gives you
that "pow!" I really need it, man, but theres all those
Tuesday mornings in the hotel, people not showing
up when theyre supposed to.

That chick? I know shes gonna write a good thing.

"You never can tell," Janis says cynically.
"Sometimes they think theyre gonna like you and
then you get out there and you really damage and
offend their femininity. You know, No chick is
supposed to stand like that. You know, your tits
shakin around, and your hairs stringy, and you
have no makeup on, and sweat running down your
face, and youre coming up to the fuckin
microphone, man, and at one point their heads just
go click, and they go Oooh, no. You get that a lot,
its really far out, when youre standing on stage you
cant see the whole crowd. The trouble is the groovy
crowd is usually in the back, because they cant
afford the seats down front the seats down front
are the local rich people and theyre the ones
that are just sitting there, man, with their knees just
so and you know, you only cross at your ankles,
keep your panty girdle tight together, and you sit
with your hands in your lap, and Im up there
singing, Im going Cha-cha-boom-quack-quack,

LADY REPORTER: What do people say when you

wear those clothes in hotels and restaurants?
JANIS: Yeah, theyre real rude to me, they treat me
like someone they dont want in there, and they
dont want me in there. But it depends on how hard
they are. You can leave and say, "Fuck them, I dont
have to take this," or you show them your money,
and they allow you to stay. Everybody who looks
weird gets fucked over. I look pretty weird, but I do
the best I can.
DAVID: Why do people want to fight with people
who look weird?

478

and I look out at the crowd, and these girls have

these little pinched smiles on their faces, and I must
be an absolute horror, man, theyve never seen
anything like it, and they dont want to again, man.
The chicks up there, shakin it all, How do you like
that, boys, and the boys all go Aaaaaghhh! [verbal
equivalent of an R.Crumb drool] and the girls are
going, Oh, my god, she may be able to sing, but
she doesnt have to act like that. Thats the way I
was raised, man, I know exactly whats on those
bitches minds, they dont like me, man. But thats
not most trouble to buy a ticket to come to my
shows are ready to rock.

part? I came in early, and I walked all the way to the

front of the stage and shouted [in a hoarse
whisper], "Come on, come on!" and just fucking
stamping my foot and saying "Im not going to sing
anymore unless you do something," you know, and
theyre going "Whooo-ooo-ooo, yes, mam! Yes,
mam, yes, mam!" A riot. Groovy. All they want is a
little kick in the ass. You know, sometimes I jump off
the stage and grab somebody and say, "Lets
dance." When they reach a certain level, you know
they want to be lifted but theyre scared. Then all
you gotta do is give the old kick in the ass, a big
fucking kick in the ass, man. Then the promoters
get goony, turn the lights on, pull the power, but by
then its all over [cackles]. I dig it! I dig it so much,
man! Cause I figure it this way, man, those kids
living in the Midwest, like I was raised in Texas,
man, and I was an artist, and I had all these ideas
and feelings that Id pick up in books, and my father
would talk to me about it, and Id make up poems
and things. And, man, I was the only one Id ever
met. There werent any others. There just wasnt
anybody, man, in Port Arthur. There were a couple
of old ladies who used to do water colors and paint
still lives, and that was it. And Id look at these
books of paintings and go "Wow!" and Id try and
paint that free, to let it go. I mean, in other words, in
the Midwest you got no one to learn from because
theres not a reader down the street you can sneak
off and talk to. Theres nobody there. Nobody, I
remember when I read that in Time magazine about
Jack Kerouac otherwise Idve never known I
said "Wow!" and split. Kids from the Midwest, their
whole fucking thing is to sit in 24-7 and be still. "Ill
give you until eleven o clock, and thats it." They
get "Do this, do that!" Its never occurred to them
that they could not go in the army. They were told to
go in the army. You know, its a thing I do not in
defiance, its a side trip you know, I figure if you
can take an audience that have been told what to
do all their lives and theyre too young or too scared
or whatever I wasnt scared, but, you know, most
of the kids brought up in that scene are. You know,
"Daddy wouldnt like it." Or the South, or hey, man,
California, but its worse there, because California
or New York, there are freaks all over, and they
know there are other ways of life. The point being
that out there they do not know there is another way
of life. Theyve never seen a freak, and if they have
they probably just think theyre dope addicts, fuckups and horrible degenerate uglies. If you can get
them once, man, get them standing up when they
should be decorous, smile when they should be
applauding politely, and I think you sort of switch on
their brain, man, so that makes them say: "Wait a
minute, maybe I can do anything." Whooooo! Its
life. Thats what rock n roll is for, turn that switch
on, and man, it can all be. I hate to tell you that it
can, but it could be, and youre a fool not to try. I
mean you may not end up happy, but Im fucked if

A lot of chicks in the audience are really behind

you.
Yeah, but thats the trouble, the lights, you cant see
them.
A lot of chicks really identify with you.
At my concerts most of the chicks are looking for
liberation, they think Im gonna show em how to do
it. But the ones right in the front are always the
country club bitches, they always are. Its so weird
playing to 14 panty girdles. I used to get really
uptight when they turned on the house lights
because I thought it would cool the show, but I
noticed in the past year it doesnt. You turn on the
house lights, and if youve got an audience thats a
little timid the minute they see everybody else
standing up and getting goony, they say, what the
fuck, and everybody just stands up and starts
getting sweaty. I used to think if they couldnt see
me singularly and watch me turn them on, theyre
gonna get turned on even more. The fact that I look
small and human like I do when the lights are on
dont matter one fuckin bit.
Well, its like in Kansas City, the second show
especially, what you are doing is taking people from
one level and lifting them up
And insisting on it!
What happens? I mean, do you know the point
where it turns around?
Yeah, I know exactly what happens, man. I was on
stage, and I looked out, and I knew they werent
ready. We were doing Piece of My Heart you
know you can do a lot of different things, you know
sometimes they get up spontaneously. Out in the
Midwest, they dont. They arent supposed to stand
up. But, I remember I was singing Piece of My
Heart, you know that "Come on, come on" line
well, you know the guitar solo that leads into that

479

Im not going to try. Thats like committing suicide

the day youre born if you dont try.

most vividly at the Summer Solstice in San

Francisco in 1967. She was standing in front of this
elongated 40s airport car smoking a cigar and
drinking out of a bottle. Among all the fantastic
images that arise from the day sorcerers juggling
red faces, gypsies, yage giants and self anointed
princess, clowns and Harlequins from the mime
troupe pirouetting on the lawn, monks, and hordes
of smoldering Angels, children, naked as Adam on
the first day of creation, clutching balloons on the
edge of a rain forest, Indians and wagonmasters,
and all the flyers, walkers and divers that could be
assembled in one place at one time Janis
seemed still the most fantastic and the most real.
Perhaps it was just that among all the
impersonations in the part that afternoon her
emanation seemed the most plausible. It became
her and she became it.

When youre on the road it must be hard to make it

happen all the time. Do you rely on things to get
you going?
You mean tricks, gimmicks? Sure, I got a thing, I
cant talk about it, but you have all kinds of tricks
that I put at the beginning of the first tune to turn me
on.
Like what kind of things?
Movement things, like the way you move, a certain
instrument you listen to, I watch my equipment
men, they know me real good, and they love me, so
like if Im feeling scared if you arent always on,
man, then you damn sure better get on. I dont care
how fuckin tired you are, so I suppose in one way it
is somewhat insincere. Like Mike Bloomfield, he
only plays when he feels like it, well, thats fine,
man, hes a very lucky guy. Ive walked on stage
bored shitless, on a bummer and everything, and
walked off goony, so I dont think you can wait till
you feel like playing. Sometimes playing is the only
way you got out Sure, there is an element of
acting. The biggest thing to me is I dont know
about the element of acting Ive been talking to
Michael Pollard about acting, and I dont know
whether I can act or not, but I can act like me. I can
act like me like a son of a bitch. The most important
thing to my performances is to kick me off, the more
I find, the more I use.

Within all this insanity, a motorcycle cop, his boot on

the running board, is writing out a ticket in all
seriousness for "an illegally parked vehicle in a
public place." As Janis catches sight of him, she
taps her cigar and gingerly moves around the
curves of the old limousine with the deliberate
trajectory of a planet, swaying in that articulated gait
that always made W.C. Fields look like he was
trying to stand upright in a small rowboat.
I remember asking her if I could take a photograph
of her with Big Brother. "To tell ya the truth, honey, I
dont know where the boys went to," she says in her
croaky little-girl voice, her face as serious as an old
plate. I am amazed, but I notice uneasily that the
fantasy is a reassurance. The image recedes
rapidly, telescoping to a small round disk of light as
if it had been sucked back into the vacuum of time,
and all that is left is Janiss shitkicking grin floating
across the zero blue sky of the afternoon like the
smoky trace of a Cheshire cat.

Thats the amazing thing about a great

performance, that it can be very real and very
structured at the same time.
Sure its structured. Cause I remember when I was
playing with Big Brother sometimes Id get so
excited Id stop singing and start jumping up and
down. I dont do that any more because I know
when it reaches a certain point, thats like shitting,
thats letting it all hang out, too. Playing is like
taking a feeling and like turning it into a finished,
tight thing that is readable and understandable to
the people who are looking at it. Its not just for you,
you cant just sing how you feel, youve got to take
how you feel, sift it through whatever vocal chords
you have, whatever instrumentation you have,
whatever arrangements you have, and try and
create swelling feeling in an audience.

The day had begun with little altars of twigs and

grass at dawn on Mount Tamalpais, offerings to the
local deities, the axis of smoke ascending from the
hub of the earth to the celestial wheel. It is the
festival of the center of the year, symbolized by the
forefinger and "U", the erotic vowel, heather and
wild bees. The goddess of this solstice is a queen
bee about whom male drones swarm in
midsummer, and recollections of this day seem to
hover around Janis, just as bees will hum over
invisible tables where they once sipped honey.
Janis did then, most of all, embody the spirit of
midsummer: sensual, ripe, fiery and dancing
barefoot; like a young Kaffir girl delirious with
pleasure, she moves rhythmically to the
accompaniment of her own daydreams, scarcely
less amazing than the image of the Triple Goddess
herself that Jonathan Swift collected at Lough

Morning And Evening Of The First Day

I HAD SEEN Janis performing in Panhandle Park
and I had seen her at Monterey, but I remember her

480

Crew: " an ancient, ageless childlike giantess, her

car drawn by sparks of light who hunts the white
mountain deer with seventy hounds that have the
names of birds."

mankind must have resembled this day in its infinite

possibilities, and that Janis, nave, filled with
wonder and surprise, may have been its first
beautiful child.

Everywhere bubbling powers of unknown valence

are breaking into play Hendrix clambering up
onto the back of Big Brothers sound truck to shoot
some double exposures with his Instamatic camera,
an agile, numinous figure mischievously alighting
on the earth: "I long to be a shimmering silver light
on the screen."

The Great Saturday Night Swindle

You wrote the Kozmic Blues, right?
Yeah, I did write that one. I cant write a song unless
Im really traumatic, emotional, and Ive gone
through a few changes, Im very down. No ones
ever gonna love you any better and no ones gonna
love you right. Maybe put you down. I like the song
and I still believe in it to a degree, but I am still
working on it .I just realized, the other night, were
you there? Its the first time it ever happened to me,
I transcended the thing, I went into another stage,
man You know how on Ball and Chain I do that
free-from ending, "Love is such a pain, love is such
a pain " Thats what this new blues is about,
Move Over, about this man that I was in love with,
he wouldnt be my old man but he wanted me to
love him men do that, they love to play that
game, you know, taunt you with it anyway at the
end of that song it reminds me of an analogy of
driving mules with a big long stick with a thing
hanging with a carrot on it, you know, and theyd
hold those things in front of the mules nose, and
those dumb mules keep going after it and never get
it. Thats what I say at the end of the song I keep
saying, "Like a carrot, baby, baby da-de-da-dum,
like a carrot, baby." No one ever gets my imagery,
thats the only trouble. No one ever listens to the
words anyway. Fuck it. But I gotta hear it, I gotta
believe it or I cant sing it. Anyway Kozmic Blues
was about someone who loved me. As a matter of
fact all my songs are. [Laughs]

Loops of meaning curl in cool blades of grass: the

dream of a foot with eyes set in the instep; polished
stones tumbling out of heaven; Eternity in an Hour;
vanishing outlines, kerfs and cusps the snake
draws a circle round the dreamer blending all these
plaintive singing reflections of the chromatic eye of
God with the actual joys of the afternoon: teams of
shouting, screaming, dancing children swimming in
the wake of the sound trucks. Janis is on the bed
ladling out her raunchy blues like nursery rhymes to
little groups of awestruck kids who stare vacantly at
this mirage from the dusty area in front of the truck.
A figure leans over the edge of the truck, grinning
like a hookah, his features distorted by the
astigmatic focus of memory so that the tip of his
nose is all the remains of reality. He is passing out
handfuls of joints. Someone says theyve been
rolled from grass they planted on that spot earlier in
the year. As the image of Janis and Big Brother
singing from the platform of their truck surrounded
by her band of followers begins to oscillate and
decompose, I hurriedly fixed in my mind its
photomorphic details in R. Crumbs bold pneumatic
outlines, where hopefully it will linger a few
moments longer.
In spite of subsequent contractions, and despite its
pantomime of mysteries, that morning and
afternoon will always seem magically suspended,
as if somehow removed from the onward rush of
things and events, and at the center of this warp of
time is Janis, radiant, earthy, vulnerable as the
moments that went to make it up, and yet, because
of personal demons who would not let her rest,
forcing her to trace out a vaster plan, she is fixed in
time and space by the coordinates of the minds
eye as firmly as a point in the celestial sphere.

The Kozmic Blues

Yeah, the Kozmic Blues first of all youve got to
remember to spell it with a "K." Its too down and
lonely a trip to be taken seriously, it has to be a
Crumb cartoon, like White Man. Its like a joke on
itself, I mean itd have to be, but Kozmic Blues just
means that no matter what you do, man, you get
shot down anyway. Oh, I wanted to tell you what my
new idea was, because I came up with my new idea
was, because I came up with it the other night while
I was singing I was talking about how love hurt
you this way, love hurt you that way, now I just
suddenly flashed and I was writing a song about
it, too maybe it didnt hurt you because it wasnt
supposed to last 25 years, maybe love can only be
a day and still be lovelike right now theres
somebody being in love, then you ARE in love, you
didnt get let down by love, you just have to spend
the next few days and go to the movies!Im trying

As the revelers, weary from wonders, like

interplanetary visitors tired from their first day
exploring the earthy paradise, stumble, dance (the
bands still playing) and blow themselves into the
sea at the edge of Golden Gate Park, and as the
great sun wobbling on the edge of extinction
showers everything with flakes of rusty light, it
seemed for an instant that the original state of

481

to write a song about, not get it while you can it

starts off that way I mean get it while you can,
and while you have it you have it. The Kozmic Blues
doesnt exist, unless you have nothing. Kozmic
Blues to me means I remember when I was a kid
they always told me, "Oh, youre unhappy because
youre going through adolescence, as soon as you
get to be a grownup everythings going to be cool." I
really believed that, you know. Or, as soon as you
grow up and meet the right man, or if I could only
get laid, if only I could get a little bread together,
everything will be all right. Then, one day I finally
realized it aint alright and it aint never gonna be all
right, theres always something going wrong.

What is? Drinking?

Yeah, that and thinking.
Drinkin and thinking. I dont think its Capricorn. I
think its people, and most of them think too much
and theyre all different sizes and shapes and they
all figured it out. It all harkens back to when I was
twenty, I figured it out. Got to get outta Texas, got to
get outta Texas, soon as I get outta Texas
everythings gonna be okay. I ran away once, got
fucked up, came back. Ran away again, made San
Francisco, hung around bars. I couldnt get myself
together, I didnt have many friends and I didnt like
the ones I had, drinkin, sleepin in some little nickeldime hotels in North Beach. I was sitting in the
afternoon in a bar I wasnt supposed to be there,
I was twenty I lied. I was sittin in there thinking
and suddenly it struck me like a fucking light bulb.
Thats all there was, man. I would probably be
sitting in that bar, when I was eighty, saying I can
do [laughs]; I can make it feel better, you know,
whatever, so I wrote my father this big long letter
because I am very close with my father Im not
talking about now, because I havent been home in
a long time a big long letter about how you guys
always told me it was going to get better and I
always thought it was an incline up that one day
would level off. And you know, you motherfucker, it
aint leveling off, its going to go straight up and
when Im eighty Im going to die saying "I wonder if I
did something wrong?" or some equally insecure,
unaware trip, you know. I wrote my father this big
long letter. There was only one other man in Port
Arthur my father could talk to. My father was like a
secret intellectual, a book reader, a talker, a thinker.
He was very important to me, because he made me
think. Hes the reason I am like I am, I guess. He
used to talk and talk to me and then he turned right
around from that when I was fourteen maybe he
wanted a smart son or something like that I cant
figure that out. But he spent a long time talking to
me. The biggest thing in our house was when you
learnt to write your name, you got to go and get a
library card. He wouldnt get us a TV, he wouldnt
allow a TV in the house. Anyway I wrote him this big
long letter and a few months later Id gone home,
and hed already showed this letter to the only other
intellectual in town who was his best friend and they
got together desperately and they just dug the fact
that each other existed. This guy also dug me a lot
and thought a lot of me, and my father showed him
my letter, and when I came home this guy walked in
this was all new and confusing to me and
startling I felt God had played a joke on us and I
was pissed off and everything, and this guy walked
in with a sly smile on his face and he reached out
his hand and said, "Well, Janis, I hear ya heard
about the Great Saturday Night Swindle." I went

The world is a really sad place

[Angrily] I know, but they never told me that when I
was young! I always used the analogy of I dont
know if this is grossly insensitive of me, and it well
may be, but like the black mans blues is based on
the have not I got the blues because I dont have
this, I got the blues because I dont have my baby, I
got the blues because I dont have the quarter for a
bottle of wine, I got the blues because they wont let
me in that bar. Well, you know, Im a middle-class
white chick from a family that would love to send
me to college and I didnt wanna. I had a job, I
didnt dig it, I had a car, I didnt dig it, I had it real
easy and then one day I realized it in a flash
sitting in a bar, that it wasnt an uphill incline that
one day was going to be all right, it was your whole
life. Youd never touch that fucking carrot, man, and
thats what the Kozmic Blues are, cause you know
you aint never going to get it.
What keeps you going?
Work keeps you going. Being here is better than
going to sleep, I guess.
Is it the thing thats missing that gives you the
blues, or is it the nothing?
Its not the nothing, its the want of something that
gives you the blues. I mean if you dont mind sitting
around with no clothes on, why you could be as
happy as a loon. Its if you want to get dressed up,
look spiffy, you got the blues; if you dont mind
sitting in an apartment watching TV every night, you
dont ever feel lonely, but if you want to be with
someone and touch them, and talk to someone and
hold them, and cook for them, then you are lonely.
Its not what isnt, its what you wish was that makes
unhappiness. The hole, the vacuum I think I think
too much. Thats why I drink.
Its a Capricorn failing.

482

whooooooh! I mean its really true, huh! Here was a

fifty-year-old man telling it like it is. I was proud of
that. I talked about that all the time Out of the
jumble of my life its one of the few things I can
remember clearly.

JANIS: You seem as old as me.

Symbolic Wounds

BONNIE: Ive been on the streets ten years. You

aint got that on me, Ive been there too.

BONNIE: I am as old as you. Im older than you.

JANIS: Ive been on the streets ten years.

JANIS [to waiter]: Screwdriver.

JANIS: I knew you looked good. You just fired your

old band, didnt you?

BONNIE BRAMLETT: Scotch and Coke.

JANIS: Ive got lots of tie-dyed velvet I had these
tie-dyed satin sheets, the most beautiful fuckin
sheets in the world and I started makin it with this
cowboy and he shredded them up with his cowboy
boots. [Laughs, ice tinkling.] Three-hundred-dollar
satin sheets shredded by cowboy boots. I loved
every minute of it.

BONNIE: No, our old band just quit. They wanted to

pick with Joe Cocker.
JANIS: All those 87 people? When I saw Joe
Cocker at the Fillmore West and I read in Rolling
Stone he had an 87-piece group, children, dogs,
chicks, musicians, and he brings all life onto the
stage, I went down to the Fillmore, and Bill Graham
didnt let no one on the stage but the musicians
he made all the chicks, all the babies, all the dogs,
stand on the side, because if hes singing and if
hes playing music, hes playing music. He aint
talking about a life style, he aint philosophizing,
hes playing music, and he ought to get musicians
up there and play the shit, man, if he wants
groupies he can get em after the show.

BONNIE: Is that true?

JANIS: It is true, man, theyre ruined.
BONNIE: Now that dude cantve been that good.
JANIS [Cracks up]: Well, how do you see it so far,
David?

BONNIE: You can get them local, man, you dont

have to bring them. My girlfriend told me that she
got in a fight with her girlfriend because her
girlfriend said that she read in Rolling Stone that
someone was supposed to have seen me yelling to
them, "You dirty mother fuckers, you stole my
band," and all this shit, and it made me really mad
because I really love my musicians.

DAVID: Its a gas.

JANIS: So do I. To tell you the truth, man, Ive
woken up a lot Listen, I didnt take this gig the
money aint that great I didnt take this gig for
any reason other than this party, man I said it
sounds like a party, man and I want be there my
band are picking us up in Winnipeg, and The Band
are picking us up in Winnipeg and Im gonna pick
one of them up in Winnipeg!

JANIS: Did you lose that great organ player?

BONNIE: Hey, did you see out organ player? His

name is Jim Gordon. And, Janis, I swear to God?
Rick and Robbie were there .for ten years I
worked with him .[catches a look on Janiss face]
oh yeahyou read that article, huh? [Janis
cackles] I knew youd read it, I read it too

BONNIE: Bobby Whitlock, man, hes in England

with Eric. Theres a million and one musicians in
this world thats never even been heard of that can
just kick ass.

JANIS: The chicks beautiful, man... how old are

you? What sign are you?

BONNIE: Yeah, so as far as your musical ability, we

can always find other musicians, but I love those
guys and it really did crush me, but I was cool, and
it hurt me and it killed me, but I was cool. And its a
lie that I said it; it may not be a lie what I thought. I
was crushed, I can admit it now we have a new
band, were together. In the meantime, you know
Bobby Keys: that great sax player had no gigs,
man, because they let him down. Eric told him he
could come over to England and make a lot of

JANIS: Yeah, playing topless clubs and things.

BONNIE: IM 25.
JANIS: Gosh, youre younger than me.
BONNIE: Youre 27, right?

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bread doing sessions and he believed him, so now

he says he cant pay for the plane, so in the
meantime hes sitting home with no gigs, because
Im not going to fire the new band.

BONNIE: Because you know youre gonna do your

lead right as long as your bass and drummer are
together.?
JANIS: If you get the kick in the ass. You hear it
when theyre great. But mostly Im so involved with
the song that I dont even hear the band, you know
what I mean? All I hear is when theyre wrong.
When theyre right, I just keep singing and talking
my shit and telling my stories, but as soon as
someone does something wrong, man, I get goony.

JANIS: Ive worked with three bands, four including

when I was a kid, but three pro bands. We got on
stage and did it anyway under the lights, but those
boys really help you. The singer is only as good as
the band, and this is the first band that really helped
me. I got a drummer, man that drives me up a wall.
I wanna tell you, I was doing this shit in a tune last
week, you know how you have verse, bridge, verse,
and then you have a vamp. The vamp is free, its
Janis, Janis gets to sing or talk or walk around the
stage and act foxy, whatever she wants to do, right.
Its free, and all the band is supposed to do is keep
up the groove. So I was singing, "Well, I told that
man, I said baby, I said baby, I said baby," I went up
in thirds, and when I hit that high "baby" and I did a
kick with my ass to the right, and the drummer went
bam! With a rim shot, and I turned around and said
"My God, where did you learn that part, man, I just
made it up a minute ago." I walked off stage and
said, "Where did you learn to play behind singers
like that?" and he said, "I used to back strippers."
Thats how you learn how to play, man.

BONNIE: When youre rapping and all of a sudden

they hit a hum, dum, dum, into another groove, and
you aint ready for it, you turn around and look at
that drummer and bass player. Jim Keltner used to
get so mad at me, hed say, "Why do you turn
around and give me dirty looks?" Thats no dirty
look, thats my face.
JANIS: Thats when you were in the wrong place
when I was in the other place.
BONNIE: I was here and you were there, and
youre not supposed to be nowhere that I aint.
JANIS: Thats what I did about the group I got now. I
had groups that learned the tunes, they learned the
stops, they learned the whatever-the-fuck. This
band, man, I could be in the middle of a verse and
go on a different trip, and they can follow me. They
wont go with the arrangement, they go right with
me, man. Like, if I decide to extend the verse for 8
bars, 16 bars, whatever the bars are called, when I
get through saying something I aint through so I
keep talking, they dont quit, they know Im not
through so they keep playing.

BONNIE: Watch that ass, when its going to the

right you hit a rim shot. Thats exactly what I tell my
drummer.
DAVID: Clark is a great drummer.
JANIS: Hes not subtle, but hes all right. Right on. I
guess thats what I need. I aint real subtle either, to
tell the truth.
BONNIE: When you listen to your band, what do
you listen to the most.

BONNIE: I used to do the exact same thing with

Delaney, Id never keep my eyes off him, because
you never know what hes gonna do he might
want to tell his life story.

JANIS: Drums and bass.

BONNIE: I know this, me too, drums and bass, Its
the bottom, its the rhythm.

JANIS: I do it all the time.

BONNIE: I do it too, I tell my life story every show I
do.

JANIS: Thats what kicks you.

BONNIE: Since you are a lead instrument yourself.
Everyone wants to play their own ax, like the
greatest guitar player. You listen immediately to the
bottom, so youre the lead instrument, so all you
need is rhythm.

JANIS: Sometimes I wonder if theyre worth it, man,

if theyre worth all that fuckin grief that they drag
out of you, but you cant think about it in those
terms, right!
BONNIS: The only thing I wonder about is not if
theyre worth it but if they understand it, because I
hate to expose myself completely and have it go
this far over their heads. Because thats what youre

JANIS: All you need is the bottom, the middle you

just count on to fill in, but what you need is that kick
in your ass, man.

484

doing, youre talking off completely the whole plastic

down from the front of you, you might as well just
get nude. Because youre completely exposing your
inside feelings. Its reality, its not a show when you
really get into it as much as that. I really get up
tight, not at what they yell, its just that they
shouldnt yell anything at all. What I want to hear
from that audience is understanding, I dont want to
hear someone yell, "Wheres Clapton?" Im standin
up there, I got three children and its very hard to go
off and leave them, thats part of me, and Im not
saying it. Im giving up someone who really belongs
to me, because this is something I have to do as a
complete individual, but they are individuals, too, so
I cant subject them to my life; its their own choice, I
dont get them high, I dont get high in front of them,
I dont want to give them mescalin, thats their own
choice. I wish I could take that tape from Germany,
because we never played so hot, and they were
yelling, boo, hiss, they yelled from the minute we hit
that stage with Eric, because they figured Eric was
going to have his own shit. Eric Clapton with
Delaney and Bonnie and Friends, it looks like
theres Eric Claptons group and then Delaney and
Bonnie, they didnt think he was going to play with
us. I have no pride. It hurt my feelings, I cried, and I
couldnt do any more than four numbers, because
Im not going to cram anything down anyones
throat who dont dig it. Youre completely putting the
whole plastic shield down and exposing your whole
inner feelings to everyone. This is the only way I
can get release from what I feel, you gotta talk, you
gotta tell, and I have the God-given talent to be able
to do that, I dont have to live in a plastic shell all my
life, and I think it should be appreciated, and if you
dont like it, I think you should get your money and
split, and if people writing about it dont dig it, they
have no business interviewing me, let them
interview someone they like, because if you dont
have something nice to say, dont write about that
person.

man. I put the microphone down and walked off the

stage. I blew my contract and all that shit, but fuck
that, man, I aint gonna get out there and cry my
soul out for people that are talking about "Hows
your brother, did you get laid on Thursday, thats a
cute dress." Im up there talking about my pain.
Fuck you, man.
BONNIE: Our pain is common. You know the
feeling that a woman has its very hard for a man
to get to a woman because they take it in different
ways. Its like a woman can understand another
woman, and everyone has been in love and been
turned down and everyone has had someone who
really loved them that they just didnt love, and what
are you going to do, you dont want to hurt him, but
you just dont love him, and thats hurt and thats
pain. So youre telling that to people, and theres a
lot of people that can relate to that. In the meantime
Joe Shmoe is assin off, and youre being very
serious, and people say, "Delaney walked off stage,
he thinks hes so hot." Hes exposing himself, and
everyones laughing, theyre ignoring him, ignoring
his whole soul. Its really ugly to do, because
everyone in the meantime is talking about
understanding and loving one another, and peace,
and lets talk about it, lets be truthful with each
other. And heres someone on a platform in front of
thousands of people, theres probably 45,000 that
understand, that have been through that, and then
theres the others that have may be been through
that but dont even want to look at it, so they want to
schmaltz it up for everyone else. And if it so
happens that theyre sitting in the front row, and
youre trying to do something, if you were Frank
Sinatra you could look up to the left light or the right
light, but I gotta look my people in the eye.
JANIS: Thats whats so hard.
BONNIE: Why did they spend their money to come
there?

JANIS: I had a couple of shows where I played the

whole show really into it, completely giving all I had,
man, and I was doing a free-form thing, talking,
bring it all out, let it all go, man. Just talked about
Janis and all the men that hurt her, and all the men
that maybe she let down, and everything that you
got to say, man, all of a sudden it starts coming out
of your mouth, and you didnt even intended it to,
and all of a sudden I heard them speak, I heard
them talking in the middle of my fuckin shit, man,
and I stopped and I waited to see if theyd quit.

JANIS: Its the 50s against the 60s. In the 50s they
used to sing songs because they had nice tunes
and they had nice melodies, they didnt hear the
words. They were nice to foxtrot to or something.
Right now, its different for a guitar player because
hes playing D minor, F, whatever the fuck, but Im
up there saying, "I feel, you know, I hurt, please
help," Im saying words, man, and if I look at an
audience, and they aint understanding me, its just
like getting kicked in the teeth.

BONNIE: Its like a sledgehammer in your chest,

man

BONNIE: As much money as Las Vegas has, they

aint got enough for me, they gonna have to come
up with a lot of bread.

JANIS: They didnt quit, and I grabbed the

microphone and said, I aint cryin my ass for you,

485

JANIS: I turned them down, too. Do you know

whats very strange, bizarre? Seven or eight years
from now the people going to Las Vegas will be fan
of ours, theyre gonna have grown up, and theyre
gonna be going to Las Vegas. In ten years, honey,
its gonna be our crowd, man, we can go back there
and rock and roll. The 60s are selling now in Las
Vegas, in ten years from now the 70s are gonna be
selling, and if the Jefferson Airplane still manage to
keep their dregs together, theyre gonna be playing
there, too.

their children. But what man would have you and let
you do what you must do?
JANIS: Thats the trouble, you either got to be as
big a star as the chick or you got to be a flunky, and
no woman, at least me, I dont want an ass-kisser, I
want a cat thats bigger and stronger and ballsier
than me. When Im pulling my shit as a singer its
hard to find him, because the only cats that hang
around dressing rooms are flunkies. Theyre all right
for a night, but when you want to talk about a man,
aint no man in the world needs to hang around a
dressing room. The men are out in some log cabin
growing grass and chopping trees, and I never get
to see them. But that gives you more soul, right?

BONNIE: I certainly hope youre right, man,

because I had a super bummer in Las Vegas.
JANIS: I went there once, I checked into this motel
and they gave me a coupon worth a dollar at the
roulette table, a dollar in quarters at the slot
machine, and a coupon worth two drinks. I played a
dollars worth of roulette and I lost, I played a
dollars worth of slot machines and I lost, I had two
free drinks and said "Fuck em." I came out of there
stoned anyway. They ask me, "How did you learn
how to sing like that, how did you learn how to sing
the blues, how did you learn how to sing that
heavy?" I didnt learn shit, man, I just opened my
mouth and thats what I sounded like, man. You
cant make up something that you dont feel.
Bonnie, shes a bitchin singer, you know she aint
making up nothing, that chicks a woman, man. I
dont know what kind of dues shes paying, but
shes paid them, shes still paying them. Shes an
honest to God real life woman, man, or she
wouldnt be able to sound like that. I didnt make it
up, I just opened my mouth, and it existed.

BONNIE: When Delaney and I met, it was that fast,

I married him seven days after I met him. I was
never married before, I was 23, he was never
married and 26, and no one even thought about
getting married. For ten years before I met Delaney
I lived in hell. I worked in strip joints and truck stops
and I went on between the second-best and the
best stripper you got to have a break so the star
could come out Id be up theres singing a song
and they be yelling, "take it off, baby!"
JANIS: I wasnt even a chick singer until I became a
chick singer. I was a dope dealer and a hanging-out
artist and chick on the street trying to find a place to
sleep and a cat to lay. I didnt ever sing until they
turned me into a rock and roll singer. I sang for free
beer once in a while, but I never even wanted to
grow up to be a singer, it was a very bizarre
experience.

BONNIE: You know that a lot of people say the

trouble with women is they dont think about what
they say before they say it.

BONNIE: Its really weird, I never wanted to be

anything else, that was my whole life.
JANIS: All my life I just wanted to be a beatnik,
meet all the heavies, get stoned, get laid, have a
good time, thats all I ever wanted, except I knew I
had a good voice and I could always get a couple of
beers off of it. All of a sudden someone threw me in
this rock and roll band. They threw these musicians
at me, man, and the sound was coming from
behind, the bass was charging me, and I decided
then and there that was it. I never wanted to do
anything else. It was better than it had been with
any man, you know. Maybe thats the trouble

JANIS: Thats the good thing about women, man.

Because they sing they fucking insides, man.
Women to be in the music business give up more
than youd ever know. Shes got kids she gave up,
any woman gives up home life, an old man,
probably, you give up a home and friends, children
and friends, you give up an old man and friends,
you give up every constant in the world except
music. Thats the only thing in the world you got,
man. So for a woman to sing, she really needs to or
wants to. A man can do it as a gig, because he
knows he can get laid tonight.

BONNIE: A lot of musicians are married and

worship the footsteps their wives walk in, but they
go on the road, and they ball, and they have a ball,
but when they are home no one is going to break
their marriage up, there aint nobody gonna hurt

THE FIRST TIME I heard anyone talk about the

possibility of Janiss death was on the train trip
across Canada. I was talking to someone in
Delaney and Bonnies band about following Janis

486

around for a while and writing a book about it.

"Youd better hurry up," he said. "Shes not going to
be around much longer." I was a little stunned, but I
put it down to the kind of hip bravado that people
put out as insight.

any of us can do. She did what she had to do and

closed her books. I dont know whether its the thing
to do, but its what she had to do.
"It was the best possible time for her death. If you
know any people who passed that point into
decline, you know, really getting messed up, old,
senile, done in. But going up, its like a skyrocket,
and Janis was a skyrocket chick.

Anyway it seemed a very unlikely possibility. What

could possibly do Janis in? She seemed as solidly
situated on this earth as Mount Rushmore. I could
even imagine her as an old lady, although I did not
exactly see her as Lillian Roxon did in tweeds with
a couple of strands of pearls but I could see her
clearly as a grandmother rocking on a porch
somewhere.

"She had a sense of all that, including the sense

that if somebody was making a movie of it, itd
make a great movie. If you had a chance to write
your life I would describe that as a good score in
life writing with an appropriate ending."

It never occurred to me that it might be Janis herself

who would do herself in. Of course, the equation
was perfectly lethal. It only confirmed the fact that
thered been this incredibly vicious internal struggle
going on all along.

David Dalton, 1972

Big Brother And The Holding Company: Cheap
Thrills (CBS KCS 9700)

Although it seems pitiless to say it, if she had not

died this year or next, or in the next decade, and if
she had not stopped drinking and doping and
generally bribing the Hippocampal Gate with heavy
doses of self-annihilation, Janis would probably
have had to look forward to many grim years in
hospitals and rest homes patching up her body as it
gradually wore down under the strain.

Simon Frith, Let It Rock, April 1975

JANIS JOPLIN was an awkward Texan girl with a
rough voice who became one of the major idols of
the sixties 'counter culture'. Why?
The truth is that Janis Joplin wasn't a very good
singer. Her voice was ugly and constricted, her
control was lackadaisical and she didn't express
anything much but effort. There is very little of her
work that I ever dig out to play now it's not just
that there are any number of black women who sing
blues better; many white women do too. I don't
believe that Janis's death ended a great career, that
she was on the verge of new achievements. Pearl
is a desperate album, Janis having a face up to the
realities of her limited musical skills, no hippies to
shield her. On the other hand, her performance of
'Ball And Chain' in Monterey Pop (the livest I ever
got to see her) is one of the most moving rock
performances I've ever seen. If I had that on videotape I'd play it every day and every time I'd miss
Janis and curse her stupid death.

The Grateful Dead grew up with Janis on the

streets of Haight-Ashbury, played, and got stoned
with her, and (a privilege granted to few others) let
her get them drunk. Janis died during Cold Rain
and Snow in the Deads set at Winterland. Jerry
Garcia, with the affection of an old friend, looked
her death in the face stoically:
"Like everybody does it, the way they do it. Death
only matters to the person thats dying. The rest of
us are going to live without that voice. For those of
us for whom she was a person, well have to do
without the person.
"Janis was like a real person, man. She went
through all the changes we did. She went on all the
same trips. She was just like the rest of us
fucked up, strung out, in weird places. Back in the
old days, the pre-success days, she was using all
kinds of things, just like anybody, man.

The significance of Janis wasn't really what she did

(how she sang); what mattered was who she was,
and where. A plain and awkward Texan girl,
blossoming on San Francisco dope and indulgence
she was a symbol for every kid loser in '60s
America: the dumpy dropout who'd made it,
become beautiful and happy and free. Cheap
Thrills, the second shambling, shoddy, semi-live
album Big Brother made for Columbia, is still the
only record that reveals something of what Janis
meant to people. It's there in R. Crumb's
affectionate cover. Top line, centre: Janis on a bed,
black stockings and breasts, bursting through her

"When she went out after something, she went out

after it really hard, harder than most people ever
think to do, ever conceive of doing.
"She was on a real hard path. She picked it, she
chose it, its OK. She was doing what she was
doing as hard as she could, which is as much as

487

dress, bottle propping up the window. 'I Need A Man

To Love' and the come hither look in her eye isn't
pleading but a challenge "I know what I want and
I'm gonna get it." "I'll look after Janis," she sings in
'Turtle Blues', "Nobody's gonna put me down." And
her independence was the weight she carried for all
her fans. She had to go on winning, go on proving
that you could say "Fuck you!" to teachers and
parents and police and life.

thrills, no more loving audience. In the end, at the

end, the booze and dope may have come from San
Francisco, but Janis lay down to die on the road to
Hollywood.
Simon Frith, 1975
A Shot From The Heart: Janis and Cheap Thrills
David Dalton, Gadfly, September 1998

The hard-drinking, hard-screwing, hard-fixing Janis

became part of the San Francisco myth and enough
has been written about the direct and deathly
pressures this put on her. But I don't think these
pressures were simply the result of hippy sexism.
Sure, it was a male culture ("She was one of the
boys," said Jerry Garcia and to be a rock star she
had to be) but it wasn't a particularly a virile one.
"Doing your own thing" had a degree of tolerance
and Janis didn't live so urgently just because she
was a girl. Grace Slick was a sister member of San
Francisco culture and much as she loved cheap
thrills she never lost her cool. But then Grace was
beautiful and cultured and upper class, her band
had nice young men with talent. Janis was ugly and
ignorant, from the Texan sticks; her band was eager
and incompetent.

IT'S 30 YEARS ago today since Cheap Thrills was

released, but as soon as the needle touches the
surface of the record (Im sentimental about vinyl)
out pours mid-'60s San Francisco in all its jumpingout-of-its-skin energy, cosmic joy and dog-ranaway-with-the-spoon looniness.
This is it! What you hold in your hand is the very
thing! Big Brother and the Holding Companys
kosmic masterpiece. The ultimate psychedelic
album and supreme artifact of the Haightgeist.
From the bursting-out-of-its-sockets R. Crumb
cartoon cover to the final wall-shattering notes of
'Ball and Chain', it is a perfect distillation of San
Franciscos high hippie days in all their
rambunctious glory and excess. And now just
released! as if to lure you further into the buzzing
psychotropic hive of Big Brother and the Holding
Company (with Janis as its queen bee), here comes
the recently released Janis Joplin with Big Brother
and the Holding Co. Live at Winterland 68.

Cheap Thrills is Big Brother raw (which they always

were). Everything is played too fast and too loud;
there were not too many things the band could do.
So they did them over and over: the guitar solo on
'Oh Sweet Mary' has few rivals as the worst ever
recorded. Janis's role in all this is to stand up and
belt out her two Fillmore show stoppers are here
('Piece Of My Heart' and 'Ball And Chain') and you
can hear how much unsubtle her approach was
everything (even 'Summertime') is shouted,
everything hung out. And yet the album does carry
tension and emotions not so much in the music
itself as in the need to make music. In Monterey
Pop, the intensity of Janis's feeling comes from her
need to do well; her triumph is that we are drawn
into the struggle, we will her to win with equal
intensity. We confirm her dignity and her tears are
joyful she can make it. A great, proud lady.

"You know that scene in Fear and Loathing in Las

Vegas?" asks Dave Getz, Big Brothers drummer.
"Where Benicio Del Toro [as Hunter Thompsons
demented attorney] throws up on the side of the car
from too much mescaline? And just at that point
right then! James Gurleys solo from 'Ball and
Chain' comes on the track. Perfect!"
Its one of the great rock solos of all time and an
uncanny parallel to Janiss emotionally wrenching
singing. Makes you want to run right home and put
on Cheap Thrills. Im cueing up the last track right
now. And here it comes!

With nothing going for her. There was always that in

the background, that touch of fear her struggle
was constant. I don't think it was hippies that killed
her, though. Whatever the dealing and the doubting
that went down in San Francisco there was still a
community there: they were all amateurs together,
all hicks and fools (that's what Cheap Thrills
celebrates). Janis's night thoughts only became
intolerable when she was pulled out of her place,
groomed as a show-biz star. Not friends together
now but hard success and musical sneers. The
escape route had become lonely no more cheap

Just listen to that! Gurleys guitar gnashes at the

notes in a gear-grinding metallic howl like some
wounded creature morphing out of the blues bardo,
half-beast, half-machine stuttering out its rage and
pain in a chainsaw metalanguage that chews clean
through to the bone. And then theres that voice!
Was there ever such a voice? A voice booming out
of the clouds, a world-shattering voice.
Okay, go put on Cheap Thrills or Live at Winterland.
What? You dont have either of them? Go directly to

488

your nearest CD temple of sound and get them.

These are the essential, sacred texts of our
civilization hieroglyphic visions of the First Great
Psychedelic Age. Go ahead, I can wait. Meantime,
Ill get myself into a suitable frame of mind.

Little Richard, Bo Diddley. We were trying to

develop jazz structures. We played extended solos;
that was the West Coast sensibility and it was
particularly prevalent in the San Francisco scene.
Taking a theme like Griegs Hall of the Mountain
King and working on it. Changing the rhythm
sometimes, sometimes the tempos and modes and
simplifying it." [Yeah, right.]

But first: the members of the band as Janis

described them to me many years ago in a bar in
Louisville Kentucky. Dave Getz, drums: "Dave, Id
say, is the solidest guy in the group. He was an art
teacher before. You could always rely on him in a
kind of karma way." Peter Albin, bass: "Peter is
crazier than he thinks he is. He thinks he is very
middle-class and he just went a little goony. But he
is really goony, man. Caterpillar, for example. Im
a pterodactyl for your love. If thats not madness,
what is?" Sam Andrew, guitar: "Sam is like, you
know, a very intelligent cat. You wouldnt know it
because hes so good-looking. One day I was on a
plane, walking down the aisle, and, you know,
everybodys reading Newsweek and the Kansas
City Star and stuff, and Sams reading a book in
Latin!" James Gurley, guitar: "James is a beautiful,
strong man. He never had any of that Indian
bullshit, but he had an ethereal quality. I loved him
so. We had a little love affair, almost broke up our
band."

JAMES: "We were very eclectic. We listened to

everything and anything. Jazz, Balinese monkey
music, Gregorian chants, shona music of Ghana.
The stranger and more farout it was the more we
liked it."
John Simon, your long-suffering producer,
describes you as "a bunch of guys who took a lot of
acid and decided to go out and buy instruments
and form a band." Which doesnt seem all that bad
an idea.
DAVE: "Its funny, but not true. We all played in
bands before Big Brother. I was in a Dixieland band.
James Gurley was from Detroit and he
concentrated on blues. He was in a progressive
bluegrass band when I first met him. Peter and his
brother were in a folk group. Sam was the only pure
rocker among us. He also played classical guitar.
We all had to unlearn stuff to get to where we
wanted to be."

*
BIG BROTHER BEFORE JANIS

Your sound has sometimes been compared to that

of a busy sawmill.

Big Brother was a complement of Janis, a parallel

universe. When the two collided briefly, from mid1966 to the end of 1968 they created some of the
greatest gonzo blues of all time. But unlike Janiss
other groups, Big Brother was not a back-up band.
They existed as a slightly crazed entity in their own
right, with an eccentric sound and vision all their
own. On the Ball and Chain video from Rhino they
can be seen in all their Haightgeistian glory doing
their nutty version of 'Hall of the Mountain King'
from the Peer Gynt Suite by Edvard Grieg.

SAM: "Our sound is young white kids full of energy!

When you start playing, you dont know what youre
doing, but youve got tons of energy. The punk rock
thing had that. A really fast series of sixteenth
notes, or whatever they are. Like on Down On Me,
theres a buzzsaw sound moving back and forth
real fast on the string with no content. On Live at
Winterland you can hear me screaming all the way
through. It dosent mean anything. Its just crazy
energy."

I talked to the boys recently about things cosmic

and vinyl, and about the One-night-stand
Existencialista.

*
'COMBINATION OF THE TWO'

What did you guys sound like before Janis?

I thought it might be interesting to go through

Cheap Thrills track-by-track beginning at track one,
verse one: 'Combination of the Two'. Like some
Aztec piston, here comes Janis chicka-chicka-ing
on the guiro while Gurleys psychedelic guitar looms
out at us. Sam is screaming, the mock-soul chorus
is chiming in, and then there are those wind-tunnel
whoaow-whoaow-whoawows of Janiss. Under this

PETER: "In the six months or so we were together

before Janis showed up, we played covers of R&B
records. The Rolling Stones had a big influence on
us. So did the blues that influenced them. We got
stuff from the [John and Alan] Lomax folk music
collections. And then there was all the rocknroll
stuff that was already in our brains. Chuck Berry,

489

psychic anschluss Big Brother and the Holding

Company + Janis + the audience + the liquid light
show + grass, speed, LSD + the lightly levitating
audience of freaks at the Winterland Ballroom in
mid April of 1968. Everything is melting, fusing
together in a lysergic fireball of angst, crazy joy and
existential confusion. Just a rush, total immersion
into the wild flailing scene.

That sound again! The Neptunian thwarted-love

corps is on the march in this sturm-und-drang love
drama of Janiss. Not exactly the wall-of-sound,
more like an alien wail, the sort of cry a heartbroken semi might make. The opening based on
that Albert King riff from 'Born Under a Bad Sign'.
"It starts in A minor, goes to F sharp minor," says
Sam, "but the bridge is what makes it the individual
song it is."

No one would guess that 'Combination of the Two'

is trying to be a soul song 'Aint That Peculiar'
and Sam is trying to imitate Marvin Gaye. There are
actually lyrics to this song. "Everyones down at the
Fillmore, Id like to feel you more" type of thing
ostensibly about the San Francisco dance scene
but in the careening slipstream of sound, words are
meaningless. It sounds like twigs tumbling down a
torrent, but, like many things at the time, there are
hidden meanings here. Mysterioso amigo! Forget
the Bible code, lets have a kabbalistic, cryptoanalysis of Cheap Thrills! I mean like Charles Shaar
Murray did for Jimi Hendrixs 'Voodoo Chile'.
Everything is in there from primeval lizards to Clive
Davis.

Janiss pleading, hypnotic voice numbs you to all

but its own engulfing presence. Youve been stung
by the incredible dream mantis, pheromones of the
narcoleptic love drug are coursing through you
veins. The creature loves you, she wants to hold
you. She never wants to be separated from you.
She wants to fuse with you totally (perhaps by
devouring you), starting with your head because
now you cant remember anything. Who you are or
what exactly you did to elicit so much pain.
'PIECE OF MY HEART'
Along with 'Ball and Chain' this is almost the classic
Janis song. How did you come to do it?

DAVE (cryptically): "It means a lot of things." UHOH!

DAVE: 'Piece Of My heart was brought to us by

Jack Casady of the Jefferson Airplane. We were on
our first East Coast tour in March of 1968. Jack
came to rehearsal and said, I wanna play this song
for you. I think you guys could do it. We loved it !
Janis loved it." Its been bashed quite brutally over
the years by critics who mindlessly compared it with
Erma Franklins original.

SAM: "Its about the duality of life embodied in the

Avalon and Fillmore ballrooms." OF COURSE!
SAM: "'Combination of the Two' is a phrase I used
to use. On LSD you see around every issue. All
sides of it 360 degrees. So anytime anyone would
ask me something that required a definitive answer,
I would say: Its a combination of the two. That was
my mantra."

PETER (imitating a critic): 'Done so soulfully and

laid back and with so much restraint on Irmas part.
In comparison with you-know-whos! As if Janis had
set out to make a restrained version.

'SUMMERTIME'
Ah, the cooling strains of Johann Sebastian Bach!

SAM: Janis has mainly been attacked by blues

purists, but Janis was her own kind of singer, which
was basically rock n roll. Jazz musicians are often
the most down on Janis. I always ask them to listen
to Little Boy Blue', and if they dont hear that,
theres no point in talking to them.

SAM: "The intro is based on Bachs C minior fugue

from his Well-Tempered Clavier slowed down to half
speed. What gave me the idea for this was Nina
Simones use of classical motifs on Youd Be So
Nice To Come Home To. I studied classical guitar,
so the Western tradition is one side of my playing.
The other is the walking-into-a-nest-of-hornets
guitar solo on Piece of My Heart. God, Janis sings
so beautifully! On high, the monster comes out for
a second. We learned much of this in the studio and
then the challenge was to play it on stage with
feeling."

PETER: The most vocal defenders of black blues

are in England. Even Elton John got into the act,
saying what an awful cover of a song done so well
by Erma Franklin. But is his version of Lucy in the
Sky with Diamonds better than the Beatles'? I dont
think so! People are always going on about Janiss
caterwauling , as opposed to the pure blues tones
of someone like Sugar Pie DeSanto. Its just white
blues squawking. But Janis was never interested in
purist rules, she was interested in raw, direct

'I NEED A MAN TO LOVE'

490

emotion. She was indiscriminate in that she took all

her different influences and glued them together
with her voice. She had a voice print like nobody
before or since.

'BALL AND CHAIN'

This was famously based on Big Mama Thorntons
original. Did Janis ever hear her sing it or did she
get it off a record?

'TURTLE BLUES'
DAVE: Janis had been with the band about a month
when she and James went to hear Big Mama
Thornton at the Both And Club in the Divisidero
district, the black area of San Francisco. Big Mama
Thornton was big and bad she decked guys! a
colorful old blues singer who could be seriously
nasty. The next day Janis came to rehearsal and
said, "I heard Big Mama Thornton do this song last
night and I really wanna do it." She described it.
Said it was a minor blues and it had all these
dramatic breaks in it. Said she did all these stops.
But it was all in Janiss head; it was subjective. She
heard something that wasnt there. When we finally
heard Big Mama Thorntons version, it was
completely different. It was a major blues with no
stops at all in it. In her final years Big Mama would
vacillate between old black persons bitterness
"This white girl made all that money off of mah
blues" to "I taught Janis Joplin to sing 'Ball and
Chain'." Hey, it bought her a Cadillac. She made
more money from that song than she had in her
whole life. Interestingly enough, when Etta James
does her version of Ball and Chain on the House of
the Blues Janis tribute album, she doesnt allude to
Big Mama Thorntons version at all.

I dont remember this one from your live sets.

DAVE: We used to do this much differently live. We
did it as a straight-ahead medium blues shuffle with
a full band sound, but it didnt work in the studio. On
Cheap Thrills, the track was strictly an in-the-studio
situation. John Simon playing piano nice! and
Peter playing an acoustic guitar.
On the album cover theres a credit which says
"vibes courtesy of Barneys Beanery." Did you
record the background noise for the song there, the
glass breaking, the bar talk?
SAM: James and I went to Barneys Beanery [a hip
bar in L.A.] and we taped some ambient sound and
brought it back to the studio. The problem was it
didnt sound ambient enough, so we stood around
and smashed a bottle onto a trash can filled with
bottles. Janis and I pretended we were in a saloon
breaking a tequila bottle. Bobby Neuwirth, painter
and boulevardier, and the actor Howard Hessman
were having a conversation. Bobby was yelling. It
was better than being in a bar!

Okay, one final question. James, how did you come

up with that mind-boggling guitar solo?

DAVE: The astonishing thing about Cheap Thrills is

that it sounds live, but almost all of it is done in the
studio. Its a total artifact, which is a feat in itself.
And for that we have to give John Simon a lot of
credit.

JAMES: Just madness, emotion driving the amp. I

was in another state when I was playing that. I
wasnt thinking like "I gotta go to the C chord." It
was an insane state of mind. Its like Janiss singing.
We were trying to strike out into new territory. It was
all just intuitie, straight from the heart.

'OH SWEET MARY'

DAVE: We used to play this live as 'The Coo Coo'.
Sam played bass and Peter played guitar on that
one. He developed this frenzied idea of the song
with a fast jungle beat to it. Way too fast, but it
always got us off. On the Mainstream album it was
cut way down to a two-minute thing, so when we
began to do Cheap Thrills we wanted to redo it.
Had to re-write it if we wanted to use it again we
were running away from the copyright. Janis wrote
the words and Peter arranged it. Janis was always
writing autobiographical lyrics.

*
Janis Joplin and Big Brother in a nutshell
January 19, 1943 Janis Joplin born Port Arthur,
Texas. As a teenager reads about Kerouac and the
Beats in Time magazine. Sings in folk clubs in
Austin and San Francisco. Begins drinking heavily
and taking speed. By May 1965 has returned home
to Port Arthur. Back in San Francisco, Peter Albin
and James Gurley began to assemble a band which
eventually includes Sam Andrew and Dave Getz.
During an existentialist game of Monopoly they hit
on the name Big Brother and the Holding Company,
which will "speak to all the children of the earth."

PETER: 'Oh Sweet Mary' was a vehicle for me. Id

been a guitar player in a folk group the Libber Hill
Aristocrats. Its an ancient one-chord modal folk
song which we Big Brotherized and I played doublestring.

491

They play blues, bluegrass, Stones-style R&B,

Dylan and folk/rock numbers.

COMING HOME (Japanese import) Great footage

by D.A. Pennebaker (Dont Look Back) of Janis in
the studio while cutting Cheap Thrills.

In May 1966 Janis sets out for San Francisco to try

out as lead singer of the group. With Janis as lead
singer, Big Brother becomes one of the top bands in
San Francisco. Broke in Detroit, Big Brother record
their first album, Big Brother and the Holding
Company, for Mainstream Records. When the
group performs at the Monterey Pop Festival in
June 1967 Janis becomes an international star. In
August 1968, Cheap Thrills is released, reaching
number one on the charts.

MONTEREY POP Directed by D.A. Pennebaker.

Janiss 'Ball and Chain' is worth it alone but you
also get Hendrix, Otis Redding and the Who in top
form.
BALL AND CHAIN (Rhino) Early performances by
the band on local KQED TV show.
To see an illustrated version of this piece click here

Conflicts between Janis and the band lead to her

splitting from Big Brother at the end of 1968. When
Sam Andrew leaves with her to form a white soul
group, the Kozmic Blues Band, Big Brother
dissolves and the remaining members join up with
Country Joe and the Fish. In November 1969,
Kozmic Blues is released. Dissatisfied with the
band and its reception, Janis assembles her third
and last group, the Full Tilt Boogie Band.

David Dalton, 1998

Janis Joplin: Soul Sacrifice
David Dalton, Mojo, June 2000
She was no victim, but gave herself up to her
music and kept on giving. David Dalton
hitches a ride with Janis Joplin, entertainer,
soul sage and existentialist.

In September 1970, sessions begin in L.A. for

Pearl, her last studio album. On October 3, Janis
listens to the album's last track: 'Buried Alive in the
Blues'. On October 4, at 1:40am, Janis ODs in her
room at the Landmark Hotel. The cause a
combination of heroin, bourbon and Valium.

AUTUMN 1966, OUTSIDE THE GEM SPA, ST.

MARKS AND Second Avenue. A speed freak just
back from San Francisco is frantically trying to
convey "the fuckin' unbelievable rush of this
outtasight chick singer, man. It's like..." His eyes
stare, his cracked lips move but no sound comes
out. Words...fail him. I recognize the symptoms.
Here is someone who has recently witnessed a
statue bleeding or a rain of frogs. Marvels and
wonders were a common enough sight in those
days.

In 1987, Big Brother reunites for the twentieth

anniversary Summer of Love celebrations. They
have a new CD out. Last year James Gurley left the
band and is now working on his own album.

A few months later and a couple of hundred mikes

higher, I'm standing in the middle of the Avalon
Ballroom when I see the vision for myself. Here
comes Janis Joplin, diva of the Haightgeist, a living,
breathing R. Crumb hippy chick in blue jeans and
peasant blouse, cascading with beads and baubles.
Rings encrusting her fingers and as many bracelets
encircling her arms as a Kafir bride running on
stage, chicka-chicka-ing on a piece of ratcheted
wood, the mock soul chorus chiming with windtunnel'd whoawo-whoaow-whoawows, and James
Gurley's extraterrestrial guitar looming out at you
like a demented shark.

The Essential BIG BROTHER

JANIS JOPLIN WITH BIG BROTHER AND THE
HOLDING CO. LIVE AT WINTERLAND Made just
before they started recording Cheap Thrills. 'Ball
and Chain' is the same on both albums (plus some
added ambient sound).
BIG BROTHER AND THE HOLDING COMPANY
This is the original Mainstream album re-issued on
Columbia (now out of print).
CHEAPER THRILLS (Edsel 135) Big Brother live at
California Hall, July 28, 1996

Against the busy saw-mill drone of Big Brother's

guitars and ecstatic yelpings is that voice. It numbs
you to all but its own engulfing presence. You've
been stung by the incredible dream mantis,
pheromones of the narcoleptic love drug are
coursing through your veins. The creature loves

On Video

492

you, she wants to hold you, never wants to be

separated from you. She wants to fuse with you
totally (perhaps by devouring you), starting with
your head because now you can't remember
anything. Who you are or what exactly you did to
elicit so much pain.

Street and bought some wine, me and Sunshine

[Linda Gravenites] and our dog George. We walked,
sauntered, sashayed to Haight Street and bought a
jug, that's all I remember. I think I met [Hell's Angel]
Freewheelin' Frank that day, too. Some of the
Angels are real good friends of mine Sweet
William, Crazy Pete. Freewheelin' I met a long time
ago, Moose is a good friend. I don't really know too
many others, as evidenced by the fact that I got
punched out by a bunch of them at a dance I played
for them.

What song was it? I'm under the psychotropic

Anschluss Big Brother And The Holding Company
+ Janis + the liquid light show + grass, speed, LSD
+ the lightly levitating audience of freaks at the
Avalon and you expect me to remember lyrics?
Everything is melting, fusing together in a lysergic
fireball of angst, crazy joy and existential confusion.
I am in love. I don't know what people are talking
about when they say Janis was ugly. You should
have seen her then, a nubile hippy goddess, the
ecstatic child-woman of your outrageous fantasies,
the distillation of everything Haight-Ashbury stood
for: pure kozmic joy, jumping-out-of-your-skin
energy, and dish-ran-away-with-the-spoon
looniness.

"The trouble with the Angels for me is that... See, as

friends they are just people, but the club itself I think
is inconsiderate. I mean, after I got slugged the guy
came up and said, 'Ya shoulda tole me who ya
wuz.' Well, I say you should be consistent. Be shitty
all the time! Then you can be a genuine outlaw and
proud of yourself."
THE ALBERT HALL
In December of 1967, I moved back to London. I
shared a house in Ladbroke Grove with a bunch of
California crazies Stanley Mouse, who did the
posters for the Avalon and Fillmore ballrooms, and
Richard DiLello, who worked for Derek Taylor at
Apple. In April of 1969, Janis came to London with
her second group, the Kozmic Blues Band, to
perform at the Albert Hall.

SUMMER SOLSTICE
June 21, 1967. Summer Solstice celebrations in
Golden Gate Park. Swarms of screaming, dancing
hippies, some in fantastic costumes, some naked
as the day they were born, are following in the wake
of the sound trucks. Twenty bands are playing,
including Big Brother, The Grateful Dead,
Quicksilver Messenger Service. The gigantic
puppets of the Mime Troupe parade through the
crowds of intergalactic creatures, Buddhist monks,
Hell's Angels and blonde Indians. In the midst of all
this insanity, a motorcycle cop, his boot on the
running board, is writing out a ticket in all
seriousness for 'an illegally parked vehicle in a
public place' (no wonder there are so few alien
landings).

I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, and in the

meantime she had morphed from the radiant child I
knew in San Francisco into a kind of psychedelic
Queen Victoria wreathed in multi-coloured boas
and wearing purple-tinted granny glasses. This is
the Janis the world knows as Pearl. The feathers,
the bells, the slingback shoes always looked
suspiciously mature on Janis like a child's put-on.
The way she shuffled about in her pointy heels gave
her outfit the effect of 'dressing up'. Pearl was a
child's idea of an adult a movie star.

Janis is standing in front of the offending vehicle, an

elongated '40s airport car, smoking a cigar and
swigging from a bottle. As Janis catches sight of
him, she taps the cigar and gingerly moves around
the curves of the old limousine, swaying in the
articulated gait that always made W.C. Fields look
as if he were trying to stand up in a small rowboat. I
ask her if I can take a photograph of her with Big
Brother. "To tell you the truth, honey, I don't know
where the boys went to," she says in her croaky
little-girl voice, her face serious as an old plate. She
seems small and fragile, like someone who has
wandered outside their own daydream.

To me, her second group was a slick back-up band

that failed to impress even the soul musicians they
modelled themselves on. The horns were
overbearing and the band itself (including Janis)
heroin drenched. Janis was still astonishing, of
course, but the overall sound was lugubrious and
flat-footed where Big Brother had been agile and
eccentric. This had the unfortunate effect of making
Janis removed from the frantic context of Big
Brother seem selfpitying and morbid. She got
rave reviews in Disc and Melody Maker, but was
seen as something of a freak in the Brit press
something of a curiosity rather than a genuine
talent.

A few years later in a dingy bar near the Kansas

City airport, I mention that day to Janis. She obliges
by screening a little home movie for me: "The
Summer Solstice... Yeah, we walked over to Haight

493

After the concert, Janis came home with Richard.

Back at the house, she promptly shot up and
nodded out. It was a depressing sight. Whenever I
see the photographs Richard shot of her outside the
Albert Hall, with that spot of blood on her satin
pants where she'd shot up earlier that day, a chill
runs down my spine.

"Uh... Janis, I can not drink two doubles of this stuff

at eight in the morning." She seems personally
insulted by this.
"Don't gimme any of that hippy shit. Listen,
motherfucker, you drink 'em or you're not coming on
this tour. I've already got four hippies in this band
sitting around their motel rooms smoking grass and
listening to tapes, and communing with the
wallpaper. This is gonna be a party, man. My fuckin'
drummer is the only cat in this band who ever wants
to go out. I can't stand it. I'm a lonely old beatnik
chick on the road and I want some company. I can't
do this alone. Eighty-year-old bartenders givin' me
dirty looks every time I walk in some sleazebag bar
somewhere. Gettin' hit on by crackers right and left.
And women in the South, man, hate me on sight."

FULL-TILT BOOGIE
Summer of 1970. I am living in New York again
when Janis puts together her third group, the Full
Tilt Boogie Band. I am to go on a tour of the South
with them and write about it for Rolling Stone. I
meet Janis at the Chelsea Hotel at eight in the
morning. She suggests we immediately repair to the
corner bar for an eye opener. The Shamrock Bar &
Grill is a dark, ancient, dingy bar. The only other
patrons are morose old men who exhibit startled
amusement at Janis's appearance. Janis
commandeers the bar, unfazed, and makes herself
outrageously at home. The two old boys down at
the other end of the bar are trading wisecracks at
her expense. "Don't mind them, man," Janis
cackles, "they're fans of mine. OK, two double Jack
Daniel's for him, and two double Jack Daniel's for
me. No point in wasting time."

I'm beginning to feel real bad about not finishing

that first drink.
"Knock it back, man. You can't sip this stuff at eight
in the morning. That's Happy Hour shit." '
(One of the droller hippy pieties of the era said that
alcohol was bad, while all drugs with the
exception of heroin were inherently good.
Drinking is what our parents did and, according to
the same hippy logic, that was exactly what was
wrong with the world. They wanted to escape from
life in a haze of booze and tobacco whereas we
brave cosmonauts longed to peer into the jaws of
the abyss. Janis, bless her ribald heart, would have
none of this. She hated acid and had no love for
pot, either. She had no wish to look inward, she was
already too introspective as it was. Her idea was
more Rabelaisian: do what thou wilt, lose yourself in
good times, and drown that self-conscious little
fucker inside you that is forever telling you not to do
this and that. Tell the whole world to fuck off, as a
matter of fact and-just let it all hang out.)

The bartender plunks down four chunky glasses.

Janis crinkles her eyes, leans over the shots of
amber liquor and with a manic grin, smacks her lips,
her tongue moving slowly across her wide mouth in
a slow motion Zap Comics animation that's
positively lascivious. "Now that's more like it! Well,
David, welcome aboard the Pinball Blues Medicine
Show! Roll up, ladies and gentlemen, and see the
impossible, deathdefying feat as Janis Joplin glues
herself together for the third round... only to get shot
down again! Only kidding... I think. Hey, man. I hope
you jerk-offs at Rolling Stone are not going to
demolish me again like you did the last two times.
That really crushed me, man, my own fuckin'
people, man!"

John Cooke pokes his head around the door of the

bar and in his drill-sergeant voice barks, "Anybody
not outside when the transportation arrives gets left
behind. And that includes you, Miss Joplin."

"Don't get crazy, Janis. It's a magazine, fer

chrissakes, it ain't the military industrial complex."
"Sorry, man, I didn't mean to whine. Anyway, here's
to us."

In response to which Janis creates her own Crumb

cartoon character bubble. Gathering up her feathers
to leave for the airport, Janis utters one of those
great Pop-Art sound effects "Sob!" "Gasp!"
"Yikes!" "Moan!" with which she would sprinkle
every conversation, and which gave a comic tilt to
even her most doomy thought.

Janis knocks back the first shot in one slug and

hoists the second Jack Daniel's, poised for the next
toast. I am still hesitantly sipping my first. Janis
eyes me with suspicion.
"You planning on having a long relationship with
that glass or are you going to drink it? Drink up,
man. Maybe we can get another

LOUISVILLE BAR

494

Although she was during this time a thoroughgoing

alcoholic, I never saw Janis drunk. None of that
falling down business, not even a slurred word.
Twelve shots into the afternoon and she was still
sharp as a tack. I, on the other hand, had a hard
time keeping up. A morning of serious drinking and
I'd have to go up to my room and lie down. But not
for long! Soon enough I'd get a call from Janis,
horrified at my breach of alcoholic etiquette.

don't want to see me, baby. I mean, let's face it,

they don't want me in here, period. So there's three
old cats sayin', 'What is this chick doin' here and
why?' They'd just as soon be talkin' about the Mets
game and they don't want this chick walkin' in with
bells on and a big sack of beads. There's the snide
remarks I'm not supposed to hear, but loud enough,
of course, for me to hear. Everybody gets it, man.
Gettin' treated like a hippy, that's what I'm talkin'
about. They don't know I'm a pop star. They don't
even relate to pop stardom."

"Whatcha doin', honey?"

The Mets game is over and the patrons of the bar

start looking for other entertainment. Their obvious
move is to hit on the "two hippy chicks" (long hair
still caused gender confusion in places like
Louisville). OK, so here's a little slice of bar-room
reality for you, folks. First up is a black golf
instructor. "You're somebody, right?" he asks Janis.

"Uh... passing out."

"You can't lie down, man. You're gonna miss the
whole show if you take a nap now. C'mon down,
man, and have an eye-opener. There's a real
swingin' crowd in the Derby Lounge (she cackles),
and they've got the Mets game on. I'm sure you
wouldn't want to miss that."

"Oh brother, here we go existentialism in action,

baby. Dear Lord! I love bar conversation, man.
There's four people talkin', nobody listening to
anybody else, someone constantly offending,
another cat constantly interrupting with a
monologue about his car gettin' repossessed or
some other matter of great import 'So I told that
guy, if he thinks he can...' And a third person
constantly apologising. This third cat is saying, I'm
really sorry that I...' Talk about cinema verite!
Drunks are all alike. Bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch and
every quarter of an hour they've got their arms
around each other sayin', 'I'm sorry. You're the
greatest buddy I ever met'."

Everybody in the '60s talked about getting down

with 'the people' a conveniently theoretical entity,
but Janis was the only rock star I saw who ever
actually hung out with the locals on tour. No
roadies, no bodyguard, no hippy courtiers just
Janis. Janis was utterly democratic. She would
engage in conversation with absolutely anyone.
The local Ramada Inn bar is a Smuggler's Reef
featuring portholes, a fibreglass anchor, and fishing
nets with starfish and crabs in it. A crowd of very
Southern gentlemen are hanging out at the bar
watching a ballgame. As I walk through the lounge
they check out my hair and clothes (standard hippy
issue) and crack jokes. Janis is sitting alone at the
only occupied table in the place looking vulnerable
and besieged. "I have to make a confession to you;
I did have an ulterior motive for draggin' you down
here, You know somethin', man? They wouldn't let
me sit at the bar."

Now, as if jumping right out of Janis's commentary,

over comes the obnoxious redneck: "You can
always get lost, lady."
"It's a free country, man," the golf instructor says.
"That's news to me!" says Janis. "Anyway, I'm talkin'
about those cats at the bar, man, tryin' to treat me
funny 'cos my tits show, my feathers are flyin."

"Why would you want to sit with those guys,

anyway, Janis?"

"Y'know," says the redneck, "I would love to see

your tits."

"Oh, you're just seein' Southern manhood in action,

man. What I was talking about was comin' in here
and gettin' treated mean. Got treated rude and
mean the moment I walked into this place."

"Eat your heart out, baby! Let's stop this bullshit and
get real, man."

"I don't believe that, Janis, it's probably a uh, hotel

regulation or something. Who would treat you
mean? You're the star-in-residence."

"OK, can I have a cigarette, and can I get in your

pants?"

"Honey, to them I'm just a chick who is hung over at

11 in the morning. My hair isn't combed, I'm wearin'
funny lookin' clothes, plus I'm wearin' feathers. I
walk in here and say I want a drink. These people

"Not this afternoon, I-don't-think. Oh, mama, this

gonna be one of those absolutely insane,
uncontrollable bar conversations."

495

"Hey," I say helpfully, "I'm into reality, Janis."

Jim Morrison, was a true believer. They had none of

that ironic Brit music hall showmanship of Mick
Jagger and Pete Townshend. Janis felt it would be
phony to just take off the grease-paint and leave all
that shamanistic stuff in the dressing room. That
was Vaudeville, showbiz, and our generation had
bigger plans to change the world. This wasn't to
be just another rock'n'roll show, this was the
ecstatic flight, the ghost dance, the song that would
set you free.

"You're supposed to be doin' an article on me, man.

Fuck reality!"
THE PHILOSOPHER
Aside from covering the Full Tilt Boogie tour, I'm on
tour with Janis to do one of those epic Rolling
Stone interviews. With Janis, there's no designated
interview, it's all relevant. She loves to talk, and
she's a great talker. With Janis there's none of the
tiresome 'mucker' pose affected by your generic
guitar wanker in which the little savage claims to
have never read a book in 'is life and proud of it,
mate. Janis, on the other hand was a voracious
reader. She was a devotee of the lives of pop
saints. Right now she has her head buried in Zeida,
Nancy Mitford's biography of Zelda Fitzgerald. The
life of a neurasthenic writer who eventually went
mad and whose talent was co-opted by her
husband seems an unlikely model, but despite the
difference between them in temperament and
condition (no one ever co-opted Janis) there is
something in it that she strongly identifies with.

Janis's relentless pursuit of a good time often

seemed an affliction as stringent as Catherine's
fiery wheel, and her death was a martyrdom for
beliefs so preposterous they make the idea of
sacrificing yourself in the name of established
religion seem almost opportunistic. Still, in many
ways Janis was a very different person to Pearl.
Introspective, serious, and often melancholy. In
truth, Janis was far more of a beatnik than a cardcarrying hippy, and, like most Beats, far more
intellectual than your average tie-dyed, 'shroomchewing pot head. She would discuss anything on
earth. Existentialism or swizzle sticks. She'd reveal
her innermost pain, tell you her life in graphic
tableaux. She was even an amateur philosopher.
Her theories ranging from the stupefyingly corny
("love is like a carrot") to the very depths of
ontological doubt. Take her stunning epigram: "It's
all the same fuckin' day, man." Brilliant! Now that in
itself could replace dozens of volumes of existential
maundering.

"I want to read you something," she says: "At 21

[Zelda] formulated the philosophy of selfdetermination. It says that you created yourself as a
product, showed yourself with all the flair of a good
advertising campaign. Women had to do this, that
and the other. She says she couldn't stand this
vision of this legion of unhappy women saddled to
domesticity and yet resigned to it. So what she
wrote was a protest but it was also a defence of her
own code of existence; that it was potentially
destructive, and that it would demand its own
worrying, demanding performance she did not take
into account."

Janis's delivery was always self-deprecating. "I was

sitting one afternoon in a bar, I wasn't supposed to
be there, I was 20, I lied... I was sittin' in there
thinkin' and suddenly it struck me like a fucking light
bulb. That's all there was, man. I would probably be
sitting in that bar when I was 80 saying, I can make
it better, you know, whatever it may be... Hey, you
guys always told me it was going to get better, and I
always thought life was an incline that one day
would just level off. And you know, you
motherfuckers, it ain't levelling off. It's getting
steeper, it's going to go straight up and when I'm 80
I'm going to die saying, 'I wonder if I did something
wrong?' Or some equally insecure, unaware trip,
you know. I felt God had played a joke on us and I
was pissed off and everything. And I wrote a letter
to my dad about it. Then I went home and this old
friend of my father's walked in with a sly smile on
his face and he reached out his hand and said,
'Well, Janis, I hear ya heard about the Great
Saturday Night Swindle."'

Given Janis's self-invention and the price she had

to pay for it, this passage seems extremely
prescient. And this was the legacy Janis passed on
to the next generation of women in rock. Different
as they are in temperament to her, Marianne
Faithfull, Patti Smith, Madonna and Alanis
Morissette all acknowledge their debt to Janis as
the first female rock singer to take control of her
own destiny. She did it by a fantastic act of selfinvention, creating an irresistible blend of tall-tale
Americana what Cashbox called, "a kind of
mixture of Leadbelly, a steam engine, Calamity
Jane, Bessie Smith, an oil derrick and rotgut
bourbon, funnelled into the 20th century
somewhere between El Paso and San Francisco."

JERRY LEE'S BASS PLAYER

Personae of this magnitude can only exist on-stage,

but Janis, like her contemporaries Jimi Hendrix and

But no amount of philosophy, as we know, is going

to be much help in the love (or lust) department. On

496

these subjects Janis was positively goony. Her

entire songbook is one long kozmic komic strip of
the cloud-cuckooland of true romance: "Hon, I want
the sunshine. Yeah, take the stars out of the night!"

Summer, 1970. Remington's, a trendy bar in

downtown New York. A bunch of us, Janis, Robert
Rauschenberg, Bobby Neuwirth and Susann
Weiner, Rauschenberg's assistant, and myself, are
standing around as Janis pushes six cocktail tables
together, "Now, honey," she tells the waiter, "I want
you to cover every inch of these tables with shots
oftequila, understand? And I want you to give the
check to Bob, that handsome man over there. 'Cos
he's the only person I know who has more money
than me." Bob is the painter Robert Rauschenberg,
who grew up in Janis's hometown of Port Arthur,
Texas.

The night after the show in Louisville, Janis, Clark

Pierson and I go to see Jerry Lee Lewis who is
performing at the Civic Centre. As soon as we get
backstage Janis develops an almost frightening
attraction for Jerry Lee's bass player, a 17-year-old
hillbilly kid from Texas with long blond hair slicked
back like yellow sealskin.
"I must have that bow-ah!" Janis exclaims to no one
in particular. The show's MC, an elderly country
gent, is stunned by the ferocity of Janis's intent:
"For you? Hell, Jane-is, fer shame. Why, he
wouldn't even know what to do with you."

"You know," Rauschenberg says, "when I was

growing up there everybody always talked of getting
out of Port Arthur, but nobody ever got away, Janis,
except us."
He asks Janis how she came to leave town.

"What he doesn't know how to do, honey," Janis

says with a Mae West inflection, "I'll be glad to show
him."

"One night after this gig, I was over at some

people's house, just sitting around, and this cat,
Travis Rivers, came in and scooped me right up,
man. Threw me onto the bed and just fucked the
livin' shit out of me! Next morning comes, he says
(deep Texan voice), 'Go get your clothes, I think
we're going to California.' And that's how I was
fucked into being in Big Brother. Once I got onstage and started to sing, the music was going
boom, boom, boom!, the people were all dancing,
the lights were flashing whew! what a rush, man!
A real, live drug rush. So I said, I think I'll stay,
boys."

As the bass player walks off-stage Janis grabs him

like a bounty hunter, (Squeaky little girl voice)
"Waaal... hello there!" Janis has got him in a
ferocious arm lock. Still a little spaced from the
performance, the expression on the kid's face
indicates he thinks maybe this is a not-too-distant
relative or just an especially ardent fan. But Janis's
intentions are about as well concealed as
Sylvester's for Tweety Pie, and when he registers
what's happening his eyes shift visibly into reverse.
"You're not climbing on a bus going somewhere
tonight, are you honey?" Janis asks.

This was a good story and a great line. But like a lot
of Janis's stories it was apocryphal and too good
to be true in any mundane sense. A mythical
explanation really (something Janis was very good
at). I never questioned it, but last summer I ran into
Travis again and he told me the How-I-got-fuckedinto-being-in-Big-Brother story was something Janis
had made up as a way of thanking him. "Janis
called me up the next day," Travis confided, "and
said, I just told David Dalton that you fucked me into
being in Big Brother. So you shouldn't have any
trouble getting laid now, honey'."

"Well, actually, yes ma'am, I guess I am."

"No, you're not, man. They told me you're not
climbing on a bus. They told me you were all going
to a party tonight, man," Janis says, like an irate
mother. "So, I thought we'd go back to the dressing
room and get it on, baby!"
By now the bass player is in a serious state of
shock lockjaw is setting in as he slinks
apologetically down the hall.

After several more rounds of tequila, Janis gets up

as if to make another toast: "Hey, man, did I tell you
guys I'm going back to my high school reunion?"
Rauschenberg (and everybody else at the table) is
horrified: "Why? God, just thinking about high
school gives me palpitations."

"What's the matter? Don't you like sex?" Janis

shouts after him. "Aw, honey, why is it none of the
men I dig dig me?" she says, Zap Comics style.
"Well, Janis," Clark says, "it could be your 'glad to
meet you, I'm yours' attitude."

"Why? Hey, to strut my stuff, man. I want those

motherfuckers to see what a fine feathered bird I
turned into." Cackle. "Honey, I'm gonna get into my

ESCAPEES FROM PORT ARTHUR

497

finest plumage, sashay down there and blow them

aw-ay."

"Don't give me any of that apologetic shit, man.

Where's your tape recorder? You've gotta get this
down, it's just gotta be one of the most far-out
conversations that ever took place. This chick is
really beautiful, man. She's as fuckin' macho as me.
Can you believe that? Private, my ass, man. This is
your gig, honey. You're meant to be working, man.
You're not on this train just to have a good time."

Naturally the high school reunion thing turned out to

be something of a debacle. You can never get even
with your home town. But fame being a form of
revenge, it was as irresistible to Janis as going back
to Florida was for Jim Morrison and equally
disastrous. As she downed another round of tequila
I could see Janis's idea of returning to Port Arthur
as a full-blown high school misfit's fantasy: a float
coming down Port Arthur's main street with Janis,
looking gorgeous, on a throne of roses, surrounded
by handsome boyfriends as the townspeople cheer,
and all those creeps who made her life miserable at
Thomas Jefferson High holding up signs saying,
"JANIS OUR HOMECOMING QUEEN" or
"FORGIVE US! WE WERE WRONG, JANIS."

Janis's attitudes about work and obligations struck

me at first as weird and out of character, but it was
a very real part of her personality and after a while I
began to relish the incongruity other careening wild
self, suddenly turning into this almost righteous
Victorian matron denouncing sloth, carelessness,
stupidity, and infirmity of purpose with evangelical
zeal. In Janis's view, everybody had their work cut
out for them in this world, and, as indulgent as she
was, she felt it was a blasphemy to fall down on a
job, not get it together, or let something fall apart
out of incompetence. "Jesus Christ, we let the
Garden of Eden get away once already. We aren't
going to let it happen again, are we, boys?"

JANIS AND BONNIE

July 4, 1970. Festival Express. It's the last day on
the train and everybody is sadly aware of the fact. A
number of wildly improbable alternatives are
proposed, like diverting the train to San Francisco:
"We could have the whole goddamn city turn out to
meet us at Union Station." "Let's just refuse to
leave!" Jerry Garcia suggests.

We move from the dining room into the bar car.

Swivelling in one of the egg-cup chairs, Janis is a
four o'clock flower gradually unfolding as the
afternoon revolves around her in the tiny bar car.
Even the gaudy jewellery and hooker shoes cannot
camouflage her imperial dignity. Bonnie slouches in
her chair as casually as Huck on his raft. Pretty
tomboy looks in Levi's and a peasant shirt, making
wry faces at the pratfalls in her past. Two ballsy
chicks railing against the unfairness of things,
women as losers, ball and chain. But more than
their brittle street rap, they have in common a depth
of vulnerability, barely masked by their "toughbroad" defences.

Talk of home, and everybody starts getting

nostalgic. Freewheelin' Frank and Janis's dog,
George, Gypsy Boots candy bars, the ocean,
movies on the late show, giant beds with silk
sheets, and waking up next to one's own sweet true
love.
As I walk into the dining car that afternoon, I see
Janis and Bonnie Bramlett talking animatedly over a
late breakfast. I think to myself, a little guiltily, that I
would definitely like to overhear what is going down,
but it's hard to find an adjoining seat in the crowded
car. The only way I'm going to get to hear this
conversation is to saunter over and pull up a chair,
which is just what I don't do. To begin with, I am a
little in awe of Bonnie's raunchy style, different from
Janis's, but formidable, and I resign myself to never
hearing this epic rap.

Speaking of home, Janis cackles her way through a

yarn about a cowboy who shredded her $300 satin
sheets with his cowboy boots. "And I loved every
minute of it, baby." Bonnie's antennae twitch: "Did
that really happen?" she asks incredulously. Well,
probably. We change key. Bonnie tells how, as a
little girl growing up in '50s Alabama, her mother
took her to see a black gospel singer at a tiny local
club. She was mesmerised, as unable to move as
someone who has witnessed a vision. She asked
her mother if she could go up to the man and touch
him. As she put her little hand on his arm, he turned
and looked at her. And from that day on she felt
possessed. We pause for a moment as the image
settles.

A minute later I look up, my spoon in a lake, to see

Janis standing across from me in the aisle with that
familiar hand-on-hip stance and a predatory look in
her eye. "Hey, man, what kind of a fuckin' writer are
you?" she asks in her amazing rusty voice. "Bonnie
and I are having this incredible rap, and you're
missing the whole damn thing, man."

Bonnie: "When you listen to your band, what do you

listen to the most?"

"It's a private conversation, Janis."

Janis: "Drums and bass."

498

Bonnie: "I know. Me too. Drums and bass. It's the

bottom; it's the rhythm."

Janis: "I turned them down, too. Do you know

what's very strange, bizarre? Seven or eight years
from now the people going to Las Vegas will be
fans of ours they're gonna have grown up and
they're gonna be going to Las Vegas. In 10 years,
honey, it's gonna be our crowd, man. We can go
back there and rock'n'roll. The '60s are selling now
in Las Vegas. Ten years from now the '70s are
gonna be selling. And if the Jefferson Airplane still
manage to keep their dregs together, they're gonna
be playing there too."

Janis: "That's what kicks you."

Bonnie: "Since you are a lead instrument yourself.
Everyone wants to play their own axe, like the
greatest guitar player. You listen immediately to the
bottom. All you need is rhythm."
Janis: "The middle you just count on to fill in, but
what you need is that kick in your ass, man."

Bonnie: "I certainly hope you're right, man, because

I had a super bummer in Las Vegas."

Bonnie: "Because you know you're gonna do your

lead right as long as your bass and drummer are
together. "

Janis: "I went there once. They asked me, 'How did
you learn to sing the blues like that? How did you
learn to sing that heavy?' I didn't learn shit, man. I
just opened my mouth and that's what I sounded
like. You can't make up something that you don't
feel. I didn't make it up. I just opened my mouth and
it existed."

Janis: "If you get the kick in the ass. You hear it
when they're great, But mostly I'm so involved with
the song that I don't even hear the band, you know
what I mean? All I hear is when they're wrong.
When they're right, I just keep singing and talking
my shit and telling my stories. But as soon as
someone does something wrong, man, I get goony.
I had a couple of shows where I played the whole
show really into it, completely giving all I had, man,
and I was doing a free-form thing: talking, bringing it
all out, letting it all go, man. Just talking about Janis
and all the men that hurt her, and all the men that
maybe she let down. And everything that you got to
say, man, all of a sudden it starts coming out of your
mouth, and you didn't even intend it to. And all of a
sudden I heard the audience talking in the middle of
my fucking shit, man, and I stopped and I waited to
see if they'd quit. They didn't quit. And I grabbed the
microphone and said, 'I ain't cryin' my ass for you,
man.' I put the microphone down and walked off the
stage. I blew my contract and all that shit. But fuck
that, man, I ain't gonna get out there and cry my
soul out for people that are talking about: 'How's
your brother? Did you get laid on Thursday? That's
a cute dress!' I'm up there talking about my pain.
Fuck you, man. Why did they spend their money to
come there? It's the '50s against the '60s. In the
'50s they used to sing songs because they had nice
tunes and they had nice melodies. They didn't hear
the words. They were nice to foxtrot to or
something. Right now it's different for a guitar player
because he's playing D minor, F whatever-the- fuck,
but I'm up there saying, 'I feel, you know, I hurt,
please help,' I'm saying words, man, and if I look at
an audience and they ain't understanding me, it's
just like getting kicked in the teeth."

Bonnie: "You know that a lot of people say the

trouble with women is they don't think about what
they say before they say it."
Janis: "That's the good thing about women, man.
Because they sing their fuckin' insides, man.
Women, to be in the music business, give up more
than you'd ever know. She's got kids she gave up...
Any woman gives up home life, an old man
probably. You give up a home and friends, children
and friends. You give up an old man and friends,
you give up every constant in the world except
music. That's the only thing in the world you got,
man. So for a woman to sing, she really needs to or
wants to. A man can do it as a gig, because he
knows he can get laid tonight."
Bonnie: "A lot of musicians are married and worship
the footsteps their wives walk in. But they go on the
road and they ball, and they have a ball. But when
they are home, no one is going to break their
marriage up, there ain't nobody gonna hurt their
children. But what man would have you and let you
do what you must do?"
Janis: "That's the trouble! You either got to be as
big a star as the chick or you got to be a flunky. And
no woman, at least me, I don't want an ass-kisser. I
want a cat that's bigger and stronger and ballsier
than me. When I'm pulling my shit as a singer it's
hard to find him, because the only cats that hang
around dressing rooms are flunkies. They're all right
for a night, but when you want to talk about a man,
ain't no man in the world needs to hang around a
dressing room. The men are out in some log cabin,

Bonnie: "As much money as Las Vegas has, they

ain't got enough for me."

499

growing grass and chopping trees, and I never get

to see them. But that gives you more soul, right?"

The Yardbirds: Only Jimmy Left To Form The

New Yardbirds

Bonnie: "That's what they say, honey, that's what

they say. When Delaney and I met, it was that fast. I
married him seven days after I met him. I was never
married before, I was 23. He was never married
and 26 and no one even thought about getting
married. For 10 years before I met Delaney, I lived
in hell. I worked in strip joints and truck stops, and I
went on between the second-best and the best
stripper. You got to have a break so the star could
come out. I'd be out there singing a song and they'd
be yelling, 'Take it off, baby!'"

Keith Altham, NME, 12 October 1968

WHATEVER happened to the Yardbirds? One of
the great mysteries of our time, ranking with the
Devil's footprints, the Marie Celeste and the Five
Penny Post, is the disappearance of a group once
hailed as the most progressive in Britain.
When one thinks back, the group that starred Keith
Relf and had such distinguished alumni as Eric
Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page on guitars,
were trying experimental pop long before today's
Underground groups.

Janis: "I wasn't even a chick singer until I became a

chick singer. I was a dope dealer and a hang-out
artist. And a chick on the street trying to find a place
to sleep and a cat to lay. I didn't ever sing until they
turned me into a rock'n'roll singer. I sang for free
beer once in a while, but I never even wanted to
grow up to be a singer. A very bizarre experience."

But unfortunately they were either too early or

lacked the drive to carry their breakaway from the
original blues formula through to the public.
They found, as have so many British groups, more
responsive audiences and better money in America.

Bonnie: "It's really weird. I never wanted to be

anything else. That was my whole life."

Once they had an enormous following here, but this

naturally dwindled with so few appearances and
even fewer records. But prior to their departure for
the States they had a period of vacillation.

Janis: "All my life I just wanted to be a beatnik. Meet

all the heavies, get stoned, get laid, have a good
time. That's all I ever wanted. I knew I had a good
voice and I could get a couple of beers off of it.
Then someone threw me in this rock'n'roll band.
They threw these musicians at me, man, and the
sound was coming from behind. The bass was
charging me. And I decided then and there that that
was it. I never wanted to do anything else. It was
better than it had been with any man, you know.
Maybe that's the trouble."

The departure of Eric, first for a round the world

hitchhike (or something), seemed a serious blow to
the group. Keith hailed the arrival of Jeff Beck with
much excitement, describing him as "The Guv'nor."
Jeff's guitar work had tremendous commercial
appeal and numbers like 'Jeff's Boogie' raised the
group to its highest status and they even started
getting hits.

The Festival Express was the final flight of '60s

fantasy, the last moment when this sort of what-thehell-it-sounds-like-a-gas adventure was still
possible on an intimate scale. In a certain sense it
was a reprise of the happy, high old days of the
Haight-Ashbury (and with many of the original cast).
The longed-for '60s Utopia was a fairy tale we told
to ourselves and which we all fervently believed
would come true if we wished for it hard enough
and no one wished for it with more heart than Janis.

But there were management problems, Paul

Samwell-Smith, bass guitarist, left to concentrate on
production, never to be heard of again. Jeff got fed
up and wanted to quit.
Keith went through a period of infatuation with Bob
Lind and released a solo single 'Mr Zero'.
Nobody quite seemed to know what the Yardbirds
were doing. If you asked them, there would be a lot
of serious shouting, denials, grumbles and bold
future plans announced. Then Jeff left to form his
own group.

David Dalton, 2000

LED
ZEPPELIN

Now sadly, even Keith Relf, Chris Dreja and Jim

McCarty have gone leaving "new boy" Jimmy Page
to form a New Yardbirds.

500

GOOD NATURED

Jimmy says all this with a smile and no ill-feeling.

And he is far too excited about the future to worry
about the past.

Jimmy is well-spoken, good looking and good

natured. He was once one of Britain's youngest
session guitarists, his ability to read and feel for
modern pop making him much in demand. He gave
up the security of the studios to hit the road and
play his own solos.

"It's refreshing to know that today you can go out

and form a group to play the music you like and
people will listen. It's what musicians have been
waiting for twenty years."

Now Page tells his Yardbird story and describes his

new group, which threatens to be a welcome piece
of fire power to the armoury of British groups.

Keith Altham, 1968

Led Zeppelin: Led Zeppelin II (Atlantic)

"We didn't do any gigs in England for two years, so

no wonder we lost popularity. But just before we
split we did a couple of colleges that were really
fantastic. I was really knocked out."

John Mendelssohn, Rolling Stone, 27 December

1969
Hey, man, I take it all back! This is one fucking
heavyweight of an album! OK I'll concede that
until you've listened to the album eight hundred
times, as I have, it seems as if it's just one
especially heavy song extended over the space of
two whole sides. But, hey! You've got to admit that
the Zeppelin has their distinctive and enchanting
formula down stone-cold, man. Like, you get the
impression they could do it in their sleep.

"We were a happy group and used to get on well

socially until we got on stage and Keith lost all
enthusiasm. I used to say: 'Come on, let's make an
effort,' but it had all gone. When they split, I don't
think Jim wanted to leave, but Keith was depressed,
I think it did us all a favour because the new chaps
are only about 19 and full of enthusiasm. It was
getting a bit of a trial in the old group."

And who can deny that Jimmy Page is the absolute

number-one heaviest white blues guitarist between
5'4" and 5'8" in the world?? Shit, man, on this album
he further demonstrates that he could absolutely
fucking shut down any white bluesman alive, and
with one fucking hand tied behind his back too.

The line-up of Jimmy's new band (and he's not sure

whether to call them Yardbirds or not), includes
John Paul Jones (organ and bass), Robert Plant
(vocals) and John Bonham (drums). They made
their debut in Denmark.
"It's blues basically, but not Fleetwood Mac style. I
hate that phase progressive blues. It sounds like a
hype, but it's more or less what the Yardbirds were
playing at the end, but nobody knew about it
because they never saw us. We're starting work on
an LP and we're going to the States in early
November. I'm hoping the Marquee will be a good
scene. Robert can get up and sing against anybody.
He gets up and sings against Terry Reid! Those two
are like brothers together.

'Whole Lotta Love', which opens the album, has to

be the heaviest thing I've run across (or, more
accurately, that's run across me) since 'Parchman
Farm' on Vincebus Eruptum. Like, I listened to the
break (Jimmy wrenching some simply indescribable
sounds out of his axe while your stereo goes apeshit) on some heavy Vietnamese weed and very
nearly had my mind blown.
Hey, I know what you're thinking. "That's not very
objective." But dig: I also listened to it on mescaline,
some old Romilar, novocain, and ground up Fusion,
and it was just as mind-boggling as before. I must
admit I haven't listened to it straight yet I don't
think a group this heavy is best enjoyed that way.

"I thought I'd never get a band together. I've always

shied of leadership in the past because of all that
ego thing. I know old Eric wanted to get a thing
together with Stevie but neither of them like
leading."

Anyhow... Robert Plant, who is rumored to sing

some notes on this record that only dogs can hear,
demonstrates his heaviness on 'The Lemon Song'.
When he yells "Shake me 'til the juice runs down
my leg," you can't help but flash on the fact that the
lemon is a cleverly-disguised phallic metaphor.
Cunning Rob, sticking all this eroticism in between
the lines just like his bluesbeltin' ancestors! And
then (then) there's 'Moby Dick', which will be for

"I didn't want the Yardbirds to break up, but in the

end it was too much of a headache. I just wanted to
play guitar basically, but Keith always had this thing
of being overshadowed by Jeff and that, which was
nonsense. It was great when we had the two lead
guitars."

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John Bonham what 'Toad' has been for Baker. John

demonstrates on this track that had he half a mind
he could shut down Baker even without sticks, as
most of his intriguing solo is done with bare hands.

Zeppelin's slightly-late attempt at tribute to the

mother of us all, but here it's definitely a case of
better late than never. This sonuvabitch moves, with
Plant musing vocally on how "It's been a long,
lonely lonely time" since last he rock & rolled, the
rhythm section soaring underneath. Page strides up
to take a nice lead during the break, one of the alltoo-few times he flashes his guitar prowess during
the record, and its note-for-note simplicity says a lot
for the ways in which he's come of age over the
past couple of years.

The album ends with a far-out blues number called

'Bring It On Home', during which Rob contributes
some very convincing moaning and harp-playing,
and sings "Wadge da train roll down da track." Who
said that white men couldn't sing blues? I mean, like
who?

The end of the album is saved for 'When The Levee

Breaks', strangely credited to all the members of the
band plus Memphis Minnie, and it's a dazzler.
Basing themselves around one honey of a chord
progression, the group constructs an air of tunnellong depth, full of stunning resolves and a majesty
that sets up as a perfect climax. Led Zep have had
a lot of imitators over the past few years, but it
takes cuts like this to show that most of them have
only picked up the style, lacking any real knowledge
of the meat underneath.

John Mendelssohn, 1969

Led Zeppelin: Led Zeppelin IV
Lenny Kaye, Rolling Stone, 23 December 1971
IT MIGHT SEEM a bit incongruous to say that Led
Zeppelin a band never particularly known for its
tendency to understate matters has produced an
album which is remarkable for its low-keyed and
tasteful subtlety, but that's just the case here.

Uh huh, they got it down all right. And since the

latest issue of Cashbox noted that this 'un was a
gold disc on its first day of release, I guess they're
about to nicely keep it up. Not bad for a pack of
Limey lemon squeezers.

The march of the dinosaurs that broke the ground

for their first epic release has apparently vanished,
taking along with it the splattering electronics of
their second effort and the leaden acoustic moves
that seemed to weigh down their third. What's been
saved is the pumping adrenaline drive that held the
key to such classics as 'Communication
Breakdown' and 'Whole Lotta Love', the incredibly
sharp and precise vocal dynamism of Robert Plant,
and some of the tightest arranging and producing
Jimmy Page has yet seen his way toward doing. If
this thing with the semi-metaphysical title isn't quite
their best to date, since the very chances that the
others took meant they would visit some
outrageous highs as well as some overbearing
lows, it certainly comes off as their most
consistently good.

Lenny Kaye, 1971

Led Zeppelin: Vancouver 1971
Rick McGrath, The Georgia Straight, Fall 1971
I got to watch the concert from the stage -- about 10
feet away from Page. It was one helluva show,
culminating in 'Dazed & Confused', which was their
big final encore number (this was prior to 'Stairway
To Heaven').

One of the ways in which this is demonstrated is the

sheer variety of the album: out of eight cuts, there
isn't one that steps on another's toes, that tries to
do too much all at once. There are Olde Englishe
ballads ('The Battle of Evermore' with a lovely
performance by Sandy Denny), a kind of pseudoblues just to keep in touch ('Four Sticks'), a pair of
authentic Zeppelinania ('Black Dog' and 'Misty
Mountain Hop'), some stuff that I might actually call
shy and poetic if it didn't carry itself off so well
('Stairway to Heaven' and 'Going To California') ...

After Led Zeppelin's tumultuous second encore I

waited for the crowds to disperse and then slipped
backstage: lots of cops, a few groupies (these
surprisingly more sophisticated than the usual fare)
and the now-familiar faces that appear backstage
after every concert.
I had previously made arrangements with Led
Zeppelin's manager, Peter Grant, to get in and see
the group after their show. For some reason The
Georgia Straight was the only Vancouver media to
obtain an interview. After waiting a half hour or so,
the door opened, Peter looked out and me
motioned me inside the dressing room.

... and a couple of songs that when all is said and

done, will probably be right up there in the goldstarred hierarchy of put 'em on and play 'em again.
The first, coyly titled 'Rock And Roll', is the

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They looked like they were having fun, as well they

might. Vancouver was the first date of a long North
American tour, and spirits are helped considerably if
the first night is a winner. I guess they figure 18,000
people can't be wrong.

Plant: Yeah, that's what it used to be like at the

beginning. But there's always something bigger
than a club in each town, a hall or something. Not
so much a Coliseum, though.
Rick: And you've finished your new album?

Once inside the dressing room, Peter motioned me

over to Page and Plant who were sitting off in a
corner discussing, I thought, either a new song or
part of an old one. Page was playing and singing
and Plant was listening intently. Jones and Bonham
were in the opposite corner, flailing away on
acoustic guitars and loudly singing old rock hits like
"Save The Last Dance For Me," "The Bristol
Stomp," etc., etc. They got louder, in fact, and as I
started talking to Plant, Page joined them and on
occasion during the interview Plant would leap to
his feet and join in on some chorus.

Plant: We finished that, and we did it in our own

home. Well, how it went was that we used a mobile
truck for our recording unit and we went to an old
manor in Surrey. There we put up all the equipment
in one room and stuck all the mike leads through a
window. Straight into the recording van. So anything
that we did just went straight down on tape. Bit by
bit it grew up into a great collage of numbers.
Rick: Do you like it?
Plant: (nodding head): Yeah. It was another
atmosphere altogether.

I did come away from the experience with a few

observations. First, these people are not stupid.
Plant is extremely articulate and certainly is his own
man.

Rick: What are your thoughts on Led Zeppelin III? It

didn't seem to have it the way a lot of people
thought it would.

He has definite ideas about his work, his public and

his critics, and at 23 (his birthday arrived during the
interview) he is a seasoned performer who is
trapped somewhat by the wishes of his audience
and the limitations of his own creativity. If pressed,
he is defensive about Led Zeppelin, but that I find
understandable. It is, after all, the ultimate male
fantasy....

Plant: I thought it would as well. I was really happy

with it, because to me it was just one step in
growing up.
Rick: Well, it got some bad press. That's something
we should talk about later. But there was an
incredible wave of Led Zeppelin mania, or
whatever, and you had just finished a very
successful tour, and then the album came out and
nothing happened.

Rick: It was pretty hot out there. . .

Robert Plant: Yeah, sometimes it gets a bit scary
when we see half the stage disappearing...

Plant: Yeah, but to me, personally, that album was

certainly a large step after the second one.
Because you can't keep turning out the same thing.
If you do that, you can't do anything for yourself. We
know we can rely on things like Whole Lotta Love
and it is quite easy to work within the same
framework all the time. But who does that? Just
people who haven't got anything going for them in
the brains, that's who. And I think the third album
was an essential thing, I don't care if it sold any
copies at all, because it showed there was a bit
more attached to us and it than Shake Your MoneyMaker sort of stuff.

Jimmy Page: It was a bit rough.

Rick: Let's talk about what you've been doing since
you were here last.
Plant: We've been to Italy, Switzerland, Denmark.
We did a tour of England, intending to go back to all
the old clubs that we played in the beginning. .
Rick: ....around Birmingham...

Rick: Which leaves you in the bind of wanting to

progress, when the audience doesn't want you to.

Plant: All those sorts of places. In some way it was

a successful move, in other ways it was a bit of a
dead loss, because you'd be playing in places that
only hold 250 people.

Plant: I daren't say they don't want you to, but it

seems they're not ready to accept, or even give it a
fair try because I think if people play the third album
and listen to it with the same amount of justification

Rick: Isn't that what the club trip is like in England?

A lot of smaller halls and stuff?

503

that they gave the second one, they might see

what's going on.

habit. And what they read is something else, man.

Because it's always down, down, down. Why don't
they stop all that and start being nice? Is that such
a hard thing to do?

Rick: What about rock critics? They seem to be the

other extreme. On one hand you have the audience
screaming Whole Lotta Love, and on the other a
critic saying the opposite.

Rick: Yeah, but they're in it for the bucks and

controversy always sells more than good news.

Plant: Well, a critic who's been a critic in one

position for more than six months gets a bit cocky,
right? He feels pretty cool. So he suddenly starts
making assumptions and statements that aren't his
to make, man. You can't condemn something just
by.... a critic can't fucking state what he wants to...
like if he goes to a concert, like tonight, and he goes
away and writes, "Well, I don't know what to say
because it wasn't too good at all." For 17,000
people going it was fucking too much, but that one
guy could get quite a reputation for decrying it. And
unfortunately that seems to be the general system
of critics.... to make themselves a name. Instead of
just transposing what happens, and saying it was
accepted, they suddenly start becoming an entity
for themselves, instead of a courier for the people.

Plant: Yeah, but we're in it for a buck as well, to an

extent. But we go out there and there's no bad
ones. People could throw a fucking bottle and it
would still be cool because they're there and the
thing incites them to do that. So you just ride along
with it.
Rick: They ripped the doors off the front of this
place tonight.
Plant: They've been eating good breakfast cereals
or else they've captured energy in long hair. I
wonder if any of them were in your Gastown thing.
We heard about it, but see, when you're in our
position, mate, you're in so many fucking places in
such a short time and everybody's going look at
this, and people keep coming up and saying what
do you think about them saying this and what do
you think about them saying that? Half the time you
miss it or you just don't even know it's there.
Because if you get affected by these things, well,
you just go on stage shivering, more or less.

And just as a new society is growing and moving,

we've got to eliminate all this old crap, and we've
got to be fair with each other. Because if we get all
these blas attitudes at an early stage where we're
still trying to prove to a lot of people that it's a
wholesome, positive thing and they keep tearing
away inside it, well, it'll be ruined before it's even
gotten halfway. Because that attitude doesn't stop
just at music, but it goes everywhere. And that
attitude of somebody in a position to influence
somebody else is open to somebody with no talent
but a pen and a job. And it worries me, really,
because I don't just see it for us, I see it for people
who I really fucking admire. They've given
something and are working really hard. And people
are digging it and going out and getting some
satisfaction from it. But that guy, well, he's on
another one altogether, isn't he?

Rick: I've noticed the stage act has changed since

you were here last. It seems to be getting back to a
hard rock and blues thing.
Plant: Well, it ain't wanting to change, it's just how it
goes. Tomorrow is another day. It's like with albums.
People say "Do you follow in the same pattern as
before?" And you talking about the third album. The
third album, to me, was a disappointment in the way
it was accepted because it wasn't given enough of a
chance.
After 'Heartbreaker' and 'Bring It On Home'. And
thunder, which was what it was. So we say try this
for size and I thought when we were doing it that I
was able to get inside myself a little more and give
a little more on the album. I thought the whole thing
felt like that. I was pleased with it, and I'd play it
now without hesitation and dig it. And you can't
always do that to an album that you've played a
million times. But I really thought it stood up and
then everybody was saying, well, noo, and they'd
leave it and then come back in a couple of weeks
time and say, well, we can see. . .but nevertheless,
we think it's best. But that's what people say
because the simple, heavy thunder is much easier
to assimilate, much easier to react to in every way.

Rick: I'd have to agree, even though I've been

accused of the same thing on a few occasions.
Plant: Well, you've only got to be fair.
Rick: Right, the way I look at it is that a critic is no
good unless he's honest with himself. And if he has
constructive things to say. That's part of criticism. It
should help more than hinder.
Plant: Yes, but things like Rolling Stone get out of
hand. Even in England people buy it because it's
been around for such a long time. It gets to be a

504

But you can't just do that, otherwise you become

stagnant and you're not really doing anything,
you're just pleasing everybody else.

Rick: Midnight.

And the whole thing about the whole music scene

now is that we didn't follow Sam the Sham, we
didn't follow all those people. We came over here
and nobody knew who we were and we weren't
following anything. We weren't saying "It's Gary
Puckett for us," and come over here. . .do you know
what I mean? And it's just by playing what we had
to do, with all the bollocks that we got, that people
said fair enough. And anything we can do new on
an album I think is a good move.

Rick: Your birthday? Well, let me be the first to

congratulate you (we shake hands).

Plant: I am now 23.

Plant: And so it's been seven years and suddenly I

find we've been tear gassed. So I got an Italian guy
to come on and I told him to tell everybody to
(Robert purses his lips and blows several times).
And everybody's blowing. And everyone was just
sitting down and coming around and digging it. And
I was getting so I couldn't sing, and the feeling, if
you've ever been tear gassed, is that if you move,
you've got 15,000 kids who are going to freak out.
So you don't move and you become so nauseated.
Anyway, it finally broke up and there were kids
running everywhere.

Rick: What direction is your new material taking?

Plant: It really varies, Because having that place in
the country... it's that old clich about a place in the
country... but it was really great. The mikes coming
in through the windows and a fire going in the
hearth and people coming in with cups of tea and
cakes and people tripping over leads, and the
whole thing is utter chaos. Bonzo's drums are in the
hall, in the entrance hall, with one mike hanging
from the ceiling. And things like that. And
everyone's going... and we set up anther set of
drums and I was playing drums... and it was a good
feeling, and we did it as easy as pie. So this
album's got a lot of feeling to it.

There were 250 stormtroopers there, in line, and I

forgot to tell you, as we got there, there were
wagons all alongside the road, and there were all
these guys lined up by the front door. So I jumped
out of the car and I was saluting and shouting and
checking the uniforms and walking up and down the
ranks going (makes faces) and I saw something I've
never seen before, because they were completely
devoid of anything human. They just looked at me
as if to say "Objective number one" or something.

Rick: I heard you had some problems in Milan.

And suddenly everyone was running. And the kids

came running over the stage, and we split and ran
down a passage under the cycle arena. And then
they tear gassed the passage. So Peter, who can't
run very fast, was in trouble. So we found a room
and we barricaded ourselves in. Broke into a
medical cupboard and had all these fucking
weapons and stuff. They were bringing the roadies
in unconscious. We had one nurse and some
oxygen and we looked out the window into the
streets and there was fighting and shooting and
cars being smashed and driven into trees and the
whole thing was like a war. And it was because we
stood up on stage. But that was not the real reason
for it all. There were 250 people who just didn't
know what the fuck was going on. 15,000 people
are jumping in the air trying to escape the fucking
tear gas and they don't understand.

Plant: There's a few things. Like we went to Milan,

and there was a big music festival with people from
all countries contributing. They travel around, and
we just came for one gig. And we were told that it
was a cool thing and even though there was a
reputation for bottles being thrown in Rome, we
were assured it wouldn't happen to us. Anyway, we
started playing in a big cycle arena, and they'd been
booing everybody else, and as soon as we walked
onstage, I noticed some smoke at the back of the
arena. And there's all this smoke and there's
firemen behind us and I was going "fire! fire!" in my
finest Italian.
Anyway, nobody took any notice of me and we
carried on for about a quarter of an hour and the fire
had gotten all around us. And I turned around and
looked at everybody and Peter (Grant, the
manager), his eyes had all gone big and red. And
everybody was suddenly coughing. People
suddenly appeared with masks and things like that
and suddenly there were bombs going off,
everywhere. And the whole thing about what I'm
doing is that I've been doing it seven years and
I'm. . . what time is it?

And as we drove back to the fucking hotel, round

the wrecked cars and round the fights and all that,
there were roadside hospitals all the way to the
center of Milan. I've never seen anything like that.
And I got up the next morning and got the papers
and the driver translated and just told us that the
kids had caused a riot and the police had had to

505

move in and do the fucking honours. People lost

their sight. I cried for days and days and everything
I think about it, or I think of something gentle, I even
saw a silly film with Cary Grant in it, and he was
going on about what man must do to be man, and I
was fucking crying. Because it just fucking hit me
and if I'm ever down in America all somebody has to
do is say. "Are you a boy or a girl" and I'll fucking
dive at him. Because it's an animal reaction. I've
already been in a rathole once.

see you, you'd better run for your life, dock, unless
you want to wind up like a slab of ground-up
mincemeat run over by the demento guitar bridge of
'Whole Lotta Love'.

And I know it's not just because we're radicals or

rock 'n' rollers. It's because there's nobody
understanding. And our side of the fence are going
over there and saying "Fuck That", and that side is
coming over and saying "Up Yours", and it's the
wrong thing, you know. The concerts should be in
twice as big a place and everybody should bring
their parents. And then we can get it together. What
we need is more of a bridge between the two
sides... and in Milan? What are you going to do?

I don't think that's the solution. No, the solution is to

keep on listening to this album, figure out what's
wrong with it. Come to grips with the situation. And
as far as I can see, the whole problem throughout
Houses Of The Holy is that the music just doesn't
go anywhere. Three of Jimmy Page's compositions
are strictly lukewarm rock and roll, his fourth ('The
Rain Song') is rather dire, and the four cuts not
penned by Page are uniformly poor. And I do mean
poor. When John Bonham writes three songs on a
Zep LP something exceedingly strange is going on.

Then there's 'D'yer Mak'er', which sounds like an

inept 50's paean written after one or two slipshod
listens to the fine 'Crocodile Rock': I mean it's nice
to hear that the Zep are Rosie Hamlin fans, but this
is awful.

Not only are all these songs nondescript, but the

arrangements are nowhere dynamic enough to
rescue the material. The thinness of the
instrumental sound is the most confounding aspect
of all I might've expected guitar work this
pedestrian from groups like, say, May Blitz or Mint
Tattoo, but coming from a group that was as big a
catalyst in metal rock history as Led Zep, it's a
shock indeed. I remember how disappointed I was
upon hearing Led Zep III, but it was pretty energetic
compared to this.

Rick McGrath, 1971

Led Zeppelin: Houses Of The Holy
Metal Mike Saunders, Phonograph Record, May
1973
Mercy me, it's time to bring out the Sominex again.
If it weren't for Slade and the Stooges, God knows
what sort of utter decay the filed of hard rock might
be in by now, and this latest does of pablum doesn't
help things at all. How it hurts to think back to 1971,
the banner year of heavy metal rock: Paranoid,
Master of Reality, Love It To Death, Killer, Led Zep
IV, Look At Yourself, Man Who Sold The World,
Dust, UFO1, Fireball and E Pluribus Funk were but
a few of the metallic stompers that graced that
year's release sheet. War pigs, black dogs, and
loose geese running amok through the land...those
were the days.

I remember when Jon Landau, famed for his

production of the all-time best MC5 album Back In
The USA, panned Creedence Clearwater's Mardi
Gras by calling it the worst album he had ever
heard from an established top-drawer name band. It
certainly was in some respects, I'll grant that, but
things have come so far downhill since then that
that sort of definite nadir is not possible anymore.
Houses Of The Holy is awful, but then, so have
been countless other recent albums by groups I
used to love. You almost wind up awaiting new
releases with outright trepidation, wondering who
will be the next group to fall apart. It's not pleasant,
and I hope it stops, soon.

Dammit, I must sound like a coot, old before my

time. But I can't help it. Once you've heard stuff as
ferocious as recent Slade, there's no settling for
less, in other words I WANT EVERY ALBUM TO
SOUND LIKE RAW POWER OR ELSE! AND THAT
HOLDS TRUE FOR JIMMY PAGE AS WELL AS
OZZY OSBOURNE! Several tracks on this new Led
Zep album are simply bad jokes (maybe worse),
like the schlocky string-drenched torpor of 'The Rain
Song', not to mention 'The Crunge', an absolute dog
of a song that even tops itself by ending with a
spoken aside from some yokel asking if we've seen
the confounded bridge. No, but tell ya what, if I ever

Metal Mike Saunders, 1973

Zeppelin Take The States By Storm
Ritchie Yorke, NME, 26 May 1973

506

THE LATEST Led Zeppelin tour is taking America

by storm, proving yet again that this is the top rock
'n' roll band in the world.

Led Zeppelin would have walked away from Tampa

at least 200,000 dollars richer, which is not bad at
all for a couple of hours on stage. They were
probably the two most lucrative hours in show
business history.

There are no exceptions, no maybes, no ifs or buts.

Not Alice Cooper, not the Rolling Stones, not the
Who. There isn't a group anywhere that could come
close to sinking the Zep.

There's never been anything like it. I am now

convinced that Zepp could outdraw the Stones,
Alice Cooper, Carole King or Elvis Presley in any
U.S. city you care to mention.

The band's fifth album, Houses Of The Holy, hit

number one on the North American best-selling lists
after only five weeks of release against super stiff
opposition from the Beatles oldies, Bread, Pink
Floyd, Alice Cooper and Edgar Winter.

So much for the cynics who doubted if Zepp still

had U.S. drawing power. And for the critics who
arrogantly and ignorantly said the album sucked.
Led Zeppelin reign supreme and it's high time many
more members of the media realised it.

The feat is made even more notable when you

realise that Houses or The Holy is receiving virtually
no airplay on AM radio in the U.S. Most American
top 40 stations do not programme any album cuts.

Ritchie Yorke, 1973

Led Zeppelin: Houses Of The Holy

Instead they concentrate on oldies and to this end,

the Beatles' two albums were snapped up like the
choicest remnants at a bargain basement sale. Yet
still Zep got there first.

Jonh Ingham, Let It Rock, June 1973

THE WAY I SEE IT, if you've been a Led Zep fan
since day one, and think that 'Whole Lotta Love' is
the cat's pyjamas, then you probably think this
album ain't worth the plastic it comes in. If you only
got into Zep last record, you probably play Houses
loud enough to shake the plaster off the wall. Me? I
played the first Zep LP three times a day for three
months until I saw them on the second US tour and
was so awestruck by it all that I could never bring
myself to play the album again. Then I succumbed
to John Mendelsohn's specious thinking until it
occurred to me that if I was going to go around
saying that Jimmy Page was an ace guitarist I
better listen to what he was playing. And on Houses
he plays exquisitely. Where Clapton plays spaces,
Page concentrates on the notes themselves, and
has perfected his technique to a fine point, able to
rattle off an amphetamine string of notes time after
time with such precision that the first time I heard
'The Song Remains The Same' I thought that the
record was sticking, not to mention spinning at the
wrong speed.

Members of the Zep and Atlantic Records are now

trying to decide which cut to release as a single.
There's been a lot of talk about Over the Hills And
Far Away. Personally I prefer D'Yer Mak'er which
strikes me as a certain number one.
Any rock critic worth his free records and concert
tickets would hesitate long and hard before
introducing the Beatles as one end of any analogy.
Yet in the case of Led Zeppelin, it's desperately
hard to avoid.
Take, for example, the first two concerts on Zep's
1973 North American tour.
At the opening night gig in Atlanta Braves' Stadium,
Led Zeppelin smashed the seven-year old
attendance record set by the Beatles in 1965. The
Liverpool lads drew 33,000 people. Zep pulled in
49,236 fans for a total gross of 246,180 dollars.
That's virtually a 50 percent improvement on the
Beatles' best in Atlanta.

Unlike the previous Zep albums this one takes a

few listenings to assimilate. In many ways the
previous album was their first fully realized one, and
Houses shows increasing diversity, humour, and
richness, with only moderate self indulgence. Plant
is increasing his vocal capabilities, Bonham has
perfected his incredibly weird time signature even
more, J. P. Jones adds fine eeriness, and Page
well, as Keith Relf put it, he's the grand wizard/ of
the electric guitar.

Moving on to Tampa, Fla., Zeppelin drew the largest

crowd ever to a single concert performance in U.S.
history. The band attracted almost 57,000 patrons
for a gross of 309,000 dollars.
The old record was held by the Beatles' crowd of
55,000 for a gross of 301,000 dollars at Shea
Stadium in 1965, at the height of Beatlemania.

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This album is built largely on riffs, with guitar solos

often being merely a different riff. There is heavy
emphasis on echo, a Page trademark, and Plant's
voice is often treated. Also, Page has somehow
made a very sparse arrangement there's never
more than three guitars sound like a guitar army.
Good stuff for teens heavy on Wild In The Streets
fantasy.

Zeppelin's current tour has earned them more

bread than any British group have taken home from
the States since the halcyon days of the Beatles.
So with no further ado, let us adjourn to the Forum
in L.A. It is May 31st, and the time is eight o'clock
on a Thursday night.
The Forum holds approximately 20,000 humans. It's
a good hall, acoustically fair for its size. This was to
have been the second of two consecutive nights
there for Zeppelin, and needless to say both nights
were sold out, but the first night had to be cancelled
because Jimmy Page sprained a finger while
climbing a tree. During the gig, he winces with pain
and occasionally dips his finger into a glass of cold
water to keep the swelling down.

The songs which have come in for the most

criticism are those most obviously humorous and
self indulgent. I love 'The Crunge' for its Niggers on
Parade outrageousness, and 'D'yer Maker' because
it allows a little nostalgia for one of rock's better
females, not to mention containing one of the
album's better riffs. As to what happened to Rosie
and the Originals, Rosie is singing with the
Blossoms, and in between backing Elvis they
recorded an album a year ago. It ain't too hot but
Rosie's voice rings through like a bell.

One of the first things one notices about Zeppelin's

audiences in their calm and serenity. Two nights
before I'd seen Humble Pie play Madison Square
Garden in New York, and for the first time in many
years of concert going, I was glad to have a
policemen standing next to me. The Pie crowd were
so out of their collective mind on red wine and
quaaludes that a nasty incident seemed imminent
at any time.

Led Zep have now refined their music to where it's

no longer hard rock per se, but just very good rock.
They are just on the threshold of their musical
exploration and the next five years should prove
very interesting listening, not without its quota of
controversy. Sorry folks, but the song doesn't
remain the same.

Not so with the Zep crowd. They got their rocks off
all right, and they shook and twitched till they were
as sweaty and exhausted as the band, but not once
did anybody give off a violent vibe. For all its
enormous volume and energy, Zeppelin's music is
inappropriate music to split skulls to.

Jonh Ingham, 1973

Led Zep in L.A.
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 16 June 1973

So all is in readiness. Suddenly the lights explode,

and there they are. John Paul Jones with shortish
hair moustache and five-string bass, looking almost
as if he'd just left the Eagles, Page bare-chested in
black velvets sparingly sequinned, carrying a
businesslike Les Paul, Bonham settling in behind
his kit to check it out, and leonine Robert Plant in
flowered shirt and jeans. The opening number is
"Rock And Roll".

"I DON'T EVEN like Led Zeppelin," the girl in the

black velvet jacket and hotpants said petulantly as
she bummed a cigarette off an acquaintance in the
lobby of the Continental Hyatt House Hotel in L.A.
"I'm only staying here because my friends have a
room. I think Zep are really tacky."
Methought the lady did protest too much. Why
would three well-known L.A. groupies book a room
at Zep's hotel if they didn't dig the band? Why
would they spend most of their spare time either
hanging out in the lobby or else trying to gatecrash
the security on the ninth floor?

Now, I always knew Zeppelin were good, but it had

been three years since I'd last seen them and no
way was I prepared for this. In an age when every
second band to present itself for public
consumption seems to be either too wasted to play
or else bedevilled with a sound system more suited
for announcing the winners in a vicarage raffle than
transmitting rock and roll music, the pure, clean
power of Zeppelin's performance and sound is even
more extraordinary than it might otherwise appear.
They just play the music, loud and proud.

This particular lady's name was Sherry. Despite her

olive skin and California tan, her face proudly bore
the scars of pimples galore. Nice legs though.
Anyway, she and her friends had the signal honour
of being personally evicted from Zep's floor by no
less than Robert Plant himself. Plant has no
patience with groupies these days.

Where Zeppelin score over all the bands who've

come up in their wake and endeavoured to emulate

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them is that they keep all the bases covered.

Everything that's part of the show is meticulously
polished until it's as good as it can possibly get.
Nothing sags, nothing is second-rate, nothing is
skimped.

Jump cut to the party scene. It's John Bonham's

birthday, and the Forum audience had given him a
hero's tribute for his drum marathon on 'Moby Dick'
earlier in the evening. "Twenty-one today," as Plant
had announced from the stage.

Every arrangement, every improvisation, the

construction of every song or every solo nothing
is neglected. It's simply good traditional British
craftsmanship. The word "sloppy" is, for all practical
purposes, not part of Led Zeppelin's collective
vocabulary.

"This party is probably going to get very silly," he

announces. Why else would a man turn up to his
birthday party wearing a T-shirt, plimsouls and a
pair of swimming trunks? As thinks turn out he was
the most appropriately clad person present.
The party is at the luxurious Laurel Canyon home of
a gentleman who runs a radio station, and to prove
his importance, he discreetly displays photographs
of himself with such disparate notables as Sly
Stone and Richard (the man from
W.A.T.E.R.G.A.T.E.) Nixon.

On the other hand, its certainly no sterile

rehearsed-into-the-ground Yes trip, because each
gig has as much excitement and freshness and
enthusiasm as if it was their first and last.
Generally, the length of a band's set gives you
some idea of how much they enjoy playing together.
Zeppelin play between two and three hours.
Enough said.

A videotape machine is showing Deep Throat

continuously while the stereo fills the house with
Johnny Winter, the Stones, Humble Pie and
Manassas. Roy Harper, one of the few people who
Zep acknowledge as an influence, is there, as is
Jimmy Karstein who distinguished himself during
the Clapton gig at the Rainbow, and B.P. Fallon,
who's flown halfway round the world since this
morning when the band 'phoned him at Michael Des
Barres' place.

*
THE L.A. FORUM gig was pretty damn good. It
blew me out completely, but it was to be completely
dwarfed in my memory by the San Francisco date
they played two days later. So on with the show.

Having flown in from Louisiana that morning, your

reporter disgraces himself by falling asleep in his
chair at around 4:30 a.m. A little later, he is
awakened by the very considerate Phil Carson from
Atlantic, and returned more or less in one piece, to
his hotel.

Backstage, the hangers-on have moved in and

commenced to hang on. 14-year-old girls in cheap
gaudy threads are wandering about disconsolately
muttering, "Where's Jimmy?", bumming dimes for
the chewing-gum machine, surreptitiously flashing
their Photo spreads in Star magazine, and
hectoring photographers into taking their pictures.

The following day he learns that virtually everyone

present ended up in the pool after George Harrison
clobbered Bonzo with his own birthday cake. Mr.
Fallon's exquisite antique velvet costume was
totalled by his immersion, as was Rodney
Bingenheimer's camera and a mink coat belonging
to a lady named Vanessa.

Leee Childers from Mainman's L.A. office is there in

a white suit, taking pictures of everything in sight.
"What's this," he asks, "in some of the English
papers about me and Cherry getting fired? All that
happened was that we went back home to look
after our offices. Why do people print things they
know aren't true?" He seems quite upset, as well as
he might be.

Over the rest of the proceedings we will draw a

slightly damp veil.
*

In the corner, Robert Plant is leaning against a wall

drinking beer. He's changed into a rhinestone Elvis
T-shirt, and he is lavish in his praise of the
audience. "What a beautiful buzz," he keeps saying.
"If it wasn't for Jimmy's hand, we could've played all
night for those people. Weren't they great?" he asks
everybody within reach.

SATURDAY and San Francisco. Jimmy Page is

paranoid about flying in Zep's small private jet, so
he and manager Peter Grant are travelling on a
scheduled flight.
That leaves Plant, Bonzo, JPJ, Beep, Peter Grant's
deputy Richard Cole (who I first met some years

509

ago in a Reading labour exchange) and sundry

others to brave the elements in this tiny craft.

expected to enjoy least. All my musical life I've had

a strong antipathy towards drum solos. Thus, it
came as a shock to find myself really getting off on
Bonzo's 'Moby Dick'.

The chicken and champagne help to ease the

terrors, except for one moment when the
indefatigable Mr. Bonham pilots the plane. Luckily, I
don't find out about that until he's back in his seat.

Watching him from a few feet away, totally

absorbed in what he was doing, it came back to the
craftsmanship thing again. He didn't look, as so
many endlessly soloing drummers do, as if they're
playing to the gallery. He resembled nothing so
much as a sculptor or a painter or anybody who's
doing anything that involves concentration, effort
and skill.

The gig is open-air, in a stadium at Golden Gate

Park. Zep have been preceded by Lee Michaels,
Roy Harper and a local group called Tunes. Harper
is reported to have silenced hecklers by informing
them that "Zeppelin haven't even left L.A. yet, so
fuckin' shut up."

John Bonham was plying his trade, doing his gig,

exercising his own particular skills, doing what any
gifted and committed craftsman does. It's always
nice to break through a prejudice and dig something
that you couldn't dig before.

In the backstage area, Bill Graham is prowling

around checking people out for passes. Bonham
mutters something about having a hard time playing
in the intense heat, but luckily it gets cooler later on.
In the crowd, a black policeman is wearing an
"Impeach Nixon" badge. San Francisco still has a
lot of soul.

Altogether, a magical concert. I suppose legions of

diehard Zep freaks have known this all along, but
for me it was a revelation. Throughout the solo,
Plant was pacing the side of the stage, occasionally
swinging himself up the scaffolding to sit under the
amps. "Do you feel it?" he said. "Feel that buzz!"

How can I tell you about that show? Led Zeppelin

and 50,000 San Francisco people got together to
provide one of the finest musical event I've ever had
the privilege to attend. There may be bands who
play better, and there may be bands who perform
better, and there may be bands who write better
songs, but when it comes to welding themselves
and an audience together into one unit of total joy,
Zeppelin yield to nobody.

After 'Communication Breakdown' a water fight

broke out backstage, and about the only person
who escaped unscathed was Bill Graham. Zep went
back out to do a final encore of 'The Ocean', and
then made a dash for the limos.

Whether they're punching out the riffs of 'Black

Dog', or stealing people's heart from inside them
with 'Stairway To Heaven' (as far as I'm concerned
Zeppelin's all-time master-iece or tripping the
audience out wit those unbelievable Plant-Page
guitar/vocal call-and-response set-pieces, they just
transmit magic to anybody within hearing range.

All hail, Led Zep. Hosannas by the gram. If there's

any excitement still left in this ego circus we call
rock'n'roll, a sizeable portion of it derives from you.
Be proud.
Charles Shaar Murray, 1973
Led Zeppelin: Steel Driven Led

Quite unselfconsciously, quite unobtrusively any

place they play becomes a House Of The Holy, a
place to straighten tangled brain cells.
Simultaneously, they take you right back to your
rock and roll home, and send you to some new
places that already feel like home when you arrive.
A very spiritual occasion indeed, and also a very
physical moment.

Steven Rosen, Sounds, 23 June 1973

LED ZEPPELIN recently flew into town and within a
matter of hours after the Forum box office opened,
had sold close to 36,000 tickets for its two
Inglewood performances. This is the Zep's tenth
visit to the States in four-and-three quarter years,
and if anything, their following (and subsequent
popularity) has grown in exponential bounds.

And despite all the disillusionment, the San

Francisco dream is not over. It's just that nowadays
people just don't talk about it. In that park,
everything seemed cleaner, fresher and more
immediate.

With their newest Houses Of The Holy album

selling ridiculously well, the strength of that record
alone would almost have been enough to assure
them of full houses. But their last four albums have

For me, one the most amazing moments of the

whole show as, strangely enough, the part I

510

all been gold (or close to it) so it's really not

surprising that they sold as they did.

Plant's voice was almost gone and had to sing in

lower registers for the great part of the two and a
half hour set. 'Misty Mountain Hop' was one of the
killers of the night. With J. P. Jones on piano, it
sounded as if the band was using one of the vocal
tracks from the album itself and running it thorough
the P.A.

But after Sunday's concert, they're sure lucky they

sell albums because their performance was
anything but gold album material. The Sunday
concert was originally scheduled for Thursday
evening (the first performance was Wednesday) but
owing to a slight accident on the part of guitarist
Jimmy Page the concert had to be postponed.
Apparently Jim had somehow-or-other sprained or
twisted one of the fingers on his left hand and was
in no way able to play the originally-planned
Thursday concert.

Zeppelin's gross on this tour is some extraordinary

multi-million dollar figure. Playing 33 dates, the
band has broken all kinds of previous records for
attendance and money figures. It is surprising, too,
that they have done this well. While there are
intermittent flashes of brilliance by Page on guitar
and Plant does come up with a worthwhile vocal
once-in-a-while, the band is really no more than a
loud, steel-driven group given to over-worked stage
gimmicks (Smoke machines, flash powder,
superstarrish costuming, and loud volume).

The Forum was restless and reckless Sunday night

after more than half-hour delay past the 8.00 p.m.
starting time. Frisbees whizzed around like so many
tiny flying saucers, while balsa wood glider planes
made long swooping dives from the tiers high
above. After an announcement that Zeppelin's
limousine had just pulled in (due to traffic
congestion outside) the crowd quietened down
some.

However, the band did manage to stir up this

reviewer with a moving version of a slow blues tune
called 'Since I've Been Loving You' off Led Zeppelin
III. 'No Quarter' followed (off 'Houses Of The Holy')
complete with cosmic London fog rising from the
eerily-lit stage. 'The Song Remains The Same' (with
Page on his twinnecked Gibson and Jones on
mellotron) preceeded the unquestionable high point
of the evening, a tremendously impressive
execution of 'Dazed And Confused.' On this
particular number the band played like the
musicians they are. Jimmy playing was steaming,
his violin bow work reminding one of a Heifitz gone
mad. Plant offered some tasty scat singing with
Jim's guitar while Bonham and Jones displayed
exceptional creativity for a rhythm section.

The house lights lowered and out onto the bright-lit

stage pranced a high-heel booted Robert Plant, a
white-suited (a la Clapton?) Jimmy Page, a levied
John "Bonzo" Bonham, and a ruffle-shirted John
Paul Jones.
Without any salutations the band started in with
'Black Dog' from their fourth album. Unquestionably,
one of the most important factors in Zeppelin's
success has been their ability to cultivate an
"image". Plant with his curly mane, prancing around
like some virile young stallion is an important to the
Zeps as the records themselves. And Page's past
work with the Yardbirds is an important
consideration in attracting the ever-growing hordes
of striving musicians. As soon as the band walked
out on stage they could do no wrong.

The quartet performed all its standards: 'Stairway

To Heaven', 'Moby Dick' (with a long, at-times
creative Bonham drum solo), and 'Whole Lotta
Love'.
The band came back for two encores, and if nothing
else. Zeppelin give you your money's worth. When
the band is on, they're very on. When they're not,
they're nothing more than OK. Where's that good ol'
Page guitar work, those inventive and powerful
lines cutting streamers in the air? Where's that
Yardbirds brilliance that made him one of the most
imitated guitarists in England? Granted he's got all
the moves the leaps, the shuffles, the stances, but
aren't you supposed to feel and hear music as well
as look at it?

The sound throughout the entire concert was

painfully thin and hollow. Page's guitar was trebly
and whining, and while Jones' bass did fill in the
holes, it was almost impossible to discern what
notes he was playing.
'Rock and Roll' (another track from their fourth LP)
proved a powerful piece and was one of the better
selections of the night. Jimmy's guitar was out-oftune for 'Over The Hills And Far Away', and
needless to say the song didn't work. The Forum
concert was their last show on this American tour,
and it showed.

Led Zeppelin are an above-average rock unit. Their

material is fresh and often quite inventive. The
musicianship is more then adequate, the JonesBonham rhythm section supplying solid backing for
Plant's vocal and Page's guitar. But a group that

511

makes 3 million dollars on a tour should be more

than just adequate, shouldn't they? Perhaps on
their next yearly sojourn they will be able to
imaginatively fuse all the potential they possess and
stage a show that is as musical as it is pretty.

of the windows things like that but we move on

and we keep playing that music.
"It's just this rapport that we've got between
ourselves. It's a good buzz. Man, I mean, I've
learned how to feel an audience now, and that's my
success. I can feel them, they can feel me. If you
can't you're not doing anything at all.

Steven Rosen, 1973

Led Zeppelin: Robert Plant And That BelowThe-Belt Surge

"There are a lot of groups who come over here and

play very loud and very monotonously and get
people off...but, the other way, it's almost like
putting your hands out and touching everybody.
That's probably why we're coming back here in
three weeks.

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 25 June 1973

A HOT AND sticky Friday afternoon in L.A. Nine
stories over Sunset Boulevard, Robert Plant takes
Roy Harper's Lifemask off the stereo in his hotel
room and sprawls all over one of the beds. He's
wearing a pair of leather jeans and little else, and
he's sweating fairly profusely.

"You see, my little boy's just started to walk, and I

haven't seen him bloomin' walk yet. Those are the
things that upset you about being on the road. The
very fact that you miss fantastic occasions like that.

Why would a happy family man with a lovely wife,

child and farm voluntarily rush all over the world
putting himself through all the major and minor
dramas of touring?
"This is a very close, tightly-knit, sensitive group,
one member to the next. We've got a very strong
bond, and so working is a pleasure.

"I mean, the kid just stands up and starts strolling

around and here I am in Tuskaloosa or wherever."
Is it not practical for you to take your family on the
road?
"Oh it'd be chaotic for a young kid. I don't like taking
Maureen either really, as much as I love her. When
you are on the road, you are nomads, you know.
There was an album called Rock n' Roll Gypsies
and that's it you've gotta travel on.

"What happened was that, after we made the third

album, Jimmy and I were in Wales and we were fed
up with going to America. We'd been going twice a
year, and at that time America was really a trial, an
effort.

"Robert Johnson once said: 'Woke up this morning

got the rain on my shoes/my woman left me/got the
walking blues.' It's just great to move on and set up
in another town and see the people there smiling.

"Anyway, we didn't work for a year, and we said:

'Look, this is terrible, let's get going, let's move. So
in the past year we've played every single market
that a band in our position could possibly play."

"I think I've got one of the finest ladies in the world
and it wouldn't do her any good because she's not
up there on that stage. So she'd get tired and want
to know why we weren't doing this and that, and the
very fact that I've just woken up and it's three
o'clock in the afternoon and the shops shut at six,
and there's no shopping to be done today and all
that sort of thing...It isn't practical."

IN PLANT'S eyes, their musical strongpoint is the

ability to be able to tackle something like D'Yer
Maker "Desmond Dekker meets Led Zeppelin"
and hold their credibility. "This is the finest property
we possess without it, the group would be a bore.
Not naming names, there are a lot of' groups in
England who still rely on riff after riff after riff.

ONE of the most admirable things about Zeppelin in

recent times has been the atmosphere of Celtic
mysticism that has seeped into some of the songs.
Stairway To Heaven is of course the classic
example, with its allusions to various Cornish and
Welsh myths.

"Some audiences can shake and bang their heads

on the stage to riffs all night long, but subtlety is an
art that must be mastered if you're to be
remembered.
"In this band we're very lucky that everybody is
more enthusiastic as time goes on. There is not
fatigue or boredom musically at all. There's a bit of
boredom when you're stuck in Mobile, Alabama, or
places like that. A few lamp standards may fall out

"That was present really from the second album

onwards," says Plant when drawn on the subject. "It
was something that we did well, and was pointing in
a specific direction. Then there was 'Ramble On',
'Thank You', 'Going To California', 'The Battle Of

512

Evermore', 'The Rain Song' on the new album too

even 'The Song Remains The Same'.

"Where we count four beats to the bar, their bars

just carry on and on. They'll be counting up to 99 or
100, and on the 120th boomph you change, instead
of on the 18th bar or something like that. But
anyway, we found that what we want to play, we
can do successfully in time to come.

"Every time I sing that, I just picture the fact that I've
been round and round the world, and at the root of
it all there's a common denominator for everybody.
The common denominator is what makes it good or
bad, whether it's a Led Zeppelin or an Alice Cooper.

"We moved on from there and played Switzerland,

Scandinavia, Germany and Prance, which was
absolutely chaotic.

"The lyrics I'm proud of. Somebody pushed my pen

for me, I think.

"Promotion people are absolutely nuts over there,

and the kids are more interested in using a concert
as an excuse to riot, most of the time. I don't really
like that, I don't consider that I've gained anything or
given anybody anything when I see that there's a lot
of fools fighting.

"There are a lot of catalysts which really bring out

those sort of things: working with the group, living
where I live, having the friends I've got, my children,
the animals.
"There's also the fact that people have finally come
to terms with the fact that, three years ago, we
made a classic record with 'Whole Lotta Love,' and
they realise that it's just one colour in the rainbow of
what we do and what we are intending to do in the
future.

"The gig you saw last night was a magic one

because the people were so relaxed. It was as if I'd
known them years.
"The vibe that we give out could never advocate
violence, a fight in there would have been totally
contradictory to the whole 'vibe" of the place, and
everybody' would have been totally disgusted."

"I think we've got a lot of friends in England. I

remember Bradford on the last tour, when the
audience were superb.

I mention that at big gigs, particularly in New York.

I'm always in mortal terror of an outbreak of
violence.

"'Stairway To Heaven' gets the most reaction of any

number we do. But the raunchiness is in everybody;
that below-the-belt surge that everybody gets at
some time or another.

"You've got to have a rapport for the people, and

that rapport must eradicate any feelings like that.
Alice Cooper's weirdnesses must really make the
kids feel violent. These kids are like my sister,
young people of 14 or so who've come to enjoy
themselves. So I don't think it's right.

"Everybody gets their rocks off, I suppose, and we

supply a little bit of music to that end."
IN THE LAST eight months Zeppelin have been
working solid. "We were going back and forward to
America, and then to Japan, Hong King and
Bangkok.

"My idea is that I should go out on stage and be

completely normal, and it pays. It pays immensely
because I get that vibe right back. That's the thesis
really, that's the reason for our success here."

"Jimmy and I did some recording in India with the

Bombay Symphony Orchestra. It was an
experiment, and we know what we want to do next
time."

Zeppelin are one band who it's bad for your head to
miss. What is is that does that? Is it the chemistry of
the four people?
"Yeah, it's the desire to really want to lay something
down for ever and ever and ever. I would like to
create something now, and be part of the creation
of something now, that would be valid for years and
years to come. Not so much in the way that Chuck
Berry will be valid in 50 years time, which he will,
but something like a mammoth stairway which
takes in a lot of the mood of the group.

Hmmmm. Are they going to issue any of that

material?
"Not those, no. We were just checking out, just
sussing how easy it would be to transpose the
ideas that we've got into the raga style, and into the
Indian musicians' minds.
"It's very hard for them to cope with the Western
approach to music with their counting of everything,
their times and so on.

"It's my ambition to write something really superb. I

listen to people like Mendelssohn 'Fingal's Cave'
and that sort of thing and it's absolutely superb.

513

You can picture exactly where that guy was. You

can picture the whole thing and I'd like it to be the
same way for us in time to come. I should think that
we've got it under our belt to get something like that
together. I mean we've started.

anyone seen the bridge? Where's that confounded

bridge?"
Side Two: 'Dancing Days' is a typical Zep
hardrocker with some dissonance thrown in for
good measure, and should go over well with the
people who dug their claws into 'Four Sticks'. Then
comes Zep's fusion of a reggae twitcher with an old
R&R vocal style, 'D'yer Mak'er', which is just heavy
enough and lighthearted enough to be a hit single.
Plant spews out repetitive purple prose, gasps and
giggles that might make them tear out their hair all
the way from Australia to Jamaica. Then the dullish
'No Quarter', which I personally don't like but other
people I know get their rox off from. The album
finishes with what may well be one of the definitive
Led Zeppelin rockers, 'The Ocean', with a riff that
could have found a home on II and a flash finish a
la 'Hallelujah I Love Her So' by Humble Pie.

"Last night, when all those lights were there, that

was a spiritual allegiance. You walk out there and
they're going. "Yea, we know you can do it" and
with that sort of thing tucked inside your belt you
can only go from strength to strength.
"Somebody once described me as the original
hippie and that's because of the flowery lyrics, you
know, and also because of the buzz we give out."

Charles Shaar Murray, 1973

They're crass, they're silly, and their new album is

so lovable that one cannot help but start listening to
all of their previous records in steady succession.
How can you not adore a group that leaves you with
the lines, "Now I'm singing all my songs to the girl
who won my heart/She is only three years old and
it's a real fine way to start."

Led Zeppelin: Houses of the Holy

Jon Tiven, Fusion, August 1973
LED ZEP'S ANNUAL album is at last upon us, and
although many a fan may be befuddled by its lack
of rhythmic/lyric/melodic coherence-conformity, it is
surely a mofo. Jimmy Page and Co. aptly
demonstrate that they still know how to knock a
listener on his proverbial buttocks, and not just with
sheer volume, although there are a few raw metal
demonstrations which are sheer delights.

Jon Tiven, 1973

Led Zep Won't Stop Touring
Cameron Crowe, Circus, November 1973

Houses of the Holy is meant to be digested with the

assumption that The LZ Set do not take themselves
very seriously, and many a guffaw goes unstated.
'The Song Remains the Same' kicks off this ornate
disc with a fast instrumental passage of a hillbilly
variety, flowing into the main body of the song,
which is slower, full of major chords and lyrics like
"Sing out Hare Hare/Dance the Hoochie Koo".

LAST SUMMER, when the cold steel elevator doors

of Hollywood's infamous Continental Hyatt House
slid apart to reveal the ninth floor, visitors were
immediately met by two menacing security guards.
The uniformed officers demanded an official note of
authorization before visitors could step one foot
onto the carpeted floor. If no note was presented,
one of the burly cops silently reached a hairy arm
into the compartment and smashed the button
marked 'lobby'. The elevator was sent hurtling
downward.

The band continues in a less electric way with 'The

Rain Song', starting off acoustic and then getting
heavy, but not quite heavy enough. But the two best
cuts on Side One are the last two, the first of which,
'Over the Hills and Far Away', is the worthy
successor to 'Stairway to Heaven'. Bert Plant gets
his chance to stretch out with lines like "Many have
I loved! Many times been bitten," and even John
Paul Jones gets to show his stuff. Then comes 'The
Crunge', a long excursion into the world of soul
music via two riffs and babble-on lyrics ("Now let
me tell you 'bout my girl open a newspaper and
what do I see, see my girl looking at me and when
she walks she walks and when she talks she talks")
and Page and Plant rolling over sideways in their
own hilarity, closing the side with a plea, "Has

There were similar welcomes throughout the United

States on Led Zeppelin's whirlwind Houses of the
Holy tour. By the end of the group's stay in America,
security guards had sent fleets of sleazy,
ornamented groupies, eager young journalists, and
snap-happy photographers grumbling back to the
clogged main floors of hotels and motels. Mobs of
hundreds had patiently milled around stage doors in
hot anticipation of the inevitable appearance of any
one of the four English lads who whipped over sixty
major American cities into a summer frenzy.

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Reaction to Led Zep's smash U.S. tour this past

summer is still sending earthquaking tremors
across the country, but Led Zeppelin themselves,
caught in the middle of the quake, feel no pain at
all. While Alice Cooper threatened to quit touring
be-cause of the exhausting pace, and David Bowie
actually gave it all up, Led Zeppelin still loved every
minute of it.

appreciate that. Obviously, I can't see what I'll be

doing in eight years from now. . . but I'll tell you one
thing. As long as I'm feeling 'Black Dog', I'll be
singing it."
Best and brightest
In another section of England, virtuoso guitarist
Jimmy Page sunk into a deep green sofa and
listened in comfort while a stereo pumped out Al
Green records. "It was a terrific tour," he reflected in
his clipped English accent. "The reaction was really
fantastic. Very, very warm."

On and on
Robert Plant, fresh from the shower and clad only in
a white terry cloth towel, strode to a window
overlooking the English countryside. For a moment
Plant quietly reflected upon the grueling nature of
Led Zep's much publicized cross-country jaunt.

Perhaps a major factor in Page's extreme pleasure

with their recent American tour was the presence of
a highly proficient lighting crew. "It was something
new for us," he beamed. "We've had lighting before
on other occasions when people have just turned
up and done it, but we've never really planned
anything. This time we routined all the lighting before we came over. It took about three or four days
rehearsing to get it really tight, so that it augmented
our set. It was really well-received, and sometimes
you found the lighting effects getting applause on
their own, which is really good. It made more of a
show that way.

"Since we were last in America," he spun around

and grinned widely to reveal a conspicuously
missing molar, "I'll bet we haven't had six weeks off
altogether. We've been playing like a group who's
trying to make it, you know. But we've made it...
long ago."
Plant's remark, and the massive amount of
worldwide roadwork the band undertook last year,
has led some to speculate that this past tour may
have been Zeppelin's swan song to the life of
Holiday Inns. After all, with glamorous and rustic
mansions situated throughout the forests and
beaches of Europe, why on earth would Plant,
Jimmy Page, John Bonham or John Paul Jones
want to spend their days on the road? Con-ceivably,
if the group was to retire from live performances,
there would be no more dramatic time than now.
With a record-shattering sold-out tour of America's
largest arenas and stadiums behind them, Zep
fever appears to have reached an overwhelm-ing
pinnacle. And despite an unfortunate New York
robbery of $ 180,000 from a hotel safe, there is no
financial need for the band ever to subject
themselves to a tour again.

"We rehearsed the whole show at this place called

Old Street Studios in England. It's an abandoned
film studio. You see, it's very difficult to get
rehearsal rooms in England because of the noise.
Anywhere, for any group, it's the same story. Every
group is up against the same problem. But the
studio we used is a nice place that nobody uses for
films anymore. The film business is a bit crummy, I
suppose. Everybody makes cheap budget films and
they don't use those places anymore."
The three-hour extravaganza of a set that the band
rehearsed in the empty studio was their first in a
long while that didn't include any acoustic material.
"We had no room, man," Plant explained, his eyes
agog, "we played for three hours as it was. Christ, I
mean we just couldn't. Physically, there was no
space left inside my lungs to do much more than
three hours, 'cause I really push it out, you know. I
didn't want to over-fatigue myself because I did a
little bit of chasing around at night."

"I mean," Plant added, plopping onto the springy

queen size bed and leaning against the headboard,
"there's no reason why we should have to play
again. We've played every single market that there
is to play in the last twelve months . . . apart from
Bangkok and India, which we'll get to in the next
two years. But we got the balls in us and we enjoy
playing too much to ever quit. I can't stop smiling
when I'm playing. I like to see people enjoying
themselves. I think that ten years from now it'll still
be the same, too," he added. "The magnetism that
the group holds can't wane for any reason that I can
see. We've tried to stay away from all the passing
hypes and fads in the musical business. There's no
reason why we should follow them at all. We can
just set our own standards. I think that people

Too much too long

Plant then honked out a series of guffaws that
ended in a coughing spasm. "But sometimes I think
we played too long. A lot of groups only play for an
hour, you know. After three hours, there's no room
for anything more. We've done a lot of acoustic stuff
onstage in the past, of course, like 'Bron-Y--Aur

515

Stomp' where the audience used to get up and start

clapping and every-thing, but now we've got 'The
Song Remains The Same', 'The Rain Song', and
"No Quarter' and we really enjoyed doing them. So
to break it all with an acoustic thing in the middle
wouldn't be right. We've got a lot of acoustic stuff in
the can, though. Stuff that we've written here, there
and everywhere that's real good."

"I've got good memories of the band," Jimmy

agrees, "I mean, there were obviously ups and
down and personality conflicts, but it was a great
time in my life. If a reunion album happened, and it
was presented in the right way, it would be really
good. But somehow, I just can't see Jeff Beck doing
it. I think everybody else might do it, I don't know
about Jeff, though. He just doesn't like to give credit
to anybody else. He's a silly boy."

Although Robert has said time and again that he

wouldn't be at all sur-prised if Zep ended up doing
"an Incredible String Band-type trip," Page elicited a
different response. "I'd be surprised," he chortled. "I
don't see what he means, really. We may have a
little bit of fun at home or something, but I can't see
anything seriously materializing. I like playing rock
'n roll too much. But that doesn't mean to say that
we couldn't sit down and play 'The Battle of
Evermore' after having done a really heavy rock 'n
roll set. That's the way we are, that's the way the
group's al-ways been. We can turn our hand to
anything. That's the important part, really. You just
can't stereotype Led Zeppelin. If this tour showed
us in one light, that doesn't mean we won't come
back again doing something completely different."

Yet when it comes to silly boys, Led Zeppelin had

more than enough blowzy, sensational tales
circulating about their last tour to fill a set of
encyclopedias. "Well," deadpanned Plant after a
very long pause, "I'm a family man." One of the
group's roadies, sitting in the room, burst out in
hysterics. "What can I say?" Robert shrugged.
"We're not hooligans. We had a good time, that's
all. I don't think we ever hurt anybody.
"I mean, girls who showed us their knickers in clubs
only showed them because they wanted them to be
ripped off and sniffed. It's a game, isn't it? And you
all have a laugh when the game's over . . . but of
course," Plant tried his best to stave off a laughing
fit, "it's usually one of our roadies that rides along
with us and then gets us a bad reputation with his
shenanigans."

It may come as a surprise that the next Zep LP will

not be a live one capitalizing on the attention given
the tour last summer. "We didn't record at all this
last tour," revealed Robert. "There've been many
attempts to cap-ture what we consider to be Led
Zeppelin on stage, right? And even with all the
modern mobile recording equipment, we haven't
been able to capture the magic of it all. I mean, you
might as well buy a bootleg, and they're really bad.
But you've got to capture the magic, and if you don't
capture it, there's no point in doing a live album. To
me, live albums in the past have always been an
excuse to get a record out when you've got no
material. We have all the material in the world, and
if we can't capture the vibe on a live rec-ord than
why bother?"

"Okay," the roadie chuckled, "next time you need

two motorcycles and a live octopus at three in the
morning, go ask someone else."
Cameron Crowe, 1973
Zeppelin '75
Ron Ross, Phonograph Record, March 1975
PICTURE YOURSELF in a seat in a stadium, with
ten thousand teens going mad on all sides.
Something's announced and you look up quite
swiftly: the band is about to arrive. Hopeful
photographers rush to the stage, snapping til they're
dragged away; up come the lights with a roar from
the crowd and they're on.

The alternative? The band dragged along a film

crew for the last half of the itinerary dates for an
upcoming movie.
Deserved rest

Led Zep has more flash than diamonds. The

undisputed kings of popdom. When, they appear,
total mayhem breaks loose, like nothing you've ever
seen. Once every two years is hardly enough for
their fans; there's no substitute for Led Zeppelin.

Now that the monster tour is over, the band has

entered a period of what Plant wistfully calls
"sleep", as the quartet breaks up for a welldeserved rest until they enter the studios once
again for a new LP. One possible project arising in
the interlude before the sessions may be a
Yardbirds reunion album involving Jimmy Page.
Even Alice Cooper has publicly pined for a
reappearance of the group and now, according to
Page, something special may be brew-ing.

Power chords crash from the monstrous PA,

towering over your head. Look for the one with
guitar in hand and it's him. Jimmy is the core of
Zeppelin. Plant's the sex symbol but behind him,
aahhh...here is a man who took sound and refined

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it, brought rock & roll basics to heavy metal pop; in

terms of pure sound no one ever could touch him,
nor in sales figures either for that matter.

Their rock & roll not only took its slang and
instrumentation from the blues,' but an attitude
towards music-making that would ultimately win
over large and loyal audiences in London with the
same approach that had worked in Chicago. It was
almost as simple as treating one's guitar as one
would his woman and one's audience like one's
guitar: stroking, bending, banging and beating it 'til it
howled and moaned with feedback from an
intentionally overloaded amp, just like a woman
breaking up. The result was a sound that was brainsearingly raw and primal, but as spontaneous and
impulsive as each night's performance. This bluesderived rock was impossible to enjoy or assimilate
as background music; one had to identify one's
heart, body and soul with the sound.

Though Jimmy Page denies he ever heard of "punk

rock" let alone created it, the heavy metal style Zep
forged from their earliest work onward is the sound
of rock & roll as most of the people who need it
most want to hear it. And while the group may have
ventured to sophisticate their original monolithic
intensity with experimental diversions on each of
their six albums, it is the inexorable bone-crushers
from Whole Lotta Love to Physical Graffiti's
Kashmir that distinguish Zeppelin from artists
dependent on musical trends or extra-musical
images for their popularity. Loudness is perhaps the
simplest and most direct of all aesthetic sensations,
but it is not so simple to create inherently loud
music to think, compose, and play so relentlessly,
unfalteringly loud that sheer decibels become more
important than what the lyrics are saying and more
seductive than the personalities of the performers.
It's their unprecedented feel for rhythm and riff
cranked up to nerve-numbing volume that makes
Zeppelin perhaps the most successful rock and roll
band of all time, and it's this awe-inspiring control of
virtually violent sound that justifies that success.
Sound speaks for itself, the ends justify the means.

For the first time in the history of white popular

music, guitarists became culture heros, and Keith
Richard, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page
were accorded all the more devotion because they
were erratic. Even on a bad night there was the
undeniable feeling that something was happening,
and a good night gave the listener a privileged
sense that he had participated in an event. Moody
and reticent offstage, the new guitar stars played
what they felt and their fingers learned to articulate
the fiercest emotions until, at least so far as the
Yardbirds were concerned, a lead singer became
superfluous. It was the drama of a man playing with
a musical fire stoked by his own inner violence that
people came to see.

The essential elements of Zeppelin's sound are as

old as the Chicago blues, themselves an electrified
escape from urban emotional problems via a
mastery of amplification and one's audience. The
principle of form and function combining to produce
a new aesthetic worked admirably for the
prototypical guitarist/singers such as Muddy Waters
and Howling Wolf. They needed electric
instruments, of course, to be heard over the din of
noisy bars, but even more attractive than the
practical advantages of this kind of guitar, was the
opportunity to use its sound and style as a
metaphor, for power.

Surely it was their guitarists that gave the Stones

and the Yardbirds such an edge over other bluesbased bands like Them and the Animals. But
although the Stones always arranged their material
for two lead guitarists, and the Yardbirds at different
stages tried a similar line-up, Beck, Clapton, and
Page developed a style for themselves that was too
dense and unpredictable to lend itself to team-work
on that order. They apparently began to appreciate
the formal and functional value of the Who's rhythm
section plus lead instrument plus vocalist
arrangement. The Who had the tightest and most
powerful British rock sound because an
instrumental trio couldn't afford holes in its musical
fabric.

Blues lyrics had always focused on one-to-one

conflicts of sexual desire, fulfillment or frustration,
and since the problems of race were as pressing in
the city as they had been down home, they were
eventually given a far more urgent and frenetic
expression in keeping with the urban situation. The
antidote to the complex personal chaos threatened
by the city was a vital and virile command of one's
newly amplified instrument. Tuned intuitively into
their American musical idols like Chuck Berry and
Sonny Boy Williamson, English bands like the
Stones and Yardbirds began to equate the black
minority group mentality and its blues formulae with
the kind of adolescent alienation that supported pop
to the chagrin of "good music" lovers.

Yet the Stones and the Who were both seemingly

committed to trying to make rock say more than it
had in the past, to self-consciously communicate an
extra-musical message. So Clapton, Page, and Jimi
Hendrix in their own separate ways all attempted
between the years 1967 and 1969 to invest the
instrumental trio with enough potential to allow its
groove and attack to stand on their own without
resorting to an intellectual concept that employed
rock as a vehicle rather than as an end in itself. All

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three guitarists would be especially particular in

their choice of vocalists like another instrument
instead of as the band's mouthpiece as the Stones
and the Who tended to do. What all three were after
initially was sound not sense, even if Cream
seemed to affect intellectual pretensions utterly
absent from the Beck Group and Zeppelin. Peter
Brown's lyrics, as sung by Jack Bruce were so
abstract that they ended up lacking specific
meaning as much as Robert Plant's moans on
Dazed and Confused. Indeed, on its own purely
emotional terms, Led Zeppelin's answer to the
guitarist's dilemma was the most succinctly
successful of all.

their last album Little Games imposing some of his

sound and style on it. It was obvious that Page had
been carrying the Yardbirds for some time and
receiving minimal credit for it, so, to capitalize on
his professional momentum, Page quickly but
carefully put together a "new Yardbirds" with two
semi-pros and one ultra-pro. Object: To take
advantage of the rock scene, circa 1969, which was
ripe for any kind of British blues conglomeration and
make a lot of money. As an aside, they thought it
might be nice to be the greatest rock and roll band
in the world, if for no other reason than that there
was a great groupie scene in America.
John Paul Jones had one of those nice all-around
musician tags from his work with the Stones, Mickie
Most, and Donovan. He was reliable, tasteful, multiinstrumental and one would assume ready for a
taste of the spoils of the road after all his hours as
an arranger, pianist, organist and bassist in the
studio. Robert Plant and John Bonham were
country boys scruffy from coal dust, but scrappy as
they came. Unjaded, hungry for the ever enlarging
Big Time and their share of the Good Times, the
four were extremely impressed with each other
upon their first rehearsals together. Immediately,
they had a sense of their own destiny which few
bands ever enjoy even at their height. Upon hearing
them, and their maniacal attack on the blues, Keith
Moon dubbed them Led Zeppelin, sure that they
would go over like...

To say that Zeppelin was straight-fowardly sonic

and distinctly non-verbal is not to imply that even in
its birth throes, the group wasn't a complexly
calculated phenomenon. There was too much
experience and innovative energy in their favor to
warrant oversimplification, although they would be
almost immediately imitated in the most simplistic
fashion. Even if their heavy metal fusion bomb
hadn't been an idea whose time had come, of which
Page was obviously confident from the first, their
business was arguably more together than any
other British band's had been from its inception
(possibly because Page had seen every imaginable
rip-off in his prior dealings with Beck and Mickie
Most), including the Who and Hendrix and on a par
(within its original ambitions) with the Beatles or the
Stones.

Plant was a cock crowing 19 year old with a

demonic tenor, a convincing way with endearments
like "bay-bee," a crown of blond curls and eyes that
shone every time he saw something he liked. And
everything he liked wore a skirt, and he wasn't
overly fussy past that point. He had the insufferable
confidence of the barnyard stud, and, furthermore,
he knew he was about to get the chance to prove it.
Bonham just seemed like a regular guy. A regular
guy who tore telephone books apart at parties.
When he worked his drum kit, his expression was
calm, but he sounded like a guy beating up on
someone who'd molested his little sister.

As road manager for a number of Invasion era tours

of America, Zep manager, ex-wrestler Peter Grant
had seen rock mania at work in the States in the
past. He knew where cash had a value as a
lubricant, and he knew the advantage of working
fast with a clenched fist. It was the kind of business
acumen that led Silverbeatle Pete Best's dad, a
promoter of dubious prize fights in Liverpool, to
subsidize a lunchtime bistro called the Cavern in
1962.
Page was not only the performer who strolled on as
Beck destroyed half the Yardbirds' equipment in
Antonioni's Blow Up, but a seasoned record man,
with a studio head from way back, including
Bacharach and Berns. With a repetoire of a
hundred sounds he could claim as completely his,
Page believed he'd never been paid aquately for
anything he'd done. Jimmy Page knew at 23 he was
the complete rock and roller; what's more he was a
professional who aimed to make more of his
chosen profession.

Page, when he wasn't fine tuning Zep's mega-discs

in the studio, could be counted on not to be
anything twice. He was by turns angelic, brooding,
boyish, sinister, cynical, honest, and defensive, and
this was just in full public view on stage and in rare
interviews. Though his guarded private life soon
became apocryphal, he was always the fastest,
flashiest guitarist most of us had ever heard. He
was the kind of guy you'd want to have like and
respect you, 'cause then you'd know you were cool.
So at the slightest provocation, you'd pretend to
know something to be absolutely true of Page even
though you'd only heard it from a friend who heard it

Grant was handling the Yardbirds' last tour of

Scandinavia in 1968 when the band disintegrated
just as Page had begun to write with the group on

518

from a friend who read it in a magazine article by a

writer who'd never met Jimmy. In other words, Page
was fast on his way to becoming the biggest legend
in rock within a year of leaving the ailing Yardbirds,
a good part of which were the rumored parties that
the group throw after their gigs in various hotel
rooms throughout the United States. Phonograph
managed to locate an attendee at one of those
parties in the good old days and here is what she
had to say:

made it possible for sound to come into its own as a

main objective. Stereo headphones put the power
and the glory of unlimited volume within the grasp
of listeners who longed to merge themselves all the
more completely with the pulse of rock.
By 1968, there was also a fairly available supply of
marijuana and other more immobilizing drugs to
enhance or soothe the senses, so that for many
younger teens psychedelic exploration gave way to
heavy metal surrender. Page's approach to
producing Zeppelin's rhythm section seemed to be
to create a cavernously resonant bottom with a rock
steady groove that the listener could lay back on
like a mattress, while the stereo speakers threw
Jimmy's scintillating solos at him from everywhere
at once with piercing psychologically surgical
precision. Certain of Page's personal techniques,
such as his violin bow excursion during Dazed and
Confused, were absolutely unheard of on record,
while Plant's voice conveyed a worldly earnestness
that made millions of girls want to scratch his back.
And scratch they did, at Holiday Inns throughout the
nation. In fact, I remember one Holiday Inn
manager who had a nervous breakdown after the
group's stay at his establishment. They so
demolished his spirit and his hotel, that he was
reduced to gibbering "500 lbs. of whipped cream.
Who could possibly use that much whipped
cream?"

"He whipped me and it was great, it was beautiful,

real good times. He was really good to me, a real
nice guy, real nice people."'
Due to respect for Jimmy's talents as a professional
producer, Grant had no trouble securing a deal with
Atlantic, one of their first international signings.
Internationally known jetsetter Ahmet Ertegun,
president of Atlantic Records, signed him up for the
label, as he did every other blues guitarist in
England that year. Along with Frank Barcelona,
president of Premier Talent, the two of them were
responsible for bringing the new generation of
British bluesman to America. Oddly enough, the
feeling was that it was Jeff Beck who was going to
be the monster act, and Zep was signed mainly on
the strength of Page's past accomplishments and
the feeling of how bad a deal can it be? From the
other side, Atlantic's staff were record people,
mostly producers, whom a musician and his
manager could trust, and that in itself was unusual.
The exact terms of the deal have, with
characteristic Grant close-vested-ness, never been
revealed but Zeppelin's recently renewed
distribution pact with Atlantic must be one of the
biggest in history, along with Elvis'. For one thing, it
includes Zeppelin's own label; Swan Song, whose
first release by Bad Company was in itself the
Warner-Elektra-Atlantic group's biggest seller in
1974. Swan Song is dedicated to recording and
establishing artists that Zep and Grant feel have
had a raw deal previously. A raw deal was the last
thing Jimmy Page would have put up with, even in
1968.

From the hysteria of Communication Breakdown to

the rhythmically deliberate confrontation of How
Many More Times? Zeppelin's first album enlarged
the scale and the sound of hard rock to novel
panoramic proportions. Led Zeppelin II was notable
for its million-plus sales, and the musical unification
of Zeppelin's bad-ass image with Page's increased
knowledge of the studio and how to arrange for the
group. On the other hand, Jimmy cut the album way
too hot and the first pressing was unlistenable on all
but the finest stereo equipment, and this on an
album that shipped gold. Whole Lotta Love and
Heartbreaker introduced the stalking riffs that
would become Zeppelin's most obvious trademark.
And in case anyone had missed the point of the
group, Robert Plant made it very clear in The
Lemon Song: "I want you to squeeze my lemon til
the juice runs down my leg." Overall, however, there
was less of a balance between the acoustic and
electric elements of the band than there had been
on the first album, so Led Zeppelin III marked a
definite return to the textures of Page's aggressive
acoustic style, which had provided a striking
contrast to the bluesier numbers on the first album.

As it happened, Page couldn't have picked a better

time to make his move. Jimmy's musical ambitions
coincided with the rise of the rock concert in
America and the growing acceptance of rock in
album form. A successful gig at either of the two
Fillmores started waves of positive word of mouth
across the nation, while after Sgt. Pepper, recording
standards improved so vastly that merely listening
to an album became a far more exciting aural
experience in itself. Although rock had previously
retailed itself in the form of singles that leaned
toward promoting an image, a song, or a sound
only in a peripheral sense, the trend toward albums

Tracks like Gallows Pole proved Zeppelin's ability

to be no less dynamic when employing fewer
electronics. Lyrically, Plant began to write more and

519

more about legends as well as lust, and an "over

the hills and far away" quality began to complement
the band's characteristic lemon squeezing. To carry
heavy metal's resemblance to the blues a step
further, The Immigrant Song and its relatives on
subsequent albums had about the same
imaginative suggestibility to a rock audience as
songs about Chicago had when sung by delta
bluesmen.

roll sounded like Elvis Presley, rock critics began to

complain that all post-Woodstock rock sounded like
Zeppelin and blamed the group for merely making
the most of a sound they had largely created to
begin with.
Zeppelin's fifth album, Houses of the Holy, to date
and should have reconciled the band with the more
dispassionate members of the press. But the band
toured around the time of its release in 1973 and
broke every existing box office record for single
artist concert attendence and gross ticket sales.
They weren't only the biggest contemporary rock
band, but were shaping up as the biggest of all
time, and that was too much for many journalists to
swallow, regardless of any one album's merits.

This aptitude for myth-making was developed most

satisfyingly on the untitled fourth Zeppelin album. It
is certainly a major aspect of their classic Stairway
to Heaven. The fourth album also includes Zep's
best straight-forward heavy rockers, Black Dog
and Rock and Roll, while it carries their anti-star
convictions to their ultimate conclusion. There aren't
any photographs of the band members to be found
anywhere on the double jacket or its inner sleeve.
No title, no pix, no gimmicks. Whatever one decided
to call Led Zeppelin, a "hype" was never
appropriate.

Still, Houses of the Holy reveals the band in better

ensemble form than ever before. The Song
Remains the Same had a Byrdsy feel resulting from
Page's stunning layers of overdubs on 12-string.
The Rain Song was an excellent atmospheric
ballad, with the right touches of mellotron added by
John Paul Jones, who really gets the chance to
show what he can do on keyboards during No
Quarter. Dancing Days exploited Page's bizarre
harmonic flair, and D'yer Maker was a heavy metal
reggae. Throughout the album, Zeppelin's
performances were clean and well-considered.

Despite, and even because of concert tours that

broke records set years before by the Beatles and
the Stones, with four albums that had been number
one in America, Zeppelin's running battle with the
critics raged on. Writers like John Mendelsohn, who
admired the subtly ironic sensibility of less
successful bands like the Kinks and the Move,
resented Zeppelin from the first. Yet, while it was
true that Zeppelin had a tendency to take
themselves super-seriously, it wasn't the band's
fault that heavy metal addicts couldn't or wouldn't
distinguish between the style's originators and a
flood of untalented imitators. Zeppelin frustrated
writers for a number of reasons. First, Zep had
been a great commercial success from the word go,
so their help wasn't exactly required to break the
group.

1974 found Zeppelin busy launching Swan Song

and preparing what would become their first double
album, Physical Graffiti. Released in the midst of a
riotous two-part tour of America, Physical Graffiti is
more direct and self-assured than anything that
preceded it. Compared to the jazzier, more melodic
Houses of the Holy, Graffiti sounds one of the better
"it's only rock 'n roll" efforts so popular among
established bands this year. It sho' 'nuff is funky in
its monstro heaviness, and after repeated
listenings, the eighty-three minute set emerges as
one of the decade's most viscerally engaging
albums. It's excitement is just about uninterrupted.

And it wasn't really fun for most older critics to listen

to Zeppelin, since complete submission to the wall
of sound was necessary to get anything out of it,
and that ran counter to the critics' insistence on
detachment. In the end, it was the passivity of
Zeppelin's audience which probably infuriated the
rock writers most, along with the awkwardness of
putting into words an excitement that spoke
eloquently for itself. Rock was supposed to be an
educational force in the late sixties, a folk art that
inculcated its own morality and eagerness for
change. Zeppelin changed and grew from album to
album, but their audience remained glassy-eyed,
and during those months when Zeppelin wisely kept
themselves scarce, new metal mongers such as
Black Sabbath and Deep Purple began to be
accepted with nearly the same enthusiasm as Zep
themselves. Just as adults thought all Fifties rock 'n

The first two sides contain not a single bum cut, and
if dinosaurs danced they'd have done the kung fu to
tunes like Trampled Underfoot, with Jones' jiving
electric piano, and Custard Pie, with its lunatic
harp break from Plant. In My Time of Dying runs
over eleven minutes, all of it gripping, as Page pulls
out every possible stop before Robert's vocal
degenerates into babbling baby talk. Kashmir is
gorgeous and cruelly imperial, like the music that
might have accompanied Cleopatra's barge as it
was pulled down the Nile by a thousand struggling
slaves. There is a refreshingly live feel to most of
the backing tracks, since Zep utilized Ronnie Lane's
and the Rolling Stones' mobile studios for many of
them.

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Sides three and four of Physical Graffiti are not as

uniformly terrific as the first two but there's enough
variety to justify a double album. The cuts run the
gamut in scale from Jimmy's folky acoustic BronYr-Aur to In the Light, a Stairway styled anthem
of sorts with a very attractive ascending riff as its
hook. Down by the Sea Side is surprisingly
Californian and pop for Zeppelin, with a relaxed
Leslied lead from Page, until the break when he
really gets down to some of the most facile fretting
on the album.

Like each of their concerts, Led Zeppelin's career

began on an impossibly high level and soared
upward and onward from there. They now outsell
the Rolling Stones two albums to one, and since
Swan Song was shipping 1 1.5 million copies of
Physical Graffiti upon its release in America, a
representative for the label predicted that Zep's
sixth platinum album would be number one in two
weeks. Not only is Atlantic looking forward to
possibly the biggest album in their long history of
big albums, but retailers all over the country have
been begging for a Zeppelin album to bring people
into the stores. Rock is dead? Try to convince Led
Zeppelin.

Side four's Boogie with Stu features the Stones'

side-kick Ian Stewart on barrelhouse piano and a
fine mandolin solo. Black Country Woman is an
extemporaneous blues pastiche of the kind which
Plant apparently finds very funny. Concluding the
album is a direct descendant from Whole Lotta
Love entitled Sick Again, an all out raver that
condemns the Hollywood groupie scene which
Zeppelin's charisma did so much to perpetuate
before the band "grew out of it."

Ron Ross, 1975

Jimmy Page: The Trouser Press

Interview
Dave Schulps, Trouser Press, Fall 1977

Dave Schulps, senior editor of

Trouser Press, spent more than six
hours with Page, one of the longest
interviews Page ever did. The
interview was scheduled to happen
on the East Coast after the band's
1977 MSG gigs, but Page was too
tired to talk. So Swan Song put
Schulps on their chartered jet with
the and flew him to California.
Schulps ended up snagging the
guitarist on three separate occasions
a few days later in Beverly Hills. The
interviews took place at the Beverly
Hilton Hotel, on June 16 and 17,
1977, while the band had a brief
break from touring. The discussion
concluded on June 19, 1977 following
a show earlier that night in San
Diego.

All in all, Physical Graffiti is a massive chunk of

super-sound, which while it provides few surprises,
is as immediate and right on the money as
Zeppelin's first album was when it was released six
years ago. Zeppelin's recorded work changes to
remain essentially the same, but their live
performances have improved immensely over the
last few years. Though Robert was hampered by
the flu and Jimmy by an accident to the third finger
of his left hand, Zeppelin's concerts on the first part
of their 1975 tour were as spectacular as the
thousands of fans who waited overnight for tickets
knew they would be.
If they were night after night consistently on top of
their two and a half hour show, there were nights
like the band's second at New York's Madison
Square Garden, when they were brilliantly
definitive. There was no question that their devoted
following was hearing rock and roll as it was meant
to be played, and the energy the band radiates
places them in a class by themselves. Even Page's
moves on stage can be compared only to
Townshend at his theatrical best, and on the basis
of music alone, there probably isn't a better and
more exciting guitarist working today. John Paul
Jones' solid musicianship is particularly important to
the band live. Bonham's drum solo is the first I ever
heard which ran over ten minutes and ended just
when it should have. And in spite of his range being
affected by his sore throat, there was something
affable about Plant's self-confidence which is as
likable as it is lascivious. Led Zeppelin give you
something to remember; it's hard to put into words,
but it's no less real for that.

What were your ambitions as a young guitarist? You

kept out of the limelight for quite a while, not playing
with any groups except Neil Christian until you joined
the Yardbirds.
Very early, once I started getting a few chords and
licks together, I did start searching feverishly for
other musicians to play with, but I couldn't find any.
It wasn't as though there was an abundance. I used

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to play in many groups... anyone who could get a gig

together, really.

throughout. When you listen to the various classical

guitarists like Segovia and Julian Bream, brilliant
classical players, and Manitas de Plata doing
flamenco, it's totally different approaches to acoustic.
Then there's Django Reinhardt and that's another
approach entirely.

This is before you joined Neil Christian?

Just before Neil Christian. It was Neil Christian who
saw me playing in a local hall and suggested that I
play in his band. It was a big thing because they
worked in London, whereas I was from the suburbs.
So there I was, the 15-year-old guitarist marching
into London with his guitar case. I played with him
for a couple of years.

In those early days I was very interested in Indian

music, as were a lot of other people too. Most of the
"textbook" of what I was forced to learn was while I
was doing sessions, though. At that point you never
knew what you were going to be doing when you got
to the session. In America, you were a specialist. For
example, you would never think of Steve Cropper to
do a jazz session or film session or TV jingles, but in
Britain you had to do everything. I had to do a hell of
a lot of work in a short time. I still don't really read
music, to be honest with you. I read it like a sixyear-old reads a book, which was adequate for
sessions, and I can write it down, which is important.

Did he have a big local reputation at the time?

In an underground sort of way. We used to do Chuck
Berry and Bo Diddley numbers, bluesy things, before
the blues really broke. In fact, half the reason I
stopped playing with Neil Christian was because I
used to get very ill on the road, glandular fever, from
living in the back of a van. We were doing lots of
traveling, the sort of thing I'm used to doing now. I
was very undernourished then. It wasn't working
right either; people weren't appreciating what we
were doing. At that time they wanted to hear Top 20
numbers. I guess you could put pretty much akin to
the pre-Beatles period in America, except that this
was a couple of years before that. I was at art
college for 18 months after I left Neil Christian, which
was still before the Stones formed, so that dates it
back a way. The numbers we were doing were really
out of character for the audiences that were coming
to hear us play, but there was always five or ten
percent, mostly guys, who used to get off on what
we were doing because they were into those things
themselves as guitarists, record collectors. You'll find
that nearly all the guitarists that came out of the '60s
were record collectors of either rock or blues. I used
to collect rock and my friend collected blues.

What was your first guitar?

It was called a Grazioso. It was a Fender copy. Then I
got a Fender, an orange Gretsch Chet Atkins hollow
body, and a Gibson stereo which I chucked after two
days for a Les Paul Custom which I stuck with until I
had it stolen... or lost by T.W.A.
What got you into guitar playing? You listened to a
lot of music being a collector, so was it just hearing
it on record?
Exactly. I've read about many records which are
supposed to have turned me on to want to play, but
it was 'Baby, Let's Play House' by Elvis Presley.
You've got to understand that in those days
"rock'n'roll" was a dirty word. It wasn't even being
played by the media. Maybe you'd hear one record a
day during the period of Elvis, Little Richard, and
Jerry Lee Lewis. That's why you were forced to be a
record collector if you wanted to be a part of it. I
heard that record and I wanted to be part of it; I
knew something was going on. I heard the acoustic
guitar, slap bass, and electric guitar three
instruments and a voice and they generated so
much energy I had to be part of it. That's when I
started.

Did you swap?

He wouldn't have any white records in his collection.
He was a purist. I remember going up to a blues
festival in the back of a van the first time a big blues
package tour came to England. That was the first
time I met Mick Jagger and Keith Richards... preStones.

Mind you, it took a long time before I got anywhere,

I mean any sort of dexterity. I used to listen to Ricky
Nelson records and pinch the James Burton licks,
learn the note for note perfect. I only did that for a
while, though. I guess that after one writes one's
first song you tend to depart from that. It's
inevitable.

Were you into the blues as much as the Stones of

was it more rock'n'roll for you?
I was an all-arounder, thank God.
Do you think that's helped your career?

How old were you when you left Neil Christian and
started going heavily into sessions?

Immensely. I think if I was just labeled a blues

guitarist I'd have never been able to lose the tag.
When all the guitarists started to come through in
America like Clapton, Beck, and myself Eric,
being the blues guitarist, had the label. People just
wanted to hear him play blues. I saw the guitar as a
multifaceted instrument and this has stayed with me

I left Neil Christian when I was about 17 and went to

art college. During that period, I was jamming at
night in a blues club. By that time the blues had

522

started to happen, so I used to go out and jam with

Cyril Davies' Interval Band. Then somebody asked
me if I'd like to play on a record, and before I knew
where I was I was doing all these studio dates at
night, while still going to art college in the daytime.
There was a crossroads and you know which one I
took.

anyone else but Jim. Obviously, there were many

people about, but I was just lucky. Anyone needing a
guitarist either went to Big Jim or myself. It's a
boring life. You're like a machine.
But you kept at it a pretty long while?
I kept at it as long as the guitar was in vogue, but
once it became something that was a tambourine
and they started using strings or an orchestra
instead, I decided to give it up.

Do you remember your first studio session?

I think it was called 'Your Momma's Out of Town', by
Carter Lewis and the Southeners. Wait a minute; I'd
played on one before that, 'Diamonds' by Jet Harris
and Tony Meehan, but that didn't mean anything to
me. They were both hits and that gave me impetus
to keep on doing it. If 'Your Momma's Out of Town'
hadn't been a hit, though, I might have abandoned it
then and there.

They stopped putting on guitar breaks?

Exactly. It just wasn't the thing anymore.
What about Fifth Avenue's 'Just Like Anyone Would
Do'?

In retrospect, you think you made the right move by

doing sessions?

That's a Shel Talmy thing, isn't it? Wait a minute, I

produced that! What am I talking about? That's got a
really good sound. I wrote that. It's not good
because I wrote it, but it's got a fantastic sound on
it. I used a double up-pick on the acoustic guitars. It
had nice Beach Boys-type harmonies. The other side
was 'Bells Of Rhymney'.

I think so. It kept me off the road until such time as

it became stagnant and it was time for a change. I
was doing pretty well with Neil Christian, as far as
money went, and to come out of that and go to art
college on a $10 a week would seem like insanity to
a lot of people, but I'd do it anytime if it were
necessary make a drastic change if it had to be.

Did you play guitar on it?

I'd be interested in your reminiscences of some of

the groups you did or were supposed to have done
sessions with. If you wouldn't mind commenting, I'll
just run down a few of them. You worked with
Them...

No, I just produced it.

Who was the band?
Just session musicians that were around. I think John
Paul Jones was on bass.

A most embarrassing session. Before we even start, I

should say that I was mainly called in to sessions as
insurance. It was usually myself and a drummer,
though they never mention the drummer these days,
just me. On the Them session, it was very
embarrassing because you noticed that as each
number passed, another member of the band would
be substituted for by a session musician. Talk about
daggers! God, it was awful. There'd be times you'd
be sitting there you didn't want to be there, you'd
only been booked and wishing you weren't there.

Was that your first production?

No, but don't ask me what the other ones were. That
was during the period I was producing for Immediate
Records and Andrew Oldham.
How did you get involved with Oldham?
I just knew him... I know all the crooks. Better not
print that, he might sue me. Actually, I love Andrew.
He's one of the few producers I really respect. That's
true, I really do respect him.

I heard Shel Talmy used to keep you around Who

sessions and Kinks sessions, just in case you were
needed, without really planning to use you in
advance.

How did you come to work with Jackie DeShannon?

Well, I was on 'Can't Explain' and on the B-side, 'Bald

Headed Woman', you can hear some fuzzy guitar
coming through which is me.

Just happened to be on a session. She was playing

guitar and she said, "I've never found a guitarist who
could adapt so quickly to the sort of things I'm
doing." She had these odd licks and she said, "It's
usually a big struggle to get these things across." I
didn't know what she was talking about, because I'd
been quite used to adapting.

Did you work concurrently with Big Jim Sullivan

when you were doing these guitar sessions?
At one point, Big Jim was the only guitarist on the
whole session scene. That's the reason they really
picked up on me, because they just didn't know

We wrote a few songs together, and they ended up

getting done by Marianne Faithfull, P.J. Proby, and

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Esther Phillips or one of those colored artists did a

few. I started receiving royalty statements, which
was very unusual for me at the time, seeing the
names of different people who'd covered your songs.

Oh, yeah. Lots of attack. Really good. He had his

limitations, though. He was no Beck, but he was all
right.
Were you getting off much on the other English
guitarists at that time?

What about 'Beck's Bolero'?

Sure. I really was, yeah. More so then than I do now.

Wrote it, played on it, produced it... and I don't give

a damn what he says. That's the truth.

Was it mostly Clapton, Townshend, and Beck?

What about your solo single, 'She Just Satisfies'?

Well, yeah. It was just like a little clan really. Beck,
myself, and Clapton were sort of "arch-buddies," and
Townshend was sort of on the periphery. He came
from another area of London. We were all in
commuting distance from Richmond, which is where
it was all going on. Townshend came from Ealing.
Albert Lee was the only other guitarist really worth
noting. He was like a white elephant. He was so
good... very much in the Nashville tradition. One
thing I've noticed, though, is that all the good
musicians who've stuck to it from those days have
come through.

I did it because I thought it would be fun. I played all

the instruments except drums, which was Bobbie
Graham. The other side was the same story.
Why didn't you do a follow-up to 'She Just Satisfies'?
Because I wanted to do 'Every Little Thing' with an
orchestra, and they wouldn't let me do it.
So you refused to do anything else?

No, it was just left like that, and my contract ran out
before I could do anything else. Simple as that.

You were originally offered the job as Clapton's

replacement in the Yardbirds, but you turned it
down, suggesting Beck instead. How did that come
about?

What about Mickie Most? You worked on his single

and then later he produced the Yardbirds?
'Money Honey' I did with him, but the B-side, 'Sea
Cruise', wasn't me. It was Don Peek, who toured
England with the Everly Brothers. He was bloody
good. He was the first guitarist to come to England
who was doing finger tremolo, and all the musicians
were totally knocked out. Clapton picked up on it
straight away, and others followed soon after. Eric
was the first one to evolve the sound with the Gibson
and Marshall amps; he should have total credit for
that. I remember when we did 'I'm Your
Witchdoctor', he had all that sound down, and the
engineer, who was cooperating to that point (I was
producing, don't forget), but was used to doing
orchestras and big bands, suddenly turned off the
machine and said, "This guitarist is unrecordable!" I
told him to just record it and I'd take full
responsibility; the guy just couldn't believe that
someone was getting that kind of sound from a
guitar on purpose. Feedback, tremolo, he'd never
heard anything like it.

Giorgio Gomelsky approached me and said that Eric

wasn't willing to expand and go along with the whole
thing. I guess it was probably pretty apparent to
them after they did 'For Your Love'. Clapton didn't
like that at all. By that time they had already started
using different instruments like harpsichords and at
that point Clapton felt like he was just fed up. The
rest of the band, especially Gomelsky, wanted to
move further in that direction.
The very first time I was asked to join the Yardbirds,
though, was not at that time, but sometime before
then. Gomelsky said that Eric was going to have a
"holiday," and I could step in and replace him. The
way he put it to me, it just seemed really distasteful
and I refused. Eric had been a friend of mine and I
couldn't possibly be party to that. Plus Eric didn't
want to leave the band at that stage.
When Beck joined the Yardbirds he was supposedly
asked to play in Clapton's style, at least in the
beginning.

Was Clapton the first guitarist to use feedback, or

were others using it before him?

A lot of things the Yardbirds were doing with Eric

other people were doing at the same time, so it
wasn't really hard for Beck to fit in. When you say
"playing in his style," there were obviously certain
passages and riffs that had to be precise and it was
only a matter of time until the next recording, at
which time Beck could assert his own identity.

No, there were a few guitarists doing it. I don't know

who was the first, though, I really don't. Townshend,
of course, made it a big feature of his scene, because
he didn't play single notes. Beck used it. I used it as
much as I could.
Do you like Townshend's style?

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You mentioned you were good friends with Beck

before the Yardbirds. How did your friendship come
about? Did you see the Yardbirds often when Beck
was with them?

of them would feel about me joining. It was decided

that we'd definitely have a go at it; I'd take on the
bass, though I'd never played it before, but only until
Dreja could learn it as he'd never played it either. We
figured it would be easier for me to pick it up quickly,
then switch over to a dual guitar thing when Chris
had time to become familiar enough with the bass.

When I was doing studio work I used to to see them

often, whenever I wasn't working. I met Beck
through a friend of mine, who told me he knew this
guitarist I had to meet who'd made his own guitar.
Beck showed up with his homemade guitar one day
and he was really quite good. He started playing this
Scotty Moore and James Burton stuff; I joined in and
we really hit it off well.

How did Beck leave the group?

It was on the Dick Clark tour when there were a few
incidents. One time in the dressing room I walked in
and Beck had his guitar up over his head, about to
bring it down on Keith Relf's head, but instead
smashed it on the floor. Relf looked at him with total
astonishment and Beck said, "Why did you make me
do that?" Fucking hell. Everyone said, "My goodness
gracious, what a funny chap." We went back to the
hotel and Beck showed me his tonsils, said he wasn't
feeling well and was going to see a doctor. He left for
L.A. where we were headed in two days time anyway.
When we got there, though, we realized that
whatever doctor he was claiming to see must have
had his office in the Whiskey. He was actually seeing
his girlfriend and had just used the doctor bit as an
excuse to cut out on us.

We used to hang out a hell of a lot when he was in

the Yardbirds and I was doing studio work. I
remember we both got very turned on to Rodrigo's
'Guitar Concerto' by Segovia and all these sorts of
music. He had the same sort of taste in music as I
did. That's why you'll find on the early LPs we both
did a song like 'You Shook Me'. It was the type of
thing we'd both played in bands. Someone told me
he'd already recorded it after we'd already put it
down on the first Zeppelin album. I thought, "Oh
dear, it's going to be identical," but it was nothing
like it, fortunately. I just had no idea he'd done it. It
was on Truth but I first heard it when I was in Miami
after we'd recorded our version. It's a classic
example of coming from the same area musically, of
having a similar taste. It really pissed me off when
people compared our first album to the Jeff Beck
Group and said it was very close conceptually. It was
nonsense, utter nonsense. The only similarity was
that we'd both come out of the Yardbirds and we
both had acquired certain riffs individually from the
Yardbirds.

These sort of things went on and it must have

revived all the previous antagonism between him and
the rest of the band. I think that that, and a couple
of other things, especially the horrible wages we
were being paid, helped bring about his behavior,
which had obviously stewed behind everybody's
back. That quote you mentioned, that Keith Relf had
said, "The magic of the band left when Eric left," I
think really has to be taken into account. They were
prepared to go on as a foursome, but it seemed that
a lot of the enthusiasm had been lost. Then Simon
Napier- Bell called up with the news that he was
selling his stakes in the band to Mickie Most. I think
they must have cooked it up, actually, the three of
them: Napier-Bell, Most and Beck. This way Beck
could have a solo career, which he had already begun
in a way with the recording of 'Beck's Bolero'.

Under what circumstances did you finally join the

Yardbirds when Paul Samwell-Smith quit in late
summer of 1966?
It was at a gig at the Marquee Club in Oxford which
I'd gone along to. They were playing in front of all
these penguin-suited undergraduates and I think
Samwell-Smith, whose family was a bit well to do,
was embarrassed by the band's behavior. Apparently
Keith Relf had gotten really drunk and he was falling
into the drum kit, making farting noises to the mike,
being generally anarchistic. I thought he had done
really well, actually, and the band had played really
well that night. He just added all this extra feeling to
it. When he came offstage, though, Paul SamwellSmith said, "I'm leaving the band." Things used to be
so final back then. There was no rethinking decisions
like that. Then he said to Chris Dreja, "If I were you,
I'd leave too." Which he didn't. They were sort of
stuck.

How did Peter Grant come to manage the Yardbirds?

Peter was working with Mickie Most and was offered
the management when Most was offered the
recording... I'd known Peter from way back in the
days of Immediate because our offices were next
door to Mickie Most and Peter was working for him.
The first thing we did with him was a tour of Australia
and we found that suddenly there was some money
being made after all this time.
I was only on a wage, anyway, with the Yardbirds. I'd
like to say that because I was earning about three
times as much when I was doing sessions and I've
seen it written that "Page only joined the Yardbirds
for the bread." I was on wages except when it came
to the point when the wages were more than what
the rest of the band were making and it was cheaper

Jeff had brought me to the gig in his car and on the

way back I told him I'd sit in for a few months until
they got things sorted out. Beck had often said to
me, "It would be really great if you could join the
band." But I just didn't think it was a possibility in
any way. In addition, since I'd turned the offer down
a couple of times already, I didn't know how the rest

525

for Simon Napier-Bell to give me what everybody

else was getting.

studio and by that time was no longer enamored with

the thought of going on the road. Obviously, a lot of
Keith and Jim's attitude of wanting to jack it in had
rubbed off on him, so Jonesy was in.

How lucrative was it to be a session musician?

I'd originally thought of getting Terry Reid in as lead

singer and second guitarist but he had just signed
with Mickie Most as a solo artist in a quirk of fate. He
suggested I get in touch with Robert Plant, who was
then in a band called Hobbstweedle. When I
auditioned him and heard him sing, I immediately
thought there must be something wrong with him
personality-wise or that he had to be impossible to
work with, because I just could not understand why,
after he told me he'd been singing for a few years
already, he hadn't become a big name yet. So I had
him down to my place for a little while, just to sort of
check him out, and we got along great. No problems.
At this time a number of drummers had approached
me and wanted to work with us. Robert suggested I
go hear John Bonham, whom I'd heard of because he
had a reputation, but had never seen. I asked Robert
if he knew him and he told me they'd worked
together in this group called Band Of Joy.

It was very lucrative and I saved up a lot of money,

which is why it didn't bother me that I was working
for a lot less money in the Yardbirds. I just wanted to
get out of only playing rhythm guitar and have a
chance to get into something more creative. As they
were a really creative band, there were obvious
possibilities, especially the idea of dual lead, that
really excited me. Nobody except maybe the Stones
had done anything that approached what we wanted
to do, and even the Stones didn't really use dual
leads, at least not in the way we had in mind. I mean
we immediately settled into things like stereo riffs on
'Over, Under, Sideways, Down' and all kinds of guitar
harmonies onstage. Everything fell into place very
easily.
Why did the group finally split?
It just got to a point where Relf and McCarty couldn't
take it anymore. They wanted to go and do
something totally different. When it came to the final
split, it was a question of begging them to keep it
together, but they didn't. They just wanted to try
something new. I told them we'd be able to change
within the group format, coming from a sessions
background I was prepared to adjust to anything. I
hated to break it up without even doing a proper first
album.

*
So the four of you rehearsed for a short time and
went on that Scandinavian tour as the New
Yardbirds.
As I said, we had these dates that the Yardbirds were
supposed to fulfill, so we went as the Yardbirds. They
were already being advertised as the New Yardbirds
featuring Jimmy Page, so there wasn't much we
could do about it right then. We had every intention
of changing the name of the group from the very
beginning, though. The tour went fantastically for us,
we left them stomping the floors after every show.

What about your own desire for stardom, did that

have any role in your quitting sessions to join the
Yardbirds in the first place?
No. I never desired stardom, I just wanted to be
respected as musician.

Who actually named Led Zeppelin? I've heard that

both John Entwistle and Keith Moon claim to have
thought up the name.

Do you feel the extent of your stardom now has

become a burden for you in any way?

It was Moon, I'm sure, despite anything Entwistle

may have said. In fact, I'm quite certain Richard Cole
asked Moon for his permission when we decided to
use the name. Entwistle must have just been upset
that the original Led Zeppelin never took off.

Only in relation to a lot of misunderstandings that

have been laid on us. A lot of negative and
derogatory things have been said about us. I must
say I enjoyed the anonymity that was part of being
one fourth of a group. I liked being a name but not
necessarily a face to go with it. The film, The Song
Remains The Same, I think, has done a lot to put
faces to names for the group.

What original Led Zeppelin?

We were going to form a group called Led Zeppelin at
the time of 'Beck's Bolero' sessions with the lineup
from that session. It was going to be me and Beck on
guitars, Moon on drums, maybe Nicky Hopkins on
piano. The only one from the session who wasn't
going to be in it was Jonesy, who had played bass.
Instead, Moon suggested we bring in Entwistle as
bassist and lead singer as well, but after some
discussion we decided to use another singer. The first
choice was Stevie Winwood, but it was decided that
he was too heavily committed to Traffic at the time

And after Relf and McCarty said they were quitting

the Yardbirds, you planned to keep the group going
with Chris Dreja and bring in a new drummer and
singer, is that right?
Well, we still had these dates we were supposed to
fulfill. Around the time of the split John Paul Jones
called me up and said he was interested in getting
something together. Also, Chris was getting very into
photography; he decided he wanted to open his own

526

and probably wouldn't be too interested. Next, we

thought of Steve Marriott. He was approached and
seemed to be full of glee about it. A message came
from the business side of Marriott, though, which
said, "How would you like to play guitar with broken
fingers? You will be if you don't stay away from
Stevie." After that, the idea sort of fell apart. We just
said, "Let's forget about the whole thing, quick."
Instead of being more positive about it and looking
for another singer, we just let it slip by. Then the
Who began a tour, the Yardbirds began a tour and
that was it.

There weren't many overdubs done on the album at

any rate, were there?
Not many. On 'Babe I'm Gonna Leave You' there's an
acoustic guitar dubbed over and there's some pedal
steel on 'Your Time Is Gonna Come'.
When did you learn to play pedal steel?
For that session. We also had worked out a version of
'Chest Fever' in rehearsals, though we never played
it onstage. That had organ and pedal steel on it.

Remembering that session when we did 'Bolero', the

band seemed to be almost tied up; it was really close
to happening.

What was the recording of the second album like?

How long did it take you as opposed to the first
album?

What were the original ideas behind Zeppelin when

the band first got together? Was it immediately
decided to be a high energy thing?

It was done wherever we could get into a studio, in

bits and pieces, so I couldn't even tell you how long
it actually took. I remember we did vocal overdubs in
an eight-track studio in Vancouver were they didn't
even have proper headphones. Can you imagine
that? It was just recorded while we were on the road.

Obviously, it was geared that way from the start.

When Robert came down to my place for the first
time, when I was trying to get an idea what he was
all about, we talked about the possibilities of various
types of things, 'Dazed And Confused', for example.
Then I played him a version of 'Babe I'm Gonna
Leave You'. It was the version by Joan Baez, the
song is traditional, and I said, "Fancy doing this?" He
sort of looked at me with wonder and I said, "Well,
I've got an idea for an arrangement," and started
playing it on acoustic guitar. That's indicative of the
way I was thinking with regards to direction. It was
very easy going.

Was it recorded entirely on the road?

No. 'Thank You', 'The Lemon Song', and 'Moby Dick'
were overdubbed on tour and the mixing of 'Whole
Lotta Love' and 'Heartbreaker' was done on tour. In
other words, some of the material came out of
rehearsing for the next tour and getting new material
together. The most important thing about Zeppelin II
is that up to that point I'd contributed lyrics. Robert
wrote 'Thank You' on his own. That was the first one
and it's important because it's when he began to
come through as a lyricist. I'd always hoped that he
would.

How was the material chosen for the first Zeppelin

album?
The stuff was all originally put forward by me as the
material to include in the program we played in
concert. It had all been well rehearsed as we'd tour
Scandinavia as the New Yardbirds before recording
the album. We also had a few other things we were
doing at the time which never got recorded: 'Flames',
written by Elmer Gantry, was a really good number;
'As Long As I Have You', was a Garnett Mimms
number we had done with the Yardbirds which Janis
Joplin had recorded. There were a lot of
improvisations on the first album, but generally we
were keeping every- thing cut and dried.
Consequently, by the time we'd finished the first tour
the riffs which were coming out of these spaces, we
were able to use for the immediate recording of the
second album.

There was a bit of a fuss made at one point because

on the first couple of albums you were using a lot of
traditional and blues lyrics and tunes and calling
them your own.

The thing is they were traditional lyrics and they

went back far before a lot of people that one related
them to. The riffs we did were totally different, also,
from the ones that had come before, apart from
something like 'You Shook Me' and 'I Can't Quit You',
which were attributed to Willie Dixon. The thing with
'Bring It On Home', Christ, there's only a tiny bit
taken from Sonny Boy Williamson's version and we
threw that in as a tribute to him. People say, "Oh,
'Bring It On Home' is stolen." Well, there's only a
little bit in the song that relates to anything that had
gone before it, just the end.

The first album is said to have been recorded in 30

hours.
That's right, about 30 hours of recording time. Before
we started recording we had already played the
numbers live and I already had a good idea of what
was going to go on as far as the overdubs went.

Your next album, Led Zeppelin III, presented a very

different image of Led Zeppelin from the first two
albums. Most importantly, it was predominantly
acoustic. It was a very controversial album. How and
why did the changes that brought about the third
album take place?

527

After the intense touring that had been taking place

through the first two albums, working almost 24
hours a day, basically, we managed to stop and have
a proper break, a couple of months as opposed to a
couple of weeks. We decided to go off and rent a
cottage to provide a contrast to motel rooms.
Obviously, it had quite an effect on the material that
was written.

information on it at all. After a year's absence from

both records and touring, I remember one agent
telling us it was a professional suicide. We just
happened to have a lot of faith in what we were
doing.
Was the cover of the fourth album meant to bring
out that whole city/ country dichotomy that had
surfaced on the third record?

Did you write the whole album there?

Exactly. It represented the change in the balance
which was going on. There was the old countryman
and the blocks of flats being knocked down. It was
just a way of saying that we should look after the
earth, not rape and pillage it.

Just certain sections of it. 'That's The Way', 'Bron-YAur Stomp', quite a few things. It was the tranquility
of the place that set the tone of the album.
Obviously, we weren't crashing away at 100 watt
Marshall stacks. Having played acoustic and being
interested in classical guitar, anyway, being in a
cottage without electricity, it was acoustic guitar
time. It didn't occur to us not to include it on the
album because it was relative to the changes within
the band. We didn't expect we'd get trashed in the
media for doing it.

Do you think it the third record was good for the

band, regardless of the critical reaction, because it
showed people that the band was not just a heavy
metal group, that you were more versatile than that?
It showed people that we weren't going to be a
stagnant group. There were some people who knew
that already and were interested to see what we'd
come up with; there were others who thought we
were just an outright hype and were still living back
in the '60s. They just didn't take anything we did
seriously. A lot of them have since come around. You
should read that Melody Maker review, though, it's
absolutely classic. I felt a lot better once we started
performing it, because it was proving to be working
for the people who came around to see us. There
was always a big smile there in front of us. That was
always more important than any proxy review. That's
really how the following of the band has spread, by
word of mouth. I mean, all this talk about a hype,
spending thousands on publicity campaigns, we
didn't do that at all. We didn't do television. Well we
did a pilot TV show and a pilot radio show, but that's
all. We weren't hyping ourselves. It wasn't as though
we were thrashing about all over the media. It didn't
matter, though, the word got out on the street.

Was there a rethink by the band about the stage act,

since you were faced with having to perform material
from a predominantly acoustic LP?
It just meant that we were going to have to employ
some of those numbers onstage without being
frightened about it. They were received amazingly
well.
Had you wanted to bring in more of the English folk
roots to Zeppelin or was it just the influence of living
in the cottage that gives the album a pastoral
feeling?
It has that because that's how it was. After all the
heavy, intense vibe of touring which is reflected in
the raw energy of the second album, it was just a
totally different feeling. I've always tried to capture
an emotional quality in my songs. Transmitting that
is what music seems to be about, really, as far as the
instrumental side of it goes, anyway. It was in us,
everything that came out on Zeppelin III can still be
related to the essence of the first album when you
think about it. It's just that the band had kept
maturing.

Once a band is established it seems to me that bad

reviews can't really do anything to a band.
No, you're right. But you've got to understand that I
lived every second of the albums. Whereas the
others hadn't. John Paul and Bonzo would do the
tracks and they wouldn't come in until needed. And
Robert would do the vocals. But I'd be there all the
time and I'd live and cringe to every mistake. There
were things that were right and wrong on a
subjective level.

Were you surprised when the critical reaction came

out?
I just thought they hadn't understood it, hadn't
listened to it. For instance, Melody Maker said we'd
decided to don our acoustic guitars because Crosby,
Stills and Nash had just been over there. It wasn't
until the fourth LP that people began to understand
that we weren't just messing around. You did take a
lot of stock in the criticism of the third record.
Personally, you seemed to be hit hard by it at the
time. To pave the way for 18 months without doing
any interviews, I must have. Silly, wasn't I? That was
a lot of the reason for putting out the next LP with no

You said that 'Hats Off To (Roy) Harper' was written

as a tribute to him. Did you hope to draw attention
to him?
In a way. I mean hats off to anybody who sticks by
what they think is right and has the courage not to
sell out. We did a whole set of country blues and
traditional blues numbers that Robert suggested. But
that was the only one we put on the record.

528

It seems that of the big groups, only you and the

Who have managed to stay together for such a long
time without personnel changes, and the Who don't
really seem to get on with each other very well.

Finally we figured we'd bring Sandy by and do a

question-and-answer-type thing.

Yeah, we've always had a strong bond. It became

very apparent when Robert was injured before we
made Presence.

'Misty Mountain Hop' we came up with on the spot.

'Going To California' was a thing I'd written before on
acoustic guitar. 'When The Levee Breaks' was a riff
that I'd been working on, but Bonzo's drum sound
really makes a difference on that point.

The fourth album was to my mind the first fully

realized Zeppelin album. It just sounded like
everything had come together on that album.

You've said that when you heard Robert's lyrics to

'Stairway To Heaven' you knew that he'd be the
band's lyricist from then on.

Yeah, we were really playing properly as a group and

the different writing departures that we'd taken, like
the cottage and the spontaneity aspects, had been
worked out and came across in the most disciplined
form.

I always knew he would be, but I knew at that point

that he'd proved it to himself and could get into
something a bit more profound than just subjective
things. Not that they can't be profound as well, but
there's a lot of ambiguity implied in that number that
wasn't present before. I was really relieved because
it gave me the opportunity to just get on with the
music.

'Rock And Roll' was a spontaneous combustion. We

were doing something else at the time, but Bonzo
played the beginning of Little Richard's 'Good Golly
Miss Molly' with the tape still running and I just
started doing that part of the riff. It actually ground
to a halt after about 12 bars, but it was enough to
know that there was enough of a number there to
keep working on it. Robert even came in singing on it
straight away.

Did you know you'd recorded a classic when you

finished?
I knew it was good. I didn't know it was going to
become like an anthem, but I did know it was the
gem of the album, sure.

I do have the original tape that was running at the

time we ran down 'Stairway To Heaven' completely
with the band. I'd worked it all out already the night
before with John Paul Jones, written down the
changes and things. All this time we were all living in
a house and keeping pretty regular hours together,
so the next day we started running it down. There
was only one place where there was a slight rerun.
For some unknown reason Bonzo couldn't get the
timing right on the twelve-string part before the solo.
Other than that it flowed very quickly. While we were
doing it Robert was penciling down lyrics; he must
have written three quarters of the lyrics on the spot.
He didn't have to go away and think about them.
Amazing, really.

You recorded the fourth record on a few different

studios, right?
It was recorded on location at Headley Grange in
Hampshire. 'Stairway' was done at Island, as were
the overdubs. 'Four Sticks' was done at Island,
because it had a lot of chiming guitars and things.
'When The Levee Breaks' is probably the most subtle
thing on there as far as production goes because
each 12 bars has something new about it, though at
first it might not be apparent. There's a lot of
different effects on there that at the time had never
been used before. Phased vocals, a backwards
echoed harmonica solo. Andy Johns was doing the
engineering, but as far as those ideas go, they
usually come from me. Once a thing is past the stage
of being a track, I've usually got a good idea of how
I'd like it to shape up. I don't want to sound too
dictatorial, though, because it's not that sort of thing
at all. When we went into Headley Grange it was
more like, "Okay, what's anybody got?"

'Black Dog' was a riff that John Paul Jones had

brought with him. 'Battle of Evermore' was made up
on the spot by Robert and myself. I just picked up
John Paul Jones's mandolin, never having played a
mandolin before, and just wrote up the chords and
the whole thing in one sitting. The same thing
happened with the banjo on 'Gallows Pole'. I'd never
played one before either. It was also John Paul
Jones's instrument. I just picked it up and started
moving my fingers around until the chords sounded
right, which is the same way I work on compositions
when the guitar's in different tunings.

And it turned out that you had more than anyone

else?
It usually does.
Was the idea of the symbols on the cover of the
fourth album yours?

When did Sandy Denny come to sing on 'Battle Of

Evermore'?

Yeah. After all this crap that we'd had with the critics,
I put it to everybody else that it'd be a good idea to
put out something totally anonymous. At first I

Well, it sounded like an old English instrumental first

off. Then it became a vocal and Robert did his bit.

529

wanted just one symbol on it, but then it was

decided that since it was our fourth album and there
were four of us, we could each choose our own
symbol. I designed mine and everyone else had their
own reasons for using the symbols that they used.

We'd been thinking about it for a while and we knew

if we formed a label there wouldn't be the kind of
fuss and bother we'd been going through over album
covers and things like that. Having gone through,
ourselves, what appeared to be an interference, or at
least an aggravation, on the artistic side by record
companies, we wanted to form a label where the
artists would be able to fulfill themselves without all
of that hassle. Consequently the people we were
looking for for the label would be people who knew
where they were going themselves. We didn't really
want to get bogged down in having to develop
artists, we wanted people who were together enough
to handle that type of thing themselves, like the
Pretty Things. Even though they didn't happen, the
records they made were very, very good.

Do you envision a relationship between Zeppelin

cover art and the music on the albums?
There is a relationship in a way, though not
necessarily in a "concept album" fashion.
Does Robert usually come into sessions with the
lyrics already written?
He has a lyric book and we try to fuse song to lyric
where it can be done. Where it can't, he just writes
new ones.

The Physical Graffiti album was not all new material.

Why was this?
Well, as usual, we had more material than the
required 40-odd minutes for one album. We had
enough material for one and a half LPs, so we figured
let's put out a double and use some of the material
we had done previously but never released. It
seemed like a good time to do that sort of thing,
release tracks like 'Boogie With Stu' which we
normally wouldn't be able to do.

Is there a lot of lyric changing during a session?

Sometimes. Sometimes it's more cut and dried, like
on 'The Rain Song'.
There are a few tracks on the fifth album that
seemed to exhibit more of a sense of humor than
Zeppelin had been known for. 'The Crunge' was
funny and 'D'yer Mak'er' had a joke title which took
some people a while to get.

Who's Stu?
Ian Stewart from the Stones. He played on 'Rock And
Roll' with us.

I didn't expect people not to get it. I thought it was

pretty obvious. The song itself was a cross between
reggae and a '50s number, 'Poor Little Fool', Ben E.
King's things, stuff like that. I'll tell you one thing,
'The Song Remains The Same' was going to be an
instrumental at first. We used to call it 'The
Overture'.

Which other tracks on Physical Graffiti had been

recorded previously?
'Black Country Woman' and 'The Rover' were both
done at the same time we did 'D'yer Mak'er'. 'BronYr-Aur' was done for the third record. 'Down By The
Seaside', 'Night Flight', and 'Boogie With Stu' were all
from the sessions for the fourth album. We had an
album and a half of new material, and this time we
figured it was better to stretch out than to leave off. I
really fancied putting out a song called 'Houses of the
Holy' on the album.

You never performed it that way.

We couldn't. There were too many guitar parts to
perform with.
But once you record anything with overdubs, you
end up having to adapt it for the stage.

Do you consider 'Kashmir' one of your better

compositions?

Sure. Then it becomes a challenge, a tough challenge

in some cases. 'Achilles' is the classic one. When
Ronnie Wood and Keith Richards came to hear us
play, Keith said, "You ought to get another guitarist;
you're rapidly becoming known as the most
overworked guitarist in the business." Quite amusing.
There are times when I'd just love to get another
guitarist on, but it just wouldn't look right to the
audience.

Yeah. There have been several milestones along the

way. That's definitely one of them.
If you were to put together a "Best Of Zeppelin"
album, what tracks would you choose for it?
That's a very difficult question. I haven't thought
about it.

The Houses Of The Holy album was the last one that
came out on Atlantic before you formed Swan Song.
How did the label get started?

What other milestones would you mention?

530

'Communication Breakdown'. ...It's difficult, only

because I don't know the running times and if you
mean a single LP or a double. It would probably be
about three songs from each LP. I'd be very
conscious of a balance of the sides. There are some
tracks which are obvious.

I'll tell you about doing all the guitar overdubs to

'Achilles Last Stand'. There were basically two
sections to the song when we rehearsed it. I know
John Paul Jones didn't think I could succeed in what I
was attempting to do. He said I couldn't do a scale
over a certain section, that it just wouldn't work. But
it did. What I planned to try and get that epic quality
into it so it wouldn't just sound like two sections
repeated, was to give the piece a totally new identity
by orchestrating the guitars, which is something I've
been into for quite some time. I knew it had to be
jolly good, because the number was so long it just
couldn't afford to be half-baked. It was all down to
me how to do this. I had a lot of it mapped out in my
mind, anyway, but to make a long story short, I did
all the overdubs in one night.

Are there any plans to put out an album like that?

Not at this moment.
Do you think that you'll do one eventually?
I'm going to work on a quad thing. I have one idea of
a chronological live LP which would be two or three
albums going back through 'Communication
Breakdown', 'Thank You', and all those sorts of
numbers. We've got recordings starting with the
Albert Hall in 1969 and 1970 with two a year from
then on. It would go all the way through.

Do you know how many tracks you did?

No, I lost count eventually. Not many people picked
up on that number but I thought as far as I can value
tying up that kind of emotion as a package and
trying to convey it through two speakers, it was fairly
successful. Maybe it's because it was a narrative, I
don't know.

The Presence album was recorded after Robert's

accident and you've said it was the album you were
most intensely involved with since the first album.

Were you upset that the first live LP was a film

soundtrack?

As far as living it uninterrupted from beginning to

end, yeah, definitely. I did 18-hour sessions, 24-hour
sessions to complete it.

Dead right. It was a shame. For a time, the movie

was shelved and we were going to come over here
with what we'd learned, and do some more footage,
but after Robert's accident we were forced to tie it all
up. We'd done work with it already and it had to
come out. It was recorded across three nights, but in
fact the music for the footage mainly came from the
first night. It was the best vocal performance. It
wasn't like they had drop-ins and that sort of thing,
but they just didn't have complete footage. So we
had to come up with the fantasy sequences to fill it
up. Had we been a band that's the same every night,
it would have been very easy for them to link one
night's performance with another. As far as live
albums go, most groups will record over half a dozen
nights and take the best of that, but as it was a
visual, we couldn't do that.

Is there any reason that Presence is a totally electric

guitar-oriented album?
I think it was just a reflection of the total anxiety and
emotion at the period of time during which it was
recorded. It's true that there are no acoustic songs,
no mellowness or contrasts or changes to other
instruments. Yet the blues we did, like 'Tea For One',
was the only time I think we've ever gotten close to
repeating the mood of another of our numbers,
'Since I've Been Loving You'. The chordal structure is
similar, a minor blues. We just wanted to get a really
laid-back blues feeling without blowing out on it at
all. We did two takes in the end, one with a guitar
solo and one without. I ended up sitting there
thinking, "I've got this guitar solo to do," because
there have been blues guitar solos since Eric on Five
Live Yardbirds and everyone's done a good one. I
was really a bit frightened of it. I thought, "What's to
be done?" I didn't want to blast out the solo like a
locomotive or something, because it wasn't
conductive to the vibe of the rest of the track. I was
extremely aware that you had to do something
different than just some B.B. King licks.

Do you like the movie?

Oh, it was an incredible uphill struggle. We'd done a
bit of work on it and stopped, did more, then stopped
again. Three times in all. At that point, we'd decided
to redo the thing, making sure the filmmakers did
have everything covered properly. As far as it goes,
I'm really pleased that it's there. Purely because it's
an honest statement, a documentary. It's certainly
not one of the magic nights. It was not one of the
amazing nights you get now and again, but you'd
have to have the entire film crew traveling with you
all the time to catch one. That would be just too
costly to do. We'd gotten to the point where we were
so far into it we couldn't pull out. We'd put so much
money into it. By that point, we knew it was going to
be all right, but the director was very stubborn and it

You've always seemed to be conscious of not

repeating blues clichs.
I probably do it more onstage than on record. it's
evident on the live album when we do 'Whole Lotta
Love'.

531

would have been a lot easier had he just done what

he'd been asked to do.

and Roll. Graffiti is, in fact, a better album than the

other five offerings, the band being more confident,
more arrogant in fact, and more consistent. The
choice of material is varied, giving the audience a
chance to see all sides of the band. Equal time is
given to the cosmic and the terrestrial, the subtle
and the passionate.

Getting back to your original question, though, it was

frustrating because I did have this concept of this
chronological live LP which really would have been a
knockout.
It still sounds like a viable thing for you to do in the
future.

The exotic and musky Kashmir is intriguing in its

otherworldliness. Jimmy Page's grinding, staccato
guitar work sounds like a cosmic travelog to
spiritual regeneration, swelling around the lyrics,
which are heavily laden with mystical allusions and
Hessean imagery. Although Kashmir is certainly
the best cut on the album, it could be trimmed
without losing any of its mesmeric effect, because
at some point the incense grows a little murky, and
the slow burning guitar degenerates into opulent
cliches, causing the instrumental interludes to echo
an Exodus soundtrack.

I'll get to it. I'll do it eventually.

Dave Schulps, 1977

Led Zeppelin: Physical Graffiti (Swan Song)

Jaan Uhelszki, Creem, May 1975
ROCK'S BIGGEST bruisers, Led Zeppelin, have got
another album. In rock chronology this is an Event,
since the defending champions of the world's
biggest rock 'n' roll draw have released only six
albums in the past seven years. In fact, we've spent
eighteen excruciating months between products,
pacifying ourselves with heavy rock's second prizes
Deep Purple, Blue Oyster Cult, and BTO. And
these heavy metal hitmen couldn't begin to plug up
the leaks Led Zep left when they took on an
extended, self-imposed exile to some musicians'
netherworld.

Not all of the cuts are exercises in advanced audial

basketweaving, but trace a musical cycle running
from Page's grandiose productions to basic drunken
boogie. Trampled Underfoot is seemingly effortless
funk that is rescued from mediocrity by the
elaborate punctuation of Page's guitar. His fingers
traverse the neck of his instrument with a velocity
so violent that only a machine could improve upon
it. Each batch of notes he pulls from his guitar is
uniquely his own, personal as a thumbprint. Just as
unique are Plant's laments and his sexual heaves
and sighs that turn the lyrics of a simplistic rocker
like Wanton Song into an introspective, personal
statement. Custard Pie and Boogie With Stu are
macho masterpieces in the tradition of the strutting,
swaggering English flash blues formula pioneered
on Zeppelin's early albums. Night Flight, Sick
Again and Ten Years Gone smack of pop
picaresque, much in the manner of Rod Stewart's
Every Picture Tells a Story vignettes and
transient insights, slices of a popstar's life.

Now, just as cold turkey has begun to lose its chill.

Zep are back with a package deal: a double album
and an American tour. The announcement provoked
unchecked carnage in the under-eighteen age
group, primarily directed at long black limousines,
uniformed adults, and popcorn sellers. Throngs of
potential ticket-buyers foamed with anticipation,
their palms growing sweaty, their eyes glassy.
Days passed without the appearance of Physical
Graffiti. Then the first shipment arrived late one
Thursday. The fans descended on Marty's Records
downstairs from CREEM like dragonflies, clustered
around the cash register, furtively clutching the
album to their heaving bosoms, slobbering and
drooling down the shrinkwrap. Worried parents
contemplated a vaccine, but once Physical Graffiti
touched the turntables the mysterious malady
subsided. The stricken nodules were lulled into a
state of tympanic euphoria.

Led Zeppelin moves in strange ways. Sure they're

gutsy, ballsy, and flamboyantly aggressive, always
spiked with a lot of eroticism, but they're also
cerebral...by way of the glands. They have this
unique ability to wind you up and prime you for a
full-throttled tilt. You rocked, you rolled, and oh
mama those juices flowed but you also listened to
the words.
Surprisingly, in an era where disposable bands and
itinerant musicians constantly play a game of
musical chairs, Led Zeppelin is a unit the same
four members for the past seven years. Their
longevity is due to a kind of magnetism, magic if
you will. That rare chemistry was evident even at
their first rehearsal, where they fit together like

Physical Graffiti can stand on its own historically

without the support of Zep's five other million
sellers, but inevitably the cuts on this album will be
scrutinized with Nancy Drew-like precision in search
of a successor to Stairway or an equal to Rock

532

jigsaw pieces, transcending their common R&B

backgrounds to achieve a gut-wrenching new
synthesis. Lisa Robinson describes it as a case in
which "the Beatles battled the Stones in a parking
lot and Led Zeppelin won." Zeppelin make more
noise, has more guitar gimmickry, more sexuality,
more flash, and generates more violence than any
of their competitors, so that they are more than
mere musicians, simple superstars. They have
become the longest-lasting model for those
culturally bankrupt trendies to follow. Underage
masses walk, talk, dress and dope like Zep. They
have become a necessary trapping for the
terminally hip, as well as providing the audial
backdrop for any social gathering.

All this, though, was little more than mere column

inch trailers for the 1975 Led Zeppelin blitzkrieg,
when Physical Graffiti, the new double album, was
to be taken out of its wraps after sufficient de rigeur
shifting of release dates and the final
announcement of The Tour.
As I said the hype don't worry, the word's tossed
away its perjorative suggestions by now really
started to get its chops together some six months
back. The pre-Raphaelite features, always
implanted with a suitable nerve-end tingling sense
of Little Boy Lost psychosis, of none other than
Jimmy Page himself occasionally began
manifesting themselves at only the most select
music business receptions, including a brace set up
to herald the launching of Zeppelin's very own
Swan Song label, with his persona being more
concretely glimpsed in a series of "in depth"
interviews with the British music press, including an
exclusive review of Graffiti in New Musical Express.

A Led Zeppelin album is like a select invitation to a

key club of rock 'n' roll, where the kohl eyed gypsy
Jimmy Page is finally accessible through his smoky
guitar solos. Robert Plant preens and moans, lusts
and longs for lost memories...and takes you along.
Like a sonic vortex, Zeppelin draws you into their
private caprice, spiraling, coaxing your willing
psyche into a suprasensory haven where you can
taste and savor this dream stuff that superstars
thrive on. This is not pop music, but a harder stuff,
more heady and potent, like a round of whiskeys
and coke. Zeppelin are avatars in a cultural
vacuum.

And so, at the time of writing, Physical Graffiti is the

number one album on both sides of the Atlantic
with all five of its predecessors having ridden its
slip-stream back into the US charts and a
melange of 120,000 downer freaks, Satanists For
An Evening, and the finest society creatures New
York can provide, replete with the constant nasal
sniffles that made 1974 the year it was chic to have
a constant cold, have made Zep SRO at six
concerts in the New York area whilst in Britain some
fifty thousand tickets for the band's Earls Court gigs
disappeared in the morning it took to collect the
money. And, broken finger or no, Jimmy Page is still
capable of wrenching a twenty-five minute 'Dazed
And Confused' out of his Gibson as Zeppelin plough
the States into the ground with their three hour sets.

Jaan Uhelszki, 1975

Led Zeppelin
Chris Salewicz, Let It Rock, May 1975
ABOUT SIX MONTHS AGO THE BUZZ BEGAN TO
SLIP IN AGAIN FROM THE SIDELINES. It had
received appropriately casual nurturing since the
summer of 1973 and the climax of Led Zeppelin's
Houses Of The Holy US tour, during which, almost
as the most logical of incidentals, the band had
pulled in a 56,800 strong audience to a single show
in Tampa, Florida, demolishing at a stroke, as they
say, the attendance record established by the
Beatles at Shea Stadium.

You see, when it comes down to the simple, cold

basics of their being indubitably one of the most
successful rock bands in the world along with the
Stones, Jethro Tull, probably the Who, and Elton
John, if he's permitted into the category Led
Zeppelin's constant conquest of their equally
constantly expanding market comes across as quite
dauntingly militaristic in its strategy. Okay, this time
round it's that much bigger and that much more
grandiose and, therefore, open for much closer
examination against the naked lightbulb, but that's
down to sheer financial evolution, and evolution
which, in terms of sheer presence osmosed, may
just possibly have Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John
Paul Jones and John Bonham not even letting
Jagger and Keith Richard come on, you know
that Charlie and Bill don't even arrive at "Go"
within spitting distance in the rock mystique stakes
as dark leaders of the Rock Youth Generation (sic).

Then there was the odd press interview with

'Planty', scattered music business gossip about the
perennial Problems With The Next Sleeve and, of
course, the exceptionally nebulous Film. There'd
been all that brouhaha concerning the confusion
over Zeppelin's expected headlining of the
Knebworth "Bucolic Frolic", plus the odd live foray
for selected members to act as backup band to the
concerned anxieties of Roy Harper.

533

In late 1968, though, when Zeppelin formed, only

Page had a reputation, and that limited primarily to
his having played with the Yardbirds and, it was
rumoured and subsequently discovered to be
correct, having played guitar sessions on the Who's
'I Can't Explain' and early Kinks' records. When it
came to straightforward mystique building, however,
the band were already holding a useful piece of
charismatic addendum in their manager, Peter
Grant, fresh from the then burgeoning Great
American Downer Circuit with the Jeff Beck Group
Featuring Rod Stewart. With Grant's reputation as a
rock business heavyweight plus the weight of
Atlantic Records (who'd signed Jimmy Page while
still in the Yardbirds, confidently expecting him to
produce a class hard rock act) behind them Led
Zeppelin and the States despite quite
horrendous putdown reviews from the likes of
Rolling Stone achieved a rapid and easy
empathy via a series of particularly gruelling tours
based around their first two albums (Led Zeppelin
and Led Zeppelin II released in early and late 1969)
had seen the Led Zeppelin machine rampage
around the country like picaresque electronic
buffaloes on speed.

like the Faces, hotel-wrecking would appear to be

little more than a thinly disguised variant of football
hooliganism. Led Zeppelin's music, however,
positively drips with sensory and sensual blasts (it's
perhaps not a matter of complete trivia that this
magazine's occasional sci-fi writer compares 'Black
Dog' on the Runes album to "a snort of cocaine".
Well, that's as maybe.) overlaid by a mystique
woven together with sexual ferocity, rampaging
energy, and, most important, an acute aura of
power.
Sceptics can wander away for a moment whilst we
hear Jimmy Page talking to Nick Kent in the New
Musical Express four months ago: "What you put
out you get back again all the time. The band is a
good example of that simply because there's an
amazing chemistry (my italics) at work there, if only
astrologically.
"Astrologically it's very powerful indeed. Robert's
the perfect front man Leo... John Paul Jones and I
are stoic Leos, Bonzo the Gemini. It's when you're
pushing each other to the limits that the strength of
the chemistry comes out and makes itself manifest
in this binding of the consciousness."

And so Led Zeppelin became the first British band

to utilise the now blase management post of
ensuring feedback from the States filters through
the British media and breaks the act back home. In
1970, with only the merest handful of British dates
behind them, Zeppelin replaced the disintegrating
Beatles as top band in the Melody Maker poll.

Just perfect really: Robert Plant, the onstage

whirling dervish exponent of the primal rock and roll
caterwaul; Jimmy Page, with all the appropriate
guitar hero angles guarded, hurling out exploding
shimmering shifting needle run soloes or overlaying
fine-mesh chords; John Paul Jones, who exudes
"ex-session man" far more than Page to an extent
that both on stage and off he's the most anonymous
member of the band, though it frequently sounds as
if Jones' constantly shifting bass work is the woundup mainspring around which most of the band's
music is formed; and John "Bonzo" Bonhan, who is
most certainly not as has been frequently
suggested a mere lead-fisted drum-skin
pummeler but who, as a considered aural gander to
'Moby Dick' on the second album attests,
demonstrates a knowledge and sense of dynamics
delicately stressed "dynamics" are spread
throughout Led Zeppelin's music in his use of
tom-toms that allows him to become, for this
listener, the only drummer apart from Ginger Baker
capable of delivering a drum solo that is more than
merely tolerable.

For a re-run of the show with a different cast see

Bad Company, whose Peter Grant-engineered
worldwide success has been so instant it makes the
Led Zeppelin languid quasi-obscurity to private Lear
Jet status seem positively slap happy.
Peter Grant talking to Lisa Robinson in Creem
magazine: "There must have been about 28 or 30
odd sharks that were caught by the band once, and
they stacked them up in the wardrobe closet. So,
when the maids came in...they opened the door and
an avalanche of sharks came tumbling out."; Jimmy
Page waxing forth authoritatively on the scuzzy
ladies of the road in the Rolling Stone "Groupie"
issue and being served up on a room service cart to
a gaggle of groupies by John Bonham dressed as a
waiter; Page telling Ellen Sanders in her book,
Trips; Rock Life In The Sixties: "If you humiliate
them a bit they tend to come on all right after that."

Yeah, Plant and Bonham remain ensconsced with

their considerable richesse up in the Black Country,
still prepared to nip down to the local and assimilate
the odd portion of that urban industrial flash that
squats fairly and squarely over the band. John Paul
Jones well, true to form, little is known about
Jonesy's off-stage activities.

"Road Fever", as it has now been dubbed by the

band. If there's a certain arch sense of style in
Zeppelin's "Road Fever" it's because their offstage
lifestyle echoes their musical output probably more
than that of any other band. In the case of bands

534

But Pagey... Well, Scaduto'd have the time of his

little life with Jimmy Page. Screw Jagger and
Richard and "Sympathy For The Devil". I mean,
take in this charming stream of consciousness from
a reasonably comatose freak in the queue for the
Earls Court gig tickets: "Yeah, Page, man... Into a
lot of weird things. You know, in love with the Devil
and lot of heavy shit like that. Like, you know all
those naked chicks crawling over those rocks on
the Houses Of The Holy cover? Yeah, well I met this
geezer who said they sacrificed them all afterwards
and then they... "

Page on those little fun and games: "People thought

there may have been some connection but... there's
a lunatic fringe, whether they're Christian or
Satanists or whatever. It's too risky, because they're
out there. It's not a karmic backlash or anything like
that... There have been lots of little magic
happenings but nothing that has really perturbed
me."
Which is where we re-enter the omni-present power
of the Led Zeppelin machine. First, though, a word
or two about Led Zeppelin as the supposed
quintessential heavy metal quartet.

And on and on, ad tedium.

Wherever I glance in my scavengings to plagiarise
the merest hint of a lynchpin on which to hang
some thorough rock and roll catch-all on the band, I
come across Led Zeppelin being hastily tucked
away under the door-mat marked Heavy Metal.
What's so downright frustrating is that I constantly
find Zeppelin in there placed as the best of a bunch
of unrelieved butcher-block tedium merchants
saved only momentarily by the outrageous musical
kitsch perpetrated by Ozzie Osbourne and his three
chums in the name of Black Sabbath.

Fact: Page owns the Loch Ness mansion that once

belonged to Aleister Crowley, "sex magician" (sic),
supposed monster, cocaine freak, and more than
mere dabbler with the occult. Page has recently
opened The Equinox, a shop in Kensington dealing
solely in books on the occult.
Page on Crowley (again talking to Kent in NME): "I
don't want to do a huge job on Crowley or anything
that doesn't interest me in the least. I mean, if
people are into reading Crowley then they will and
it'll have nothing to do with me. It's just... well for
me, it goes without saying that Crowley was grossly
misunderstood... "

Listen, which schmuck was it that first perpetrated

the notion of Led Zeppelin as Heavy Metal
alchemists?

"I mean, how can anyone call Crowley the world's

most evil man and that carried over to the thirties
when Hitler was about?

In actual fact, the Zeppelin power cuts an

energizing force-field across every one of the fiftynine tracks the band have released on six albums
over the past six years (almost as long as the
Beatles were recording together, you may care to
consider), transmuting the sound from the standard
crass bass, drums and lead guitar cranium
crushing, a la Black Sabbaff, to a point where, to a
lesser or greater degree, every single one of those
fifty-nine cuts is built up via a series of nearcerebral musical collages gear-shifting comes
mainly courtesy of John Paul Jones, on keyboards
as well as on bass, with Page's erudite skill as both
guitarist and as producer cloaking the changes.

"For a start, he was the only Edwardian to really

embrace... Not even the New Age so much as
simply the 20th Century. It's like... there's this
incredible body of literature I mean, don't even
bother with the sex thing because that's all such a
bore anyway and it's like... there's a diamond
there to be found at the end and it involves a life's
study."
Page has also written the soundtrack for film
director and Crowley afficianado Kenneth Anger's
Lucifer Rising. Kenneth Anger, cohort of Robert
Kenneth "Bobby" Beausoleil (aka Cupid, Jasper,
Cherub, etc.) who was involved in the Hinman
murder, a particularly gruesome side plate to the
Tate and LaBianca killings, and a member of the
Charley Manson (aka Jesus Christ, the Devil, etc.)
deranged wolf pack. Who just may have been
connected with some LA madman who set out to off
Page when the band was journeying through the
city couple of years back. Which isn't just a trite
matter of rock and roll scam.

The "Heavy Metal" tag American writer and Blue

Oyster Cult co-producer Sandy Pearlman lays claim
to having originate the term, though any reader of
Burroughs' Nova Express would find that a tad
suspect would seem to have been slapped onto
Zeppelon after it became fallaciously understood
that the band were the true successors to Cream,
the pioneers of the extended completely out-of-sync
jam.
Right now, though, is not the time to get into the
polemics of the limp and generally insubstantial
sound of Cream's records (in contrast to the

535

demonic, monomaniacal, flesh-flaying onslaughts of

the first three Hendrix albums) and it's something of
a relief to discover Charles Shaar Murray writing of
Led "(They) recorded a handful of currently
unsurpassed statements in the genre before
vacating the field to others in favour of more
challenging and creative endeavours."

And when it comes to the much bitched about

quasi-mystical spirit of '67 Plant lyrics... Well, that's
just picking hairs.
"People are strange when youre a stranger/Faces
look ugly when you're alone." The writer of those
little pearls (Jim Morrison, if it's really necessary)
managed to end up being put in the section
allocated for 'poets' in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery
in Paris. Discussion of Plant's lyrics ends.

Sure, 'Communication Breakdown' on the first

album is two minutes twenty-six seconds of definite,
heavy metal and 'Whole Lota Love' from Led
Zeppelin II utilises the basics of the genre to
emphasise the ultimate cock-rock song (It's sheer
bilge to suggest as have a couple of noted
American writers that Zeppelin transcend the sex
in rock music schmear. Jesus, what about the none
too subtle veneer of sexual finesse implied by the
band's early phallic logos, without even considering
them as prime lemon squeezers), but
'Communication Breakdown' is immediately
preceded by 'Black Mountain Side', an, er,
whimsical acoustic number resembling Pentangle
jamming with Wee Tam era Incredible String Band.

But you detest Houses Of The Holy, don't you? You

know, the fifth and "critically controversial" Zeppelin
record the one that most of us initially figured as
the band hitting the proverbial pits. We-ell, Physical
Graffiti kind of alters the perspective on that one
just a tad. Take a listen to Page's vibrato
descending chord runs splattered liberally about the
new album. Now try out a concentrated earful of the
spectacular Grand Entrance to 'The Song Remains
The Same', track one of Houses Of The Holy. See
what Zeppelin were up to? And all that supposed
lacklustre mellowness of Houses Of The Holy?
Well, on Physical Graffiti it mutates into the more
convincing "laid back" stance of 'Kashmir' and
'Bron-Yr-Aur'. One begins to become just a little
convinced that rather than being some stillborn
brainstorm, Houses Of The Holy is an album of
gestating consolidation in fact, the crucial album
in any gifted band's career which, so long as it's
carried through to maturity, does have the tendency
to slide them up to greatness.

And then, of course, without even considering the

demented blues chewing that permeates all six
albums, there's Led Zep III, originally intended as a
completely acoustic album, and still bristling with
acoustic and semi-acoustic cuts like 'Friends',
'Tangerine' and the fine tissue semi-acoustic
underlay of 'That's The Way', highlighting the
frustrated Neil Young side of Plant. (See also 'Going
To California' on Runes and 'Down By The Seaside'
on Physical Graffiti.) Then, of course, there's the
two classic Zeppelin variants on weepie ballads
'since I've Been Loving You' on Led Zeppelin III
and 'Stairway To Heaven' on Runes...

Sergeant Pepper proved more than the Beatles

could handle; the Stones have already twice
transcended the dilemma with Satanic Majesty and
Exile On Main street; and, although it'll take a solid
six months of familiarising myself with it, it does just
seem on the cards that by the end of the year
Physical Graffiti will be beginning to exude as much
of that nebulous "greatness" that clusters around
the likes of Blonde On Blonde, Beggars Banquet
and Revolver.

Which kind a leads us into the corner I've been

headed for the past six hundred words or so: Led
Zeppelin as pure and simple rock and roll band with
added contemporary technical facilities it's so
obvious you almost miss its being pinpointed on the
actual cut 'Rock And Roll'.

"The Beatles battled the Stone in a parking lot and

Led Zeppelin won," remarked Lisa Robinson.

Simple rock and roll band with added contemporary

technical facilities plus black colourwash and dark
power mystique cross-cutting as a pure energising
force between the four members and their
audience, to put it at its... err... simplest my first
reaction after one play of Physical Graffiti was to
recoil into an acute sense of discomfort set up by
the sinister menace and aggression of the raw
nerve aural scraping that sets itself up against your
sensory overload system before the album strides
into its cohesive whole.

She just may be right.

Chris Salewicz, 1975
Led Zep Conquers States, 'Beast' Prowls To The
Din Of Hordes
Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, 22 May 1975
LOS ANGELES "Looking back on it, this tour's
been a flash. Really fast. Very poetic, too. Lots of

536

battles and conquests, backdropped by the din of

the hordes. Aside from the fact that it's been our
most successful tour on every level, I just found
myself having a great time all the way through."

like Zeppelin are now where the Stones once were.

The media automatically assumes us to be the bad
boys. You know, blame it on Led Zeppelin..."
Jimmy Page, however, has no complaints. "The last
thing I want to be," he said, "is respectable."

Backstage at the last show on Led Zeppelin's North

American itinerary, Robert Plant was ready to
celebrate. In two-and-a-half months of sold-out
concerts the band had barnstormed its way to a
once elusive critical acceptance, a complete
commercial resurgence of its six-album catalog and
a concert gross of more than five million dollars.

According to Page, the Texas/West Coast part of

the tour was where the group "hit new peaks every
night." After ten days of convalescing, Page's
broken finger healed to the point where he spent
afternoons furiously composing new material on an
acoustic guitar. And Plant boasted that "my voice
was getting so good by the end I felt like I could
sing anything." One night at the Forum, he moved
out of the spacey middle of Dazed and Confused
and led the band into Joni Mitchell's Woodstock
and, later, even a version of Take It Easy.

"We had no trouble adjusting to the tour at all,"

Plant continued. "Normally, it takes awhile to get
into the swing of things. Not this time. I've never
been more into a tour before. The music's jelled
amazingly well. Everyone loved Physical Graffiti.
That meant a lot. It's like we're on an incredible
winning streak."

The Los Angeles concerts (two nights in Long

Beach, three at the Forum) played to audiences
familiar with Physical Graffiti. Trampled Underfoot
and Kashmir, two numbers which had received a
mild reception at the tour's outset, were now crowd
favorites, overshadowing older standards like The
Song Remains the Same and Over the Hills and
Far Away. It was the show-closing Stairway to
Heaven, however, that consistently drew the
biggest response.

The 33-date jaunt was not without turbulence,

though. The first week and a half, based out of
Chicago's Ambassador Hotel, was plagued by
health problems. Jimmy Page's left ring finger
broken in a slamming train door kept him in
almost constant pain or depression. "This is so
damn futile," he grumbled daily. "I can't fucking play
the way I should."
Several days into the tour, Plant fell victim to the flu
season; one concert, in St. Louis, was postponed.
No sooner was Plant back in action than John
"Bonzo" Bonham developed stomach problems that
forced the highly combustible drummer to keep an
uneasily low profile for the first leg of the tour. Only
bassist/keyboard player John Paul Jones remained
a fit specimen. "Nothing exciting ever happens to
me," he said.

But not all the response was favorable. Writing in

the Los Angeles Times, critic Robert Hilburn said:
"Besides setting box-office records on this tour, the
English group also may be setting some kind of
record for the most cliches in a single concert: a
minilight-show, steam from dry ice covering the
stage [three different times], the band's name
spelled out in lights...an explosion at the rear of the
stage and, of course, the obligatory 20-minute
solo."

There were also some problems at halls along the

way. A February 4th show at the Boston Garden
was canceled by city officials after early arrivals
caused $30,000 damage. At mid-March dates in
Seattle, 500 or so concertgoers were refused
admission to the Coliseum when their tickets turned
out to be counterfeit; one alleged scalper was
arrested with $1475 in his pockets; and three
people were busted for giving Jimmy Page a $2100
Les Paul guitar that belonged to a local music
teacher. And in Los Angeles, a wire service claimed
that a massive bust had occurred at a concert by
the group; the raid had actually happened at the
Shrine Auditorium during a performance by Robin
Trower.

He dismissed the show as "a numbing combination

of intense, tenacious music and hopelessly limited
imagination."
Page was quick to defend the act's length. "We
need that amount of time to get everything across.
You put on a support act and they're gonna want to
do at least an hour probably an hour and a half
so that makes the whole show about five hours
long, including gear changeovers. Some halls have
to get everybody out by 11:00, so where does that
leave the headliner?
"We established a policy long ago that our concerts
would feature only Zeppelin and the people would
know exactly what they were coming to hear.
Myself, I get fed up with hearing about groups who

"It's typical," said Swan Song Records veep Danny

Goldberg. "What can I say? Sometimes it seems

537

only do a 50-minute show. It's not right. It all

depends on how much a performer has got to say, I
suppose, and Zeppelin has got quite a bit to put
across."

of racing anyone who dared accept his challenge,

he was stopped only once.
"When the cop got to the window," said Bad
Company guitarist Mick Ralphs, a passenger at the
time, "Bonzo turned on the charm. He told him we
were musicians, that we'd been rehearsing all day
and we were blowing off a little steam. He didn't get
a ticket."

For the final ten dates, Zeppelin used an entire floor

at Hollywood's Continental Hyatt House as its base.
So many groupies waited hopefully in the lobby that
an entirely different group appeared to pick them
up. Locals took to calling the hotel the "Riot House."

On the afternoon of the tour's close, Plant

emphasized that the group would always remain a
road band. "We've played every single market that
there is to play in the last few years...apart from
Bangkok and India, which we'll get to in the next
year. There's no reason why other than the fact that
we just love to play. We love touring too much to
give it up. We took a film crew on our last tour, you
know. The movie'll be out soon and that one film will
be the end-all story of why we have such a great
time on the road." But when asked the movie's
release date, Zeppelin manager Peter Grant only
snickered. "You must be talking about the most
expensive home movie ever made," he said with
laughter in his voice. "Just say it's held up in
production."

As always, an armed guard sat outside each of the

group member's rooms. Page, for one, disliked the
menacing flavor of it all. "We had some vague
death threats earlier in the tour," he explained. "I
imagine that makes the armed guards a necessity,
but...Christ." He let out an exasperated sigh. "This
is one thing that really bothers me. I don't think
we're a band that's hated by any means. I get good,
warm feelings from our fans. We're not the sort of
band people really want to be nasty to."
Flying back and forth to concerts in Seattle,
Vancouver and San Diego, the band and their 18person entourage made frequent pilgrimages to
L.A. nightspots like the Troubadour (for Bobby
"Blue" Bland and Kokomo), the Roxy (for Suzi
Quatro) and the Greenhouse Restaurant, where
Jimmy Page met longtime idol Joni Mitchell. Page
had been bashful about an introduction, telling
acquaintances that "if she's been hit on half as
many times as I've been hit on tonight, she doesn't
want to know," but eventually they enjoyed some
small talk together.

Outside of three sold-out English shows at Earl's

Court in late May, Zeppelin has no firm plans. Plant,
Bonham and Jones will return to their families in
various parts of Britain, while Page, the group's only
bachelor, will sojourn through Europe and the Far
East. "I feel the need to aimlessly travel, to soak up
some new experiences," the guitarist explained.
"This is something I've looked forward to doing for
years."

Los Angeles also saw the increased activity of John

Bonham. At a party hosted by Zeppelin in honor of
the Pretty Things, Bonham threw several stomach
punches at Sounds correspondent Andy McConnell.
McConnell, who'd had an amicable meeting with the
drummer earlier that afternoon, shined a flashlight
in Bonham's face and cracked, "You're an ugly
fucker aren't you?" Bonzo responded by knocking
McConnell across the room.

As the group left for home, Swan Song exec

Goldberg discouraged rumors of another U.S. tour
as early as this summer. "They could come back in
June or they could come back in '77. Once they get
working on something, you never know when they'll
come up for air."
Cameron Crowe, 1975

"You just don't do things like that to Bonzo," said

one Zeppelin roadie, "especially when he's had a
few drinks. After a certain point the Beast goes on
the prowl and the only thing that amuses him is
pillage."

Led Zeppelin: Physical Graffiti

John Tobler, ZigZag, August 1975
NOW I SHOULD make clear in this context that I'm
not by nature a fan of this band in the same way
that I like Van Morrison or Love. My position is one
of deep respect, mind you, and while I was heard to
say some harsh things about Beck copyists, etc,
when the first album came out, such notions no
longer seem to apply. I feel that I would have to
perform a masterpiece of justification if I wanted to

Earlier on the tour, in Texas, Bonham took a fancy

to a custom Corvette. The owner was tracked down
and offered an irrefusable amount. Bonham then
"paid a small fortune" to have the car towed to L.A.,
where he couldn't get it insured. Undaunted, he
snapped up a $1400 Ford hot rod for the sole
purpose of dragging on Sunset Strip. In two weeks

538

put L.Z. down, and in all honesty, there's no fuel for

that particular fire.

HERE I AM, trying to think of a snappy opening and

all I think about is Paul McCartney: 'What's that
man movin' cross the stage? It looks a lot like the
one used by Jimmy Page' (mental association of
Page at Abbey Road, plugged into a tiny, antiquated
looking Vox, except that across the top at the back
were a row of knobs jutting from a decidedly newfangled looking box), and what kind of snappy
opening is that?

I suspect that someone somewhere will go into that

old thing about making one great album out of two
flawed same, as used with the Beatles' White
Album and so on, but again, I can't subscribe, and
this is where the review really starts. There are
fifteen tracks on display here, and three of them,
accounting for about a third of the playing time,
appeal to me so much that were they on one side of
the record, I would find it difficult to play anything
else until I knew them from every direction.
Specifically, these are 'In My Time Of Dying',
'Houses Of The Holy', and best of all, in a class
shared with only a dozen or so tracks in my entire
musical existence, 'In The Light'.

So, maestro, if you will keep the fanfare low key,

we'll dissolve the visual into the comfortable-ratherthan-plush offices of Swan Song Records.
Jimmy Page has been up all night, first meeting
with Peter Grant and then viewing videos of Led
Zep's Earls Court performances. (Ah, to have a
VCR and friends in high places.) He shrugs off
condolences. "Two nights is the norm."

That's not to write the rest off in a terse few words

but for my part, the record would be breaking down
fresh barriers if it was all as good. It's a question of
stand-outs, and if you can imagine putting 'She
Loves You' on the first Beatles album, you'll see
what I mean. Without my three choice cuts, the
album would be of very good quality. Perhaps a little
routine, but certainly to be among the critics'
choices at the end of the year. With the tracks
included, it gets a distinct lift off, and while it's just
as certain to figure similarly in critical and public
polls, we're all getting a bonus for which we should
be grateful. I would say with certainty that
prolonged playing will produce several more tracks
which will become highly pleasing, but it all comes
down to what makes the biggest initial impact. And
that's not to say that the three I've mentioned have
a singalong chorus.

If some of his dialogue sounds fractured and

impressionistic, there are the reasons.
Dressed in black pinstripe suit, black shirt buttoned
at collar, black boots, he looks incredibly fragile and
painfully shy. Shades shield his eyes.
But he is energetic and at the least, loqacious.
When he gets fired on a subject, there's no
stopping, talking so precisely and at length that half
one's questions never get asked.
He speaks very quietly in a hypnotic monotone, the
words pouring out quickly, fleshing out his dialogue
with his hands, or playing with a ring made of a
snake wrapped around a thin slice of rich brown
agate. On his right hand is a complex gold signet
ring with a tiny ruby at the top. Occasionally, his
fingers shake.

Beyond saying "Get it if you're even vaguely into

this type of confection," there's not much to add.
Jimmy Page as producer has to be one of the most
tasteful people there is, and he continually rejects
the temptation to fall into Black Sabbath traps, He
also plays the guitar with consummate brillance,
and perhaps that's part of the key to Led Zeppelin.
They are all musicians of the highest calibre, and
the length of time taken to produce this package is
a testimony to the fact that second best for them is
as bad as nowhere. One for your lists.

He doesn't waste much conversational space,

though this isn't apparent until you check the tape
and find a lot said in very little time. The lack of
volume causes such concentration that the speed
with which he thinks isn't apparent until played
back. It's very fast.
The reason we are meeting is, of course, the
continuing career of Led Zeppelin, rock band.
Having decided to work they have maintained a
schedule with a vengeance. When Robert Plant's
accident prevented them from performing a world
tour the band concentrated on finishing the now
legendary film and recording an album.

John Tobler, 1975

Jimmy Page: Technological Gypsy
Jonh Ingham, Sounds, 13 March 1976
'Aleister Crowley is the great misunderstood
genius of the 20th century.'

As Plant continues to recuperate he's beginning

to run, sports fans and the band begin to plan a
touring schedule they no longer have to worry about

539

those items known in the Biz as 'product', which Mr.

Page calls "a pretty strong footing".

chances, experimentation, and they seemed to

work. Everything seemed to be on our side, to flow
out.

Having written and rehearsed in Malibu, the group

recorded at Musicland Studios in Munich, the first
time they have recorded in a studio since the fourth
album, completing an album in three weeks.

"There's a blues that's so held back. Seven minutes

long and at no point does anyone blow out. That's
one of the solos I thought I'd never get out.
Everyone's been doing blues since 1964. 'It's going
to fall into cliches or it's going to be too jazzy,' but
everything worked okay. So things like that really
encourage me."

"The novelty of that knocks me out. Although we

rehearsed there were still two tracks written in the
studio. But the overdubs, Robert's lyrics, the
spontenaiety...There's still the excitement of the
basic tracks. It was all finished before Christmas,
and then the artwork..."

The group originally moved their recording

environment to country houses in an attempt to
extend the environment that had surrounded them
writing at Bron-Y-Aur cottage in Wales, so that you
could record sitting around the fire, and if the logs
crackle, what does it matter? "No-one's going to
hear probably think it's the needle or something."

Ah yes, the artwork. Zeppelin have had a penchant

for complicated covers ever since the kaleidoscope
adorning the third album. The fourth album went
through some five or six different covers. Houses
Of The Holy was held up for months while the
colour was got just right.

Also, on early records you could hear the acoustic

qualities of the rooms it had been recorded in, but
starting in the mid Sixties there began to be an
illusion of the room's acoustics, the sound being
very dry with lots of overdubs, echo added
afterwards to give perspective.

And now Presence, as the new platter has been

entitled, has been held up by what was intended to
be a simple cover so nothing could hold it up.
"It always takes so long. It's amazing, they'll have
the artwork as a yardstick and send back two
alternatives, neither of which are like the original.
You know that once it becomes a matrix number,
God help you. All you can hope for is to hold onto
the quality through the initial pressing, because you
know that in two or three years someone will give
you a copy to sign and all the colours will be off, the
centrepieces will be too short..."

"I wanted to get away from all that and try and
create the sound of the room, and space. The only
clear exmaple I can give is 'When The Levee
Breaks', where it sounds on the surface as though
it's very simple until you start to listen to what's
happening.
But the crucial factor, regardless of the
environment, is to get a good 'live' drum sound, with
harmonics aplenty.

As to what the album sounds like, reports vary.

Some say it has a heads down dedication to rock
and roll, while others reckon that the diversity
shown on Physical Graffiti is explored even further.
Jimmy poetically confuses the matter even more.

"There can't be anything worse for a dummer than

going into the control room knowing he's got a great
sound in the studio and hearing cardboard boxes.
Keeping the front of the bass drums on, that sort of
thing not many people do that, it's the mike inside
and lots of blankets.

"It was recorded while the group was on the move,

technological gypsies. No base, no home. All you
could relate to was a new horizon and a suitcase.
So there's a lot of movement and aggression. A lot
of bad feeling towards being put in that situation.

"It's a pretty unorthodox way of recording, actually.

Sticking the mike up three flights of stairs to get the
drums...The depth." he laughs. "That's one of the
secrets."

"Also, we're playing more as a band than any LP

before. Everybody's playing in such a way as to
bring out everybody else. I'm really happy with it,
and I'm not usually that optimistic about them
because I've lived every mistake over and over.

Most of the group's song-writing is handled by Plant

and Page, though there is no set method.
"Of late the music's been coming first little bits
that I've orchestrated, an instrumental that gets a
vocal. Or we sit down together, tinkling around. And
then there's 1-2-3-4 and we've gotten through two

"There's so many things that have come out from

those conditions of having to finish it in a certain
time. I was amazed at the inventiveness, the fact
that no overdubs were wasted....Just totally taking

540

verses before we realise it. That's the rock and roll.

Counting it in and suddenly...whew.

"Well what do you class as heavy metal then?"

I reeled off a few titles that owed their livelihood to
Alexander Graham Bell.

"So there are those with a lot of personal thought

and those that just jump out, so there's a lot of
different aspects. I've heard that Elton just writes
music to lyrics he's been given."

"Yeah, it depends what your classification is. We're

using dynamics we can be really loud at one point
and drop to a whisper at another. I can't relate that
to other groups I've heard who get to a solo and just
ride, the same thing right through. perhaps it's our
dramatics which is coming out.

He shakes his head. The phone on the coffee table

rings. He looks at it, irritated.
"When things develop as a group they start off
instrumental, Robert's there, singing anything that's
coming to mind, the same way you're playing
anything that's coming to mind. I guess at that point
he's another instrument, and then he moulds the
feeling that he finds is relating, and crystalises it. He
kicks them over as well. He's very conscientious
about that."

"We've got volume for effect, plus when we play in

America in really giant places and you just have to
have that power to reach those people in the back,
because they've taken the trouble to well, the
stories you hear about just getting tickets, let alone
anything else. They've taken the trouble to go and
they may be at the very back but they've made the
same effort as the people down front, so you have
to present them with as much as you can, which
means being able to hear it."

The phone rings again before he can get a word in

edgewise. In one quick movement he grabs the
receiver and flings it against the wall, clattering to
the floor. The other telephone next to it rings a
second time. Jimmy laughs, beaten by technology.

It didn't occur to me at the time to ask, since he

obviously didn't consider Zeppelin heavy metal, how
he felt being classified as the progenitor of the
genre.

"I contributed lyrics on the first three LPs. After

'Stairway' I realised he'd come such a long way on
his level, and everyone else was improving on their
level, I thought I'd just concentrate on what I was
doing. I've had lyric books and lost them, so it's like
the writing on the wall. And why not? Robert writes
damn good lyrics."

"We hadn't toured America in over a year, and those

stadium dates were the first two: Atlanta (52,000)
and Tampa (59,000). They all came down "You've
broken this record and that record' we'd virtually
stepped off a plane. My God, what's happening?
Especially Tampa, Florida. I get really nervy before I
go on anyway. A bag of nerves until I'm into about
two numbers."

Page started producing via his fascination with

technology. Sound interested him, the changing of
an instrument from what it should sound like via
effects like echo and phasing, at a time long before
it was the norm.

Zep seems one of the few super bands that seem

to enjoy working live as well as recording, though
Jimmy sees them as completely separate aspects.

"It's the challenge of it, being able to come up with

all these sounds."

"We try and change no, that's not right. It changes

every night. A lot of it is done on signals; if we're
building up to a crescendo and stop and it's just one
instrument, slow cascading passage, a lot of that is
just on signals, and spontenaiety. You might hit
some really magic bits and everyone is really
working together, and it's not on record. You're not
frozen in time. Captured.

I mentioned that Led Zep and technology seem

synonymous with 50,000 watts and a cord plugged
into the wall.
"Well that surprises me."
Yeah? I was surprised he was surprised. 'Kashmir',
which is not Led Zep in the way that 'Trampled
Underfoot' is sonic attack Led Zep, still comes over
as an awesome explosion propelled at majestic
earblast volume. Only I didn't get that far, because I
used that classic definitive phrase 'heavy metal'.

"Whereas when you're recording it doesn't have the

vibrancy, because you haven't built up this magnetic
feedback between you and the audience. But
you've still got the spontenaiety, if you manage to
hit it, and sometimes it's hard work, but when you're
out there and really enjoying yourself, then it's really
rewarding. Both aspects are as exciting and
unpredictable."

Jimmy interjected immediately.

541

What maintains Page's interest as a musician now

is the mathematics of music, studying harmonies
and melodies and within them chord structures and
patterns and how they're built and interlock and can
be linked.

realise it was five instruments playing together.

Because Anger's visuals have a timeless aspect.
"The important thing with Invocation was that the
visuals and music were like that ". He interlocks
his hands tightly. "And the music couldn't really exist
on its own. That's how I wanted this music to be,
but I wanted to hold up and keep the attention
without people actually listening to it.

"I got into it knowing there was this gigantic

devotion to the study of ragas, because it's seven
years before you even play one. Just doing scales
and so on, practising 12 hours a day every day.
Knowing that, I wanted to get into what they were
actually having to commit to memory, what the
problems were to overcome. There were things like
splitting half-notes, not into quarter notes but into so
many degrees. All this started to really fascinate
me, knowing that in these ragas they use one scale
ascending and another descending, and that
instilled in your memory, you don't even have to
think about it. And time signatures...

"The film's pacing is absolutely superb. It starts so

slow, and after say four minutes it gets a little faster
and the whole thing starts to suck you in. The thing
was, I only saw clips, and 20 minutes is a long time,
and he put the music onto the visual I know he
didn't do any edits because I saw the piece with
different music and things just worked out in
synch. Like certain bits match certain actions. It's so
well crafted, and this undercurrent of everything
working independently.

"I started to pay attention to tablature and really get

involved with the technical aspect of everything. It's
interesting...I wish I'd thought that when I started!"

"It's just so arresting. I had a copy and while I was

in the States I hooked it up to a big stereo and
frightened the daylights out of everyone." He laughs
softly.

What was it then, trying to string a couple of licks

together? But the vision of 11 year old Jimmy page
playing a cardboard guitar in front of the mirror was
not to be corroborated.

"I was on the sixth floor and there were complaints

from the twelfth. There's a real atmosphere and
intensity. It's disturbing because you know
something's coming. I can't wait for it to come out."

"Yeah, well, you know...Until suddenly you realise

the scope of the thing and what you've got to do to
pull it off."

Which conveniently brings us to the long overdue

Zeppelin film, based around a 1974 Madison
Square Garden concert, fantasy and documentary
sequences lifting it out of the arena. It is now in the
credits stage, and will be released sometime this
summer. Although it may be considered a
documentary it is more a musical.

He also professes to be "dabbling" with

synthesisers, having completed a soundtrack for
Kenneth Anger's film Lucifer Rising.
Anger, a noted American experimental film maker
who gained notoriety 12 years ago with a bike film
called Scorpio Rising, and more recently with
Invocation Of My Demon Brother, a short, intense,
ritualistic film with a jagged, rough, almost naive
synthesiser soundtrack by Mick Jagger that had a
quite disturbing effect, began Lucifer Rising ten
years ago. But friend and confidant Bobby
Beauseloil (later a friend of Charlie Manson) stole
large portions of the footage. (What was left
eventually became Invocation.) Now he is shooting
it again, a feature length film. With the first 20
minutes finished, he asked Page for his services.

"It's so time consuming. It's a horrible medium to

work in. It's so boring! So slow! Just shooting the
fantasy sequence. 'Can you do it again so we can
get a different angle? Can you do it again?' I'm not
used to that. It's a silly attitude, okay, but
nevertheless...The Anger things is completely
different. Working with him is a unique experience."
We're interrupted by a phone call for Jimmy. When
he returns we start talking about his love for travel.
"The complete shock of change of environment.
The whole...what's the word? I refuse to say
vibe...The total experience and the impression it
has upon you. The smell of a place, the linguistics,
the general atmosphere. The difference of the
music there but I've put a lot of work into those
sort of things anyway before getting there. It's like

"With a synthesiser every instrument is different

from what it's meant to sound like, which is
especially interesting when you get a collage of
instruments together not sounding the way they
should and you think, (excited) 'What's that?' That's
the effect I wanted to get, so you didn't immediately

542

an excuse to see how things apply, musically

anyway.

"I haven't seen that, no, but the person who had
and told me had no reason to lie. I've witnessed
other things which I don't care to discuss. I think if a
person's into it they're the kind of things he'll
experience himself rather than having it related to
him."

"The attitude of people, too. When you get to a

place where there haven't been too many white
people...Suspicion, overcoming that, and the
hospitality. Arabs will open up their house to you;
lay on these huge meals and you're just blown
away by the spectacle of it. Robert finds it
especially stimulating for lyrics. And musically for
me it's ideal.

When did you first get into altered states of

consciousness and so forth?
"What, in relation to music? When I heard
'Jerusalem' when I was about five years old and I
wondered what the feeling was that was going on."

"If I had only got to a certain stage in playing and

not gotten into that situation where you keep
progressing with things I'd have definitely gone into
field recordings.

Suddenly, he makes a connection.

"Yeah, yes, that's what it's all about! That's just a
mundane sort of thing you relate to and you start
taking that on and on and on, you start relating that
to particular themes, vibrations in music, things like
mantras, and keep going, further and
further...There's a lot to learn.

"I'm obsessed not just interested, obsessed with

folk music, street music, the parallels between a
country's street music and its so-called classical
and intellectual music, the way certain scales have
travelled right across the globe. All this ethnological
and musical interraction fascinates me. Have you
heard any trance music? That's the thing."

"I don't want to get too dippy about all this. If you
take the view of the scientist and everything is in a
state of vibration, then every note is a vibration,
which has a certain frequency, and you know that if
you put 40 beats into a frequency it's going to be
the same note every time.

As it happens, someone wanting to record the Pan

Festival at Joujouka in Morocco had played me a
tape, a wildly hypnotic, timeless music
accompanied by bright images of dancing and
village life. Brian Jones recorded there, though it
was merely a recreated festival.

"You take that into infra-sound and people can be

made to be sick, actually killed; taking it the other
way, not to be too depressing, what about euphoria,
etc., and what about consciousness being
totally...No, I won't go into that one. Time warps."

"I don't know how much they put into it. He got what
he wanted. But I don't know if he saw certain
spectacles. Like they'll be dancing in total trance
state, one will smash a bottle over his head, and
you know, skull, blood everywhere, and the next
day, not a trace."

We discuss various ethnic musics.

"What I've heard recently is festival music from the
Himalayas."

Have you seen these things yourself?

"Well, I've witnessed one particular night that was
very odd. But it's not distressing, it's refreshing,
because it makes you re-evaluate everything. You
know that you're seeing a facade. What's
underneath it? What's really going on? I've heard
just so many stories of what people have seen.
They're not lying.

Have you been there?

Longingly: "No...It must be frustrating to look into
Tibet. See the prayer flags and not be able to step
over." He laughs.
He mentions that during their aborted world tour
they had planned to record in places like India,
Bangkok, to try and infiltrate the hustle and bustle,
the general noise...Playing also with local
musicians.

"For instance, there's a man towards the south (of

Morocco), in fact a holy man, but he'll invite you to
mint tea, and while he's standing there mint grows
up around his toes and feet and he picks it, makes
tea and a small animal eats the stalks and it's
gone."

"Obviously, you get interesting results, from

anything, and anything new always gives me a
charge."

As he tells you this his face lights up like a small

boy with a big secret.

As he says, only George Harrison has tried the

idea, with 'Wonderwall'; he also mentions his trip

543

with Robert to Bombay, recording some of their

numbers with a local orchestra, and how it threw
such a new perspective on their work.

relevant and it's those things that people attacked

him on, so he was misunderstood."
Finally, there is the question of why a three hour live
saga instead of a cataclysmic 90 minutes?

We return to the subject of control through sound.

The United States is developing an anti-riot weapon
that hits you with a strong jolt of exactly 60 cycles, a
frequency (as Eno discovered empirically) that
makes mincemeat out of your bowel muscles.

"The intention was to cut back in the JanuaryFebruary tour of America. 'What are we doing?
We're mad, three hours.' So we attempted to cut it
back to two hours, and I don't know, it just went to
three hours again." He chuckles.

"The euphoric state is taking it the other way there

has to be all these aspects. Not only things that
create misery but things that create Ah! That is
the powerful weapon to use, not a weapon that
makes you shit yourself but something that creates
euphoria, and when they get that you're fucked.
They give you a dose of that and you won't even
know you've got it. I've obviously been listening to
some Dick Barton films."

"Not having a set pattern is what does it. That way

it's such an invigorating catalyst at times, because
everybody feels that way and somebody starts
doing something and everybody smiles and away it
goes off into another thing altogether. And you've
got to keep thinking fast when it's working well it's
really great, four people building something,
changing gear without crunching them."

He became interested in parapsychology and

altered states at about 11.

Oh by the way, have you found your angel with a

broken wing?
He stumbles on the reply, reckons the question was
below the belt, and settles on the simplest reply.

"Reading about different things that people were

supposed to have experienced, and seeing whether
you could do it yourself. And sometimes, yeah, but I
didn't understand a lot until I grew up."

"Yes."

It was at this time, too, that he discovered Aleister

Crowley.

Jonh Ingham, 1976

Led Zeppelin: Presence (Swan Song)

"But I couldn't understand what he was getting at

until years afterwards. It kept nagging me, I couldn't
fully grasp what he was getting at.

Jonh Ingham, Sounds, 10 April 1976

AFTER THIS PLATTER had spun incessantly for an
afternoon on the office phonogram I asked a nonZep fan what he thought.

"I feel he's a misunderstood genius of the twentieth

century. Because his whole thing was liberation of
the person, of the entity, and that restriction would
foul you up, lead to frustration which leads to
violence, crime, mental breakdown, depending on
what sort of makeup you have underneath. The
further this age we're in now gets into technology
and alienation, a lot of the points he made seem to
manifest themselves all down the line.

"Oh, it's okay I guess. They're just the best at what

they do."
Well of course. But what they do is also the best.
More than almost any other band they maintain the
roughshod energy, vulgarity and spirit of rock 'n' roll
that extends from Elvis' pelvis and Gene Vincent
and Little Richard through the early Kinks and
Yardbirds and Troggs ('Wild Thing' definitely helped
pave the way). This album is a monument to that
spirit.

"His thing was total liberation and really getting

down to what part you played. What you want to do,
do it. Anyway, that's a minor part, just one of the
things they couldn't come to terms with. Saying
there would be equality of the sexes. In an
Edwardian age that's just not on. He wasn't
necessarily waving a banner, but he knew it was
going to happen. He was a visionary and he didn't
break them in gently.

The rumours were right: this album is unadulterated

rock and roll. It's fantabulous.
The music is really basic and simple, almost every
song an archetypal Zeppo riff, but while they've kept
the basic framework, everything within has been
stripped down, polished, and reassembled. The

"I'm not saying it's a system for anybody to follow. I

don't agree with everything, but I find a lot of it

544

sound is monolithic, with a definite feel of the room

they're in.

of deep-echo 'oohs' and 'aahs' and the guitar very

simple and spaced out, the drums a madmandrummer's delight.

But within that hammer of sound is a lot of

separation, Page building multi-guitar passages and
bridges all over the place, and Plant sounding very
upfront and audible until you start trying to listen to
the words. With the exception of 'Achilles Last
Stand' they're as buried as ever, though the
understandable snippets sound intriguing.

'Candy Store Rock' is 'Lemon Song' circa 1976.

Which is to say, more subtlety. That time it's Zep's
Jump Blues Riff, the music very simple, Robert
sounding like a cross between Ricky Nelson and
Elvis with lots of heavily echoed "Baby, baby".
Although the instrumentation is sparse, with very
little overdubbing, the energy is terrific.

But the real star of the show is Bonzo, who is

dynamite. He's everwhere, bulldozing songs along
mercilessly. Between him and Page...

'Hots On For Nowhere' continues the energy. After

'Achilles' this is my favourite, with a great bouncing
rhythm and some beautiful guitar work. Basically
this tune is Jimmy's trip, building up from one guitar
into an incredible flow of interweaving solos and
bridges, shifting into overdrive with the most
ridiculous twang. The whole time he sticks to the
most basic rock and roll licks, ending with a great
cliched false ending that works really well.

Whether it's due to being recorded so fast, or also

because of their return to rock and roll's roots, this
album is very reminiscent of the first album. The
only song to break the mould is 'Achilles Last
Stand', which opens the set.
If ever a song succeeds 'Stairway To Heaven' this is
it. Opening with a low profile solo guitar it soon hits
speed of sound stride, with all the Olympian
grandeur the title implies. From the first bar Bonzo
is incredible, storming and charging and generally
carrying on like a madman. The pace doesn't let up
for the entire ten minutes, dynamics building and
falling away as Page builds up batteries of guitars,
with some amazing twin leads, and Robert weaves
a quite bizarre tale heavily influenced by his
accident. This song is going to be a mother-fucker
live.

'Tea For One' is the eight minute blues that Page

mentioned in the interview of a few weeks ago,
saying he was really pleased with the way the band
holds back and that his solos didn't fall into cliches.
Naturally, he's right.
Starting with yet another archetypal Zep midspeeder the band suddenly slow into a relaxed,
rolling blues highly reminiscent of the slow numbers
on the first album. Page plays some magnificent
guitar, again building up multiple guitars, and yes,
the band just sit back and relax without once letting
loose. I don't know if pleasant is the right word to
describe a Led Zeppelin song, but that's what this
song is.

'For Your Life' is the Zep we're basically familiar

with. While Bonzo and John Paul Jones hold down
a metronome rhythm Robert pouts and struts and
Jimmy builds up the guitars again. Apart from subtle
changes in tempo and the odd outburst from Page,
the tune sticks very methodically to its riff.

As for the cover...This is probably Hipgnosis best in

several years capturing the mysticism and
uneasiness of their earlier covers (Saucerful, Elegy)
while also being one of the funniest covers ever.
Each of those scenes looks so incredibly weird, the
situations and the intensity of the colour, and at the
same looks incredibly ludicrous. Nice one.

'Royal Orleans' is the only song written by the group

(the rest are Page-Plant), choosing this time to
demonstrate their knowledge of funk. Again Bonzo
is way out front, pushing things along with some
very nice hi-speed hi-hat, supported by some great
rhythm guitar chops. Robert gives a guided tour of
sorts of New Orleans, and the band are very basic.
This is a great dance tune.

Hmm, one thing I haven't seemed to mention is the

rather awesome power that this record blasts out. In
terms of urgency and aggression and an all-out
attack on rock and roll, this is Zeppelin's best album
yet.

Side two opens with another solo guitar excursion

before hitting what might be called Zeppelin's
Steamhammer Boogie Riff. Great powerhouse rock
and roll and the break is just a treat, Plant
screeching away on harp and Page and Bonzo
ripping it all apart while J-P saws on a really groinal
bass. This is the song that bedroom popstars will
really be able to play along with, Robert doing lots

It sounds best really loud, with your head really

close to the speakers.

Jonh Ingham, 1976

545

Robert Plant: Plantations

He had much to talk about: the accident and its

consequent effects on the band, his travels to
Northern Africa which preceded the crash, the new
Led Zeppelin album, and, lastly, some thoughts on
the eight-year career of the group.

Chris Charlesworth, Creem, May 1976

SHOULD RALPH NADER JOIN LED ZEPPELIN?

Initially Plant seemed reluctant to discuss the

accident, but as the interview progressed he
warmed to the subject.

THE EVER-ELUSIVE Led Zeppelin surfaced in

New York in January at the Park Lane Hotel on
Central Park South. Jimmy Page was accounted
for, his mission being to finish mixing the
soundtrack of the long-awaited Led Zep movie. The
rest of the boys were just in town for "social
reasons", according to Swan Song. Who should
know.

"The memory is very vivid, but it's like spilt milk and
there's no time to cry over it when there's another
bottle around the corner...you know what I mean?
"I had the normal instant reaction of anybody and
that was for my family who were in the car with me.
I didn't know what the implications and the final
outcome of the wounds or whatever would turn out
to be, but they were of minimal importance at the
time.

Of the four, Robert Plant was by far the most

"social," stopping off at bars uptown and downtown,
always in the company of English sound engineer
Benjie Le Fevre, and an English bodyguard named
David. Plant still walks with a crutch, a wincing
reminder of last August's car crash on the Greek
island of Rhodes. Although the plaster has now
been removed, his usual hurried shuffle has been
replaced by a deliberate, careful plod. He doesn't
think he'll be able to dance until the beginning of
next soccer season, which is tantamount to saying
that Led Zeppelin won't be aple to perform live until
that time also.

"I didn't think about the possible consequences for

the band but as I had plenty of time to lie back not
even sit back I started gaining a new perspective
on the situation.
"After I'd been pieced back together I had to think
about it all because I didn't really know whether
things were going to be the same as they were
before...uh, physically."

Indestructible? Obviously not. The fractured foot

has stymied Plant's usual punk arrogance.
Temporarily, at any rate, he can't run with the pack
and this compulsory moderation to the pace of his
fife seems to have brought about a certain
sympathy that wasn't always apparent in his
personality. He might look like the proverbial Greek
god rock vocalist as he struts magnificently across
stages with the studlike hauteur of the rock idiom,
but he's human just like the rest of us, broken
bones and all.

There was a chance, then, that you might be

crippled forever? "Mmm, yes. I had to, not so much
grow up very quickly, as be prepared to face odds
that I never thought I would come up against.
"I haven't come out of it too scared, either physically
and mentally, and, in fact, once I knew Maureen
[Plant's wife] and the kids were OK I really threw
myself back into my work. By engrossing myself
more and more in the work we had on hand, the
time passed by quicker.

Plant has always seemed rather divorced from

reality, often giving the impression of being a
leftover from the days of flower power, with his
golden curls and brightly-coloured stage tops. That
image has been perpetrated by interviews that are
both vague and filled with scattered references to
peace, love and world understanding topics which
have tarnished considerably in the reality of the
Seventies.

"If I stop and brood, which is a very bad thing to do,

then time moves with a lead weight around it, but
the time between August 4 [the date of the accident]
and now has gone by quickly because I applied
myself to what I do best. I mean...I can do 99 per
cent of what I could do before, so we sat down and
had a meeting.

It was something of a relief then, that the Robert

Plant of 1976, with his crutch and newly curled hair,
seemed to have come to terms with his public
image on a more evenly-balanced level.
Goddammit he phoned me to arrange the time of
the following interview, and if that isn't a turn up for
the book, then I don't know what is!

"We obviously couldn't tour, so we decided to make

an album which wouldn't have happened if it hadn't
been for me.
"It was quite remarkable that I found myself sitting
in an armchair facing the band with my leg in the

546

air. We were planning to tour right around the world

and back to England, playing possibly in South
America, Hawaii, Japan and Asia Minor and ending
up doing dates in Europe, especially Scandinavia,
before dropping anchor in Albion."

"Wet tried to get down as far as the Spanish Sahara

at the time when the war was just breaking out.
There was a distinct possibly that we could have
got very, very lost, going round in circles and taking
ages to get out. It's such a vast country with no
landmarks and no people apart from the odd tent
and a camel.

Far from being frustrated at the necessity for

inactivity, the rest of Led Zeppelin were merely
relieved when they heard that Plant would not be
limping for life. In the weeks before the accident
the time between Zep's Earl's Court concerts and
August 4 Plant and Page had covered thousands
of miles together, travelling in desolate Arab
countries by Range Rover, visiting Southern
Morocco and, incidentally, introducing Bob Marley
and the Wailers' music to those regions.

"We kept reaching these army road blocks where

we'd get machine guns pointed at us and we'd have
to wave our passports furiously and say we were
going to bathe at the next beach. Then we'd go on
thirty miles to another road block and claim we were
going along to the next beach again.
"We wanted to get down to a place called Tafia
which is not very far from the border of the Spanish
Sahara. We got, as far as we could but eventually
the road got so bad we had to turn back."

"I was idly researching the possibility of recording

various ethnic groups of different tribes in Morocco,
just checking out how hard it would be, not so much
the actual recording, but cutting through the
ridiculous bureaucracy in Morocco. They were
governed by the French for so long that they have a
lot of the French traits on efficiency which, of
course, are absolutely nil. The Morroccan version of
that is even sillier.

From Africa, Page and Plant journeyed to

Switzerland for a pre-arranged group meeting,
travelling by car up through Casablanca and
Tangier. "It was devastating leaving Morocco behind
and suddenly finding ourselves in Europe. For two
months I'd lived at a Moroccan speed which is no
speed at all, and then suddenly I was in Spain
being frisked.

"On the Monday morning after the last gig at Earl's

Court I was on my way to Agadir with Maureen, and
three weeks later Jimmy flew out to meet me in
Marrakesh where we spent several nights at the
folk festival. That gave us a little peep into the
colour of Moroccan music and the music of the hill
tribes. Once you get off the normal tourist path and
have the right vehicle, so long as you know a little
bit of Arabic, which I do, then you discover they are
quite fine people. They're very warm people and
they're overjoyed when they find you have taken the
trouble to learn their language.

"We saw the jazz festival in Montreux, living on top

of a mountain in a total extreme of climate from
what we'd had for the past two months. After a while
I started pining for the sun again, not just the sun
but the happy, haphazard way of life that goes with
it, and Rhodes seemed a good idea.
"I knew Phil May was going to be there so down we
went. Jimmy came down with me but he left to go to
Italy the morning before the accident, and we
started rehearsing. Then there was the accident
and...well, we were just stopped in our tracks."

Plant and Page's journeys took them on pretty

dangerous routes, especially in view of the growing
tension between Spain and Morocco which was
bubbling-up at the time. "One day we had lunch
with a local police chief and received his blessing
before travelling on, and we showed him on an old
map where we wanted to go.

Plant was taken to a Greek hospital where, with the

aid of an interpreter, he tried to explain that he was
who he was.
"I had to share a room with a drunken soldier who
had fallen over and banged his head and as he was
coming around he kept focusing on me, uttering my
name.

"He called round one of his friends who was a

tourist guide and the guide told me and Jimmy he
had been that route once in his life but wouldn't go
again because he was a married man. We still
went, driving for hours and hours and the further
south we went, the more it seemed like a different
country. Gone are the people who can take the
back pocket off your Levi's without you knowing it,
and you're into a land of nice, honest people who
find a Range Rover with Bob Marley music very
strange.

"I was lying there in some pain trying to get

cockroaches off the bed and he started singing 'The
Ocean' from Houses Of The Holy. I can remember
a doctor working on us for 36 hours nonstop
because there was no one else there. My brotherin-law and Maureen's sister were there, so he
managed to get things together pretty fast. As soon

547

as the news got through I was whisked out of there

quick.

"I'd never known Jimmy to move so quickly. He was

out of the mixing booth and holding me up, fragile
as he might be, within a second. He became quite
Germanic in his organization of things and instantly
I was rushed off to hospital again in case I'd reopened the fracture, and if I had I would never have
walked properly again. It was a bit rash of me to
bop around but...well, the track is brilliant."

"The doctor in London told me I wouldn't walk for at

least six months and he gave me some odds of
various possibilities about the future, so we had
another group meeting, cancelled all the tour plans
and decided to make an album instead. We've
always taken so much time making albums, but we
thought that this time we'd take a totally different
attitude and cut one as quickly as possible."

So when would Plant be recovered enough to tour

again? He became very serious. "Already I've
surprised the doctors by recovering as much as I
have in such a short time. They've called me a
model patient and that surprises me because
hospitals are really not my cup of tea. I mean, I was
faced with a situation that dented every single thing
I had going for me. My usual...er...sort of leonine
arrogance was instantly punctured by having to
hobble around, so I'm having to take my time. I
don't want to rush. Every day I walk more and more
without the stick and I'm going to need
physiotherapy so I should think it'll be the beginning
of the next soccer season before I'm running about
again."

Plant likens the new album to Zeppelin's second

album in that it was made in a short time and
retains an immediacy that has not been so apparent
on later efforts. "It's so adamantly positive, so
affirmative for us. Everybody was aware that there
was a crisis in the band so we got together and
went forward as, if nothing had happened, like
turning into a storm instead of running from it."
"In LA we just rehearsed and rehearsed. It was so
strange for me the first time because, as I said, I
was sitting in an armchair, singing, and I found
myself wiggling inside my cast. The whole band
really wanted to play and had wanted to do that
tour, so the same effort was put into the album. It
was a unique situation where we rehearsed for
three weeks on and off in true Zeppelin style
because we're not the greatest band for rehearsing.
We've always felt that too much rehearsing on a
song can spoil it for us...sort of take the edge off the
excitement, but this time it worked in the opposite
way because the enthusiasm was contained in such
a small space of time.

Plant had said his piece, and with the obvious

questions about current affairs all answered, I
suggested he look back and record the highlight of
eight years with Zeppelin. He looked puzzled,
"There have been so many amazing things, things
that were once beyond my wildest dreams. I mean,
basically I wanted to sing, and sing and sing.
"I mean, heavens, how could I ever have envisaged
anything like this? Me and Bonzo had just come
down from the Midlands to join a band. Jimmy was
the experienced man and he'd been over here on
the Dick Clark show or whatever, so he knew we
would end up at least on that level. I don't think
Jonesy had been to the States before, but Bonzo
and I had no idea. We even got lost in London.

"Then we went to Munich to record and it took us

just 18 days to finish it. That's ridiculous for us
because we usually take an eternity to finish an
album."
The 18 days, in fact, included a black hour when
Plant tripped in the studio and narrowly avoidedreopening his fractured foot. The cast had been
removed in Los Angeles and he was rashly rushing
around the studio when..."half way through the
recording I fell.

"I remember when we played the Fillmore West in

San Francisco, Bonzo and I looked at each other
during the set and thought 'Christ, we've got
something'. That was the first time we realised that
Led Zeppelin might mean something; there was so
much intimacy with the audience, and if you could
crack San Francisco at the, height of the Airplane,
Grateful Dead period then it meant something. Mind
you, we went on with Country Joe and the Fish so
we didn't have that much of a problem...how could
we fail? But we knew the chemistry was there when
we recorded the first album."

"Now I can play soccer all day and run and swim
and I still love to be very active, but here I was
hobbling around in the middle of this great track
when suddenly my enthusiasm got the better of me.
I was running to the vocal booth with this
orthopaedic crutch when down I went, right on the
bad foot. There was an almighty crack and a great
flash of light and pain and I folded up in agony.

It wasn't until after the first album that Plant began

writing the band's lyrics; he logically surmised that
as he had to sing them, he might as well sing words
he wrote himself. "You've got to live with them so it's

548

a very personal thing. I did some of the lyrics on

'Whole Lotta Love' and some of the broader things
like 'Ramble On', but it wasn't until later that I really
worked hard on them.

You're your own record company bosses now with

Swan Song, which is a far cry from the days when
you were doing sessions for Decca in the mid-'60s.
Something that's always interested me is what was
the difference then between working for Decca and
for an independent producer like Shel Talmy?

"I think that songs, like 'Kashmir' and 'Stairway' are

far more relevant to the band now than songs like
'Whole Lotta Love' which we don't really do now
anyway. Ever since it came out, 'Stairway' has been
the most requested track on FM radio here in
America which is amazing because it's so old now.
That song was astoundingly well accepted and
personally I'm very proud of it, but I think 'Kashmir'
is just as good, and so is the one that I fell over on
when we recorded this new album."

The independent producer couldn't really play safe

like the house producer with a regular job and a
regular income. The independent guy is, or was,
pitting his wits much more against the music
business in general. He was financing the sessions
himself and couldn't afford to make mistakeswell,
not too many. He had too much to lose and had to
be selective and positive, whereas the house
producer was just designated groups most of the
time. As far as my part was con-cerned, it was a
case of fulfilling the same role in both cases, which
was to do your best and come up with a rift or a
solo or whatever to give it a bit more lift.

The long-awaited Led Zeppelin film is now ready,

according to Plant. "Yes, we're as happy with it as
we could possibly be. It's been mixed in quad, and
I'm not sure whether the Futurist Cinema in
Birmingham is going to be able to handle that, but I
would say it will be released about the same time
as the opening of next soccer season, probably in
August.

Did you have a freer hand with independent

producers?
Yes, I would say so. Sessions with staff producers
could be fairly impersonal. It comes down to costs
again. Someone like Shel Talmy was just producing
groups and you'd be there to strengthen the weak
links if the drummer wasn't tight enough or the
guitarist not up to scratch. It was like insurance for
the producer to have you there so the studio time
wasn't wasted.

"The film features more than just us on stage. It has

a few tastes of spice from everybody's imagination,
sort of humorous in parts. It ain't all music, anyway,
it touches on some of the things that make up the
personalities in the group, Peter and Richard Cole
[the band's ever-present tour manager] too."
Finally, I mentioned that of all the bands of their
stature (and many, also, beneath them) Zeppelin
seemed to be the only group whose members had
not, at some time, veered off the rails to produce a
solo album. Plant seemed horrified at the thought. "I
think to want to do that, you've obviously got to be
dissatisfied with the set-up as it stands.

How much I had to do depended on how good the

group members were. There were a lot of groups
whose strength lay in the vocals or songwriting.
They were not that good creatively as musicians, so
you were required to fit into a slot and use their
contribution as a vehicle to bring off something
creative. A staff producer at Decca had the strength
of the company behind him and could afford to
bring in a string section or a brass section and there
was only so much of a role the guitar could play.

"If you can't bring out everything that comes to mind

musically with the group you are working with, then
to go away and do a solo album and then come
back, is an admission that what you really want to
do is not playing with your band.

It's tempting to look at the independent productions, like the ones you did with Shel for the
Kinks or the Who, and see them as more original
and adventurous than staff efforts, but I suppose if
you sat down and compared the output of staff and
independent producers that wouldn't be
substantiated?

"If you have to depart from the unit to satisfy your

soul, then why go back afterwards? I know I
couldn't find anybody as musically imaginative as
Jimmy, anybody who could play the drums as hard
as Bonzo and anybody, who could play as steadily
as Jonesy. It's as simple as, that."

No, but then the output of Decca and EMI was so

high that they were bound to come up with some
good tracks. But relatively you could probably make
a case for the independent producers, or certain
ones like Shel or Mickie Most, having a more
consistent success rate.

Chris Charlesworth, 1976

Zeus Of Zeppelin: An Interview with Jimmy Page
Mick Houghton, Circus, 12 October 1976

549

There were some very creative people working with

Decca. Gus Dudgeon, Mike Leander all these
people were staff one way or the other. There was a
lot of talent but it was no garden of roses because
of Dick Rowe, the head man. It was always a
struggle justifying your budget to someone like Dick
Rowe who had no vision whatsoever. EMI and
Decca were very disciplined in their treatment of
staff men.

It was frustrating here because we were really

going down well in America and the reputation I
won in the last days of the Yardbirds in the States
certainly helped launch Led Zeppelin in the
beginning because everyone knew me through the
Yardbirds. Over here we were considered pass.
We found it really hard just getting work in Britain. I
was actually getting at frustration in recording terms
which the Little Games album exempli-fies. The
Yardbirds had always been such an experimental
group and yet in mid 1967, when just about
everyone was trying new ideas, that album and the
last few singles ['Ten Little Indians', 'Ha Ha Said
The Clown'] were in a pop vein.

Did that percolate down to their treatment of you as

a player and become frustrating?
Session work is frustrating much of the time. What
was stifling was not really knowing what you were
going to be doing when you were booked for a
session at a particular time. It could be anything
from a group to some sort of muzak type of thing.
When I first started doing session work the guitar
was in vogue. It was the beat group era and guitars
were pretty dominant. A fairly raw sound was what
was wanted and I'd get to do a fair number of solos,
but later it became more common to put on banks
of strings, and then even on group records
keyboards came into vogue, and the whole Stax
sound meant that I was mostly playing the old riff.

We were conned into those singles. The group still

had something going for it as a live band but Mickie
Most couldn't come to terms with albums. It was still
singles that were important to him. The way it
happened was that he'd say "Why don't we try and
give this a Yardbirds treatment", and none of the
group were keen on the idea. Something like 'Ha
Ha Said The Clown', we recorded it and it was a
case of if it doesn't work out there's nothing lost but
the studio time. Of course, once the thing was done
that was it and we found it was out on release.
That was annoying because we had no control and
it was situations like that that made me more
determined, with Zeppelin, to be in a position of
control over what the group does. Then there can
be no buck-passing. If I cock something up I get the
bullshitting.

At that point you took the opportunity to get out and

joined the Yardbirds. Who worked on those
sessions?
The producer was a nonentity really, Simon NapierBell. Like 'Bolero' was just Jeff Beck and myself, he
wasn't present at the sessions. Same with
'Happenings Ten Years Time Ago' he played very
little part. He had on earlier ones I believe.
Apparently he'd actually made up the rift to 'Over
Under Sideways Down' he'd sung it to Jeff.

You had a definite vision of what you wanted

Zeppelin to be as a group?
I knew exactly the style I was after and the sort of
musicians I wanted to play with, the sort of
powerhouse sound I was really going for. I guess it
proves that the group was really meant to be the
way it all came together. And I was so lucky to find
everybody so instantly, without making massive
searches and doing numerous auditions that you
hear about to fill the gaps. Obviously I'd pioneered a
lot of ideas with the Yardbirds, even though they
hadn't been widely heard because of the recording
situation, and it was a chance to take those ideas
further on. It was inevitable that the first LP had
leftover ideas from the Yardbirds because that's
what I'd been working on. It was original stuff that
I'd developed myself.

It always struck me that he was more interested in

the money than the art. He was also the manager of
the group at the time and quite an opportunist. His
whole at-titude was contributory to the collapse of
the group. Like we'd go away on tour for two
months abroad and he'd try to economize in every
way and you'd come back at the end of it all with
about 100, which just didn't make sense.
How did you come to work with Mickie Most at such
a late stage in the Yardbirds' career and when Most
was moving away from rock acts?

With the Yardbirds it seemed that you and Jeff Beck

had both been pioneering ideas in a
complementary direction, but when it came to
forming your own bands Jeff never actually
achieved the same chemistry you found with
Zeppelin.

That was Simon Napier-Bell again. He had us and

Jeff Beck, and he just presented it to Mickie Most as
a package.
Was that a really frustrating period for the group?

550

Well he could have done. He had fantastic bands.

The early one with Aynsley Dunbar was a brilliant
band, but it was his own temperament and the way
he treated his musicians which was really
outrageous. Sacking and rehiring, sacking and
rehiring purely at Jeff's convenience. You're never
gonna get the right feeling within the band or the
right chemistry when people feel they're not getting
their just desserts. Jeff's his own worst enemy in
that respect.

groups have explored I'm thinking of people like

Fairport Convention and Yes I figure that will
change. I feel that young musicians will emerge
again, but through a level of really good writing, of
depth and intellect, like the classical. The young
musicians of today are not all Bay City Rollers.
You're gonna get some with heads on their
shoulders who are not gonna be content to do the
same thing all the time.
The form the artistic expression takes may not be
the same as ten years ago when it was geared to
performance and close audience contact. There is a
new textbook open. The people that seem to be the
real innovative driving forces, Hendrix springs to
mind, they usually come through and tie up a lot of
loose ends, and from that they come through with a
constant identity of their own. We're ready for
another person who can draw from the past and
draw from all the different directions that have been
opened up, and who'll bring it all together. But I
think it will be the actual writing that will count, it will
be back to composition like in classical music or the
jazz of someone like Ellington.

You seem to have weathered the storm with Jeff

well enough.
Jeff and I had our ups and downs. Jeff can be very
difficult to work with, even purely from a playing
point of view. We had something that could have
been really special when we were doing the duallead thing together. But we'd rehearse hard on
certain things working out sections where we'd
play harmonies like a stereo guitar effect then
onstage Jeff was just uncontrollable. He'd go off
into something absolutely different. That was
actually the high point of my time with the Yardbirds
in some respects, and it's a pity we spent so little
time in the studios when that was going on.

In the past you've perhaps been more interested in

fusing different styles and ideas rather than in
composition?

When it came to forming your bands both you and

Jeff started from similar points, not only musically
but in using musicians who were highly
experienced yet hardly well known faces at the
time.

I'm very interested myself in scoring orchestral

music. The frequencies and scope within a band,
especially building up banks of guitars, aren't too
limited. There's so much more that can be done
with an orchestra, though the variety of sound
it's a totally different approach. I'm working on a few
things at the moment which first I'll doodle up with
banks of guitars. All the time people are coming up
with gadgets and devices to make the guitar sound
completely different. A complete guitar orchestra
isn't a joke idea at all. It's something I still don't think
anyone has done properly and it's something I've
been wanting to do for some time.

I think Jeff's musicians were probably more known.

Nobody had heard of Robert or Bonzo really.
Robert had been around for a long time, making
records, in contact, involved with name managers
in fact he really had quite a lot of opportunities to
make it before Zeppelin. It's quite remarkable that
he didn't. It's strange the way it happens. I really
think at times that our group was meant to be.
At the time you were putting Zeppelin together
there was a vast pool of musicians available who
had all been through a common experience at
whatever level of success. It seems today as if it's
the same pool, that something about the structure
of the business in this country has become stifling
to emerging talent.

If you're talking about an advance which is partly

dependent on technological advances, surely that's
only open to musicians like yourself able to invest
in such equipment and it's denying new talent.
You're talking about the end product. You're still
gonna get musicians who are able to picture the
end product in their mind and write it down in the
old tradition. So it'll be traditional in that respect, but
revo-lutionary and contemporary in that it will be
using the textbook without lines. In relation to
myself, writing it down is a slow process and I'd
rather be in a position to actually get down and
record my music immediately. I'm fortunate to have
a studio set up in my own home. But you can do it

Yes when I put our band together, there could have

been three or four bands formed with really good
musicians free at the time. I'm out of touch with
what's going on today, really, but I'm pretty
optimistic about the future. What seems like a
stagnant period may actually be a prelude to a
renaissance. I figure that the textbook now of what's
available, of what's been done and all the directions

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with a two-track tape recorder, and you may not end

up with a professional tape but you've got your
sketch, your blueprint. It will emerge in time. Like,
every musician I can remember from way back that
was any good and who stuck at it, has come
through. I can't think of anyone who hasn't.

was a world tour taking in areas like Thailand, Java,

Egypt and actually recording locally so we could
pick up on the vibe of the place and record with the
local musicians. We'd already done this before in
Bombay and it was so inspiring. We wanted to
record here, there, and everywhere like that, even if
only for ourselves because there's so much to be
learnt from such an experience.

The guitar suite you're working on, is that

eventually to be played within the group context?

It ties up with what we were talking about earlier. If

you listen to tapes I have of music from Himalayan
festivals, for a start it sounds as though it's from
Morocco, but one can also listen and think one was
listen-ing to something from a thousand years ago
because it's unlikely to have changed very much.
It's still in the past, but one can learn from the
mathematics of that music and use that in seeking a
futuristic approach. It's tying up those loose ends
again and taking them further on. There haven't
been too many people as far as I'm con-cerned who
have managed to do it. Only two people actually
spring to mind who had a definite spacewards thinking. One was Syd Barrett. It was an absolute
tragedy that that chap fell apart, because in that
nine-month period of the early Pink Floyd all that
writing came out of him that was absolutely brilliant.
The other one is Hendrix. They were definite
positive forces over a short period of time. Barrett's
stuff there'd been nothing like it be-fore the first
album of the Floyd's. There were so many ideas, so
many positive statements, you can really feel
genius there. Both he and Hendrix had a futuristic
vision in a sense.

Yes. I don't really want to get into the solo gig, solo
album syndrome. Anything I write, even along those
lines, I don't think of it any other way than the group
doing it. I just want to explore the possibilities of
tracking guitars and harmonies. I've got one piece
which is a perfect vehicle to explore those areas
with vast banks of guitars, which would be
orchestration as such and if that is successful it
could possibly be arranged differently for an
orchestra. But whether we'd do it or someone else, I
don't know. I feel it's time for me now to start
exploring what's there.
The tendency in the past for rock musicians
working in those areas is to look back more than
they look forwards. Mike Oldfield seems to be a
case in point, relating strongly to an English
tradition of, say, Vaughan Williams a pastoral
tradition.
Obviously, because if there's an identity to something you can immediately recognize it. Like,
Oldfield's stuff may contain a change of mood in a
passage and it will sound like a maypole dance, but
he's still given it an identity within what he's doing.
The key to it all is to come up with something
timeless, with no fixed identity so that you can't turn
round and say it sounds like this or it sounds like
that. The closest I've come to realizing
that was the film music I did for Lucifer Rising [a still
incomplete film by the controversial underground
film maker, Kenneth Anger]. I had to do an opening
sequence to the film which was about 25 minutes
long. I was really nervous, because the opening
sequence is a dawning se-quence which
immediately brings comparisons with 2001 to mind.
The film was shot in Egypt and I wanted to create a
timelessness, so by using a synthesizer I tried to
change the actual sound of every instrument so you
couldn't say immediately, 'that's a drum or a guitar' I
was juggling around with sounds in order to lose a
recognizable identity as such.

They both had a total talent, musically and lyrically,

whereas you seem to have been writing less and
less lyrics since the second Zeppelin album and
have developed this special partnership with
Robert. It's similar to the way Jagger's lyrics are
always spot on to Keith Richard's idea.
Yeah, I did write lyrics as you say, but after Robert
had written 'Stairway To Heaven' there was just no
point in my writing any more lyrics since I wasn't
gonna top anything like that and obviously he was.
Robert is just very much in sympathy with the vibe
of my music. There's a certain amount of discussion
but usually it's just there naturally. I'm sure I could
write down on a piece of paper how I visualized a
piece of music before Robert writes the lyrics and
they would match up. It comes back to the
chemistry of the group. The group has been going
for a long time now, seven to eight years. There are
too many groups that have broken up or changed
personnel for whatever reason and it's so unfortunate. Whenever we sit down and talk about the
future there's always this bond that we're gonna go
on forever. There's no splinter thing like solo
albums. If there ever were solo albums it wouldn't

It was one of the consequences of Robert's

accident that it gave us time to finish off the Led
Zeppelin film and for me to complete work on
Lucifer Rising after we'd rescheduled our year.
When we were forced into exile we decided to
make the most of it creatively. What we planned

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be because somebody was so frustrated that he

couldn't get what he wanted out within the group
unit. The creative process may change, you never
know, but we're confident it will stay as it is. It's like
the Munich LP [Presence] which was done in three
weeks. We went in with nothing really, nothing was
plotted out beforehand which is what usually happens. There may have been a few ideas on
cassette from our travels but that was all.
Everything just came pour-ing out in the studio and
we never came out of a day's playing with long
faces because we always accomplished something.
Once we start playing we just gell.

doesn't bother you too much if there's a creative

stream coming through. Maybe it's necessary to
that creative stream. What's bad is that it's not
always a release. You build yourself to that pitch
and the release doesn't come. There are different
ways of releasing that surplus adrenalin. You can
smash up hotel rooms it can get to that state. I
think we've learnt to come to terms with it. I've
learnt to enjoy it and achieve something creative
from it too.

The whole testament of that Munich album is that it

proved to all of us once and for all, that there was
no reason for the group to split up. I can't think of
too many groups that have been going as long as
we have that still have that spontaneity about them.
We have taken longer in the past, like Graffiti, which
took over a year, but the Munich LP showed what
we have as a group.

I read Crowley's technical works. I read those a

number of years back and still refer to them from
time to time just because of his system. I read
Magic In Theory And Practice when I was about 11
but it wasn't for some years till I understood what it
was about. Most of his stuff was unobtainable and
by the time I was able to get hold of it I was able to
understand more. The more I was able to obtain of
his own, as opposed to what other people wrote
about him, I realized he had a lot to say.

Does the solace you've achieved in any way spring

from your reading Aleister Crowley?

The obvious group which comes to mind is the

Who, but Townshend is such a fhrer figure that
he's more or less telling the group what to play.
When that happened they ceased to be a group
and he has forced them almost to try and establish
themselves on solo albums. We know what we've
got as a group and that extends far beyond mere
playing ability.

What was it he said that made such an impression

on you?
I don't want to go into it too much. I don't want to
get like Pete Townshend and Meher Baba because
I'm sure most people would find it very boring. I'm
not trying to interest anyone in Alistair Crowley any
more than I am in Charles Dickens. All it was, was
that at a particular time he was expounding a theory
of self-liberation which is something which is so
important. He was like an eye into the world, into
the forthcoming situation. My studies have been
quite intensive but I don't particularly want to go into
it because it's a personal thing and isn't in relation
to anything apart from that I've employed his
system in my own day-to-day life. It's the idea of
liberation, that man is doing a job and wants to be
doing some-thing else, and that suppression of his
will of what he is is a very sorry state of
affairs. It can make a man sick, mentally and
physically, or it can manifest itself in other ways
violence or aggression of some form. The thing is to
come to terms with one's free will, discover one's
place and what one is, and from that you can go
ahead and do it and not spend your whole life
suppressed and frustrated. It's very basically
coming to terms with yourself. That's a very simple
account.

It certainly extends to your playing onstage. The

group has such a corporate sense of energy and
power, whereas being on the road is hardly
conducive to that kind of feeling, or to creativity in
any sense.
Well, it is, because of the feedback from the
concerts. And there's a tremendous release of
adrenalin which unfortunately you can't shut off. It
takes a hell of a lot out of you physically and
mentally to a point of sheer exhaustion but it is very
stimulating.
That's not the picture that comes out in Ellen
Sander's account of Zeppelin on the road in the
book Trips.
That's not a false picture, but that side of touring
isn't the be all and end all. The worst part is the
period of waiting before going on. I always get very
edgy, not knowing what to do with myself. It's the
buildup where you reach a point almost like selfhypnosis. There's a climax at the end of the show
and the audience goes away, but you're still buzzing
and you don't really come down. That's when you
get a sort of restlessness and insomnia, but it

Mick Houghton, 1976

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Led Zeppelin: The Song Remains The Same

superimposing of a rampant Excalibur in a sea of

flames as Percy approaches the young damsel is
one of cinema's sillier moments. (Not to mention
finding a large, bright red, plastic looking mushroom
under a tree.) The only thing missing was the box of
Black Magic and a calling card.

Jonh Ingham, Sounds, 13 November 1976

SO THERE we were. We'd pushed through the
crowds outside the Warner West End theatre. Run
the gamut of flashbulbs. Said Hello to the
McCartneys. Sat down amongst Jane Stonehouse,
Lisa Todd, Billy Connolly and a veritable galazy of
stars. Listened to Swan Song's finest over the p.a.
Now we waited.

Only Jimmy Page survives the pretensions of

cosmickness, scaling the trials and tribulations of
the mortal coil in the quest for Godhead. John
Bonham, perhaps wisely, keeps to the real World,
revealing a love for dancing and very fast cars.
More power to him.

Zeppelin walked in single file, looking slightly

sheepish. Page looked skeletal. The front half of the
audience the paying members rose in respect.

Peter Grant's sequence was entirely in keeping

the ultimate manager's fantasy, loaded with abstract
symbolism. Opening the film, it sets the tone: fun
and games, but only because it's fueled by
business-as-usual.

Perhaps Zep looked sheepish because they had

just done the same thing 30 minutes earlier a few
blocks away at the Shaftesbury Avenue ABC. Yes, it
was typical Zeppelin efficiency: two premieres at
once. They probably had time for a Milky Way, the
sweet you can eat between premieres.

But the stage sequences are something else again.

Closer than you'll ever be to the group at a gig, it's
great to watch Jimmy's fingering or Jones' bass
work. Bonham's drum solo actually becomes
interesting.

Several colleagues weren't enthusiastic about this

cinematic sensation. After all, the New York Daily
News had given it a 0 star out of a possible five,
and the transatlantic grapevine had been afire with
considered opinions.

The visuals are good, but there's a limited amount

of angles you can use on a stage, and by the
second hour the repetition is wearing. It's just like
being at a live gig but you can't walk around.

Perhaps the ultimate comment of the unconvinced

was that overheard at the party afterwards: "My
only complaint is it was two hours too long."

What compounded this was the sound. The

cinema's speakers just weren't made for it,
distorting the bass end all night because of the
volume. Halfway through they began to break up,
and overall one was dominated by a piercing treble.
Without highs and lows it wasn't very pleasant.

The Song Remains The Same lasts two hours, 15

minutes.
I was hoping for the best. Good rock movies are
few and far between, but with the legendary Zep ithas-to-right-or-not-at-all attitude, one was
optimistic. And with the equally legendary fantasy
sequences intersecting the concert sequences, it
promised to be a possibly fascinating, revealing
insight into Led Zep as people as well as rock
Olympians.

The trouble with this film is it's so easy to knock it.

Take the technical aspects for instance. They're
excellent, but the optical effects belong in a 1968
psychedelic film. Or the documentary aspects.
Nowhere is the work that goes into a tour detailed.
The boys get a telegram announcing a tour; the
next day they're stepping off the plane onto the
stage. Backstage scenes are shown without
meaning or connection.

And that was the trouble. Zeppelin as mere mortals,

giving specific insight into their private lives and
fantasies, were largely depressing. Embarrassing
even.

The sad thing about knocking it is that I basically

liked it. Indulgent, yes, silly, too. But there's a
liveliness in the Madison Square Garden
sequences rarely seen in rock films, and some of
the music articularly 'Since I've Been Loving You'
is out of this world.

No wonder John Paul Jones remains silent if his

idea of himself is the amateur Halloween/Hammer
pastiche presented as his fantasy. (He shows
himself to be a marvelous family man, though.)

In the end you have to conclude it's exactly what it's

advertised as: the world's most expensive home
movie.

And Robert Plant's notion of being King Arthur

wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't so simplistic. The

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Or as the Biz wigs told each other afterwards, 'This

is to satisfy the average Zep fan and let him see the
group at a time when they're not on the road'. How
mercenary. How business-as-usual.

drummer John "Bonzo" Bonham, and when Chris

Dreja decided to pursue a career in photography,
John Paul Jones was added on bass, an
acquaintance from Jimmy's session days who had
arranged, among other things, Donovan's 'Mellow
Yellow'. They dropped the name of the New
Yardbirds "We felt it was working under false
pretenses" and, courtesy of Keith Moon, became
Led Zeppelin.

Jonh Ingham, 1976

Led Zeppelin
David Dalton,Lenny Kaye, Rock 100, 1977

In a small rehearsal space in London, they put the

pieces together. "We played for a while, and then
we started laughing at each other. Maybe it was
from relief or maybe from the knowledge that we
knew we could groove together. But that was it. The
statement of our first two weeks together is our first
album. Between us we wrote seven of the tracks
and it only took us thirty hours to cut it. I suppose it
was the fact that we were confident and prepared
which made things flow so smoothly in the studio.
We recorded them almost exactly as we'd been
doing them live."

ON MAY 5, 1973, A CAPACITY CROWD OF 56,800

paid $309,000 to watch Led Zeppelin perform for
nearly three hours in a Tampa, Florida, football
stadium. The largest paid concert attendance for a
single musical act in the history of the United
States, it topped the Beatles' previous high of
55,000 and a mere $301,000 at Shea Stadium.
Records are made to be broken, but if there's any
shattering to be done at this point, Led Zeppelin will
probably be the ones to crack the mark again. Like
their namesake, they defy gravity to ride a core of
flaming vapor, the acknowledged heavyweight band
champions of the world.

And live, Led Zeppelin had quickly established

themselves as a powerhouse of stage charisma
and pyrotechnics. Coming across the ocean in an
uproar of guitar and vocal mayhem, their earliest
and most apparent roots were blues, Willie Dixon
songs ('You Shook Me', 'I Can't Quit You Baby')
mingled in sexual metaphor and electronic
extension, pinioned by the folk-ish calm of 'Black
Mountain Side' and 'Communication Breakdown's
amphetamine acceleration. Page, frustrated in his
attempts to imbue the Yardbirds with his personality,
had taken calculated vengeance here, showcasing
a mastery of his instrument that instantly
rearranged the pop hierarchy of Clapton, Hendrix
and Beck. Led Zeppelin had their antecedents
Beck himself had scored heavily with his own
Yardbirds' spin-off, featuring vocalist Rod Stewart
but the vacuum created by the demise of Cream
called for nothing less than the colossal. With the
short-lived fad of the supergroup (Blind Faith)
seemingly shaky, Led Zeppelin demonstrated they
could not only be the biggest, but the best.

When Jimmy Page brought his New Yardbirds back

from Scandinavia in 1968, he could only guess at
the implicit power contained within the group. As the
original Yardbirds' final lead guitarist, he had
inherited their experimental mantle after a farewell
at the Luton College of Technology in July, hoping
to augment the loss of Keith Relf and Jim McCarty
with singer-guitarist Terry Reid and drummer Paul
Francis. Reid had signed a solo contract with
producer Mickie Most, however, and suggested a
young vocalist named Robert Plant in his place.
"I went up to see him sing," Jimmy reminisced to
England's ZigZag, "he was in a group called
Obstweedle or Hobbstweedle, something like that
[actually, Obbstweedle], who were playing at a
teachers training college outside of Birmingham to
an audience of about twelve people... you know, a
typical student set up, where drinking is the prime
consideration and the group is only of secondary
importance." He didn't care for the band's San
Francisco outlook, "but Robert was fantastic, and
having heard him that night, and having listened to
a demo he had given me [of songs recorded with
his previous group, Band of Joy], I realized that
without a doubt his voice had an exceptional and
very distinctive quality."

Primeval, not primitive, the march of the dinosaurs

that characterized their first release broke open the
flattened planes of Zeppelin's appeal. They seemed
to bask in the glory of stardom, swashbuckling and
daring rock and rollers. For American audiences,
much of England's lure had always been its slightly
decayed air of kinky glamor, and as Robert sang of
having his lemon squeezed, strange stories
circulated of dead sharks being found in deserted
Zeppelin hotel rooms. The promise of lifestyle drew
as many adherents as their music drew critics,
"Who said that white men couldn't sing blues?"
queried critic John Mendelssohn in a devastating

Plant was indeed a find, a multi-octave spread built

on a freewheeling vocal attitude that would often
discard words for rococo improvising, spiraling
upwards in tandem with Page. Robert
recommended another ex-Band of Joy member,

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Rolling Stone parody of Led Zeppelin II. "I mean,

like, who?"

company (Swan Song), and a manager, Peter

Grant, whose burly ex-wrestler's figure befits their
image. Along with platinum albums, even
misfortunes take on grander scales: while
performing the final concerts of their 1973 tour in
New York, their hotel safe-deposit box was milked
of $180,000 in cash.

"That's the sort of thing we used to get," Page

noted. "The public was always 100 percent behind
us, but we had few allies in the press." The last is
an understatement. As the beachhead of what
would become a full-blown metallic invasion (Deep
Purple, Humble Pie, as well as Black Sabbath and
Grand Funk Railroad), Led Zeppelin were
unmercifully called to task, victims of their own
abrupt rise and decibel attack. Much of the criticism
was unfounded; they might have been blatant, but
there was conscientious effort behind each of the
tracks on their albums, especially after Plant began
writing lyrics. His strain of Celtic mysticism surfaced
in Led Zeppelin III, whose material grew to life in "a
small derelict cottage in South Snowdonia," Bron-YAur, a bucolic setting of gallows poles and
highwaymen.

And yet they've never talked of solo careers

"Once you've done a 'Stairway,' and you've listened
to it after you've recorded it," says Robert, "you've
reached a point where you can't play with anybody
else" or given any less than their utmost.
"It's a bit awe-inspiring," admits Page." You drive up
and see all those people and it hits you that you're
the people they've all come to see. To coin a
phrase, it's your arses that are on the line. But then
I suppose that's one of the reasons people always
come to see us and always came to see us in the
past, is that we try our hardest. We've never ever
gone out there and chewed gum and sort of
messed about, we've always played our bullocks
off. Whether you like it or not is another issue
altogether. When you've done all you can do, then
you're happy with what you're doing and you're not
compromising." Beset by a broken left finger before
a recent tour, he promptly developed a three-finger
style to compensate, seemingly unaffected.

By late 1971, even the critics had to reconsider.

Were Zeppelin as crass as portrayed, the
expectation might have been a hurried succession
of albums and tours, exploiting their formula to
indifference. Instead, there was no formula, and
Zeppelin showed a distinct willingness to remove
themselves totally from the public eye when it came
time to work, "You can compare it to a successful
author," Plant told Hit Parader's Lisa Robinson. "If
he writes a book and it's a fantastic success then
he's not expected to follow it up immediately with
something else, because that makes him a slave to
the wrong thing... it has to be presented to the
people when it's ready. It's the same with us."

David Dalton, Lenny Kaye, 1977

Jimmy Page
Steven Rosen, Guitar Player, July 1977

Their wait was rewarded with 'Stairway To Heaven',

on a fourth album which bore no name but a series
of runic symbols, one for each member. The song
was written in stages, beginning at the Bron-Y-Aur
cottage, moving from acoustic soft to slashing
electric in deliberate movements, its verses
reminiscent of The Faerie Queene, opening to a
miles-long depth and resolve. On the same album,
'Rock and Roll' let their fans know that
megatonnage could never be forgotten.

CONDUCTING AN INTERVIEW with Jimmy Page,

lead guitarist and producer/arranger for England's
notorious hard rock band Led Zeppelin, amounts
very nearly to constructing a mini-history of British
rock and roll.
Perhaps one of Zeppelin's more outstanding
characteristics is its endurance, the band has
remained intact, (there has been no personnel
changes since its inception) through an extremely
tumultuous decade involving not only rock, but
popular music in general. Since 1969 the group's
four members Page, bass player John Paul
Jones, vocalist Robert Plant, and drummer John
Bonham have produced eight albums (two are
doubles) of original and often revolutionary
compositions with a heavy metal sound. For as long
as the band has been an entity, their records,
coupled with several well-planned and highly
publicized European and American tours, have
exerted a profound and acutely recognizable
influence on rock groups and guitar players on both

It is this ability to be in all places at once that has

allowed Led Zeppelin to outlast their many
imitators. Future albums (Houses of the Holy,
Physical Graffiti) have shown an even greater
leaning to the unexpected, an absorption of
structures from Moroccan to Jamaican to James
Brown rhythm and blues that transforms each into
the stylized energy emphasis of Zeppelin's own.
Arguably the world's most popular group (in the
sense that there are only unreliable measuring
sticks), they travel in style: a private jet, one of the
world's largest sound systems, their own record

556

sides of the Atlantic. Page's carefully calculated

guitar frenzy, engineered through the use of
distortion, surrounds Plant's expressive vocals to
create a tension and excitement rarely matched by
Zeppelin's numerous emulators.

Were your parents musical?

No, not at all. But they didn't mind me getting into it;
I think they were quite relieved to see something
being done instead of art work, which they thought
was a loser's game.

But the prodigious contributions of James Patrick

Page, born in 1945 in Middlesex, England, date
back to well before the formation of his present
band. His work as a session guitarist earned him so
lengthy a credit list (some sources site Jimmy as
having been on 50-90 percent of the records
released in England from 1963 to 1965) that he
himself is no longer sure of each and every cut on
which he played. Even without the exact number of
his vinyl encounters known, the range of his
interaction as musician and sometime-producer
with the landmark groups and individuals of soft and
hard rock is impressive and diverse: the Who,
Them, various members of the Rolling Stones,
Donovan, and Jackie DeShannon to name a few. In
the mid-'60s, Page joined one of the best-known
British rock bands, the Yardbirds, leading to a
legendary collaboration with rock/jazz guitarist Jeff
Beck. When the Yardbirds disbanded in 1968, Page
was ready to start his own group. According to
Jimmy, at the initial meeting of Led Zeppelin, the
sound of success was already bellowing through
the amps, and the musicians' four-week
introductory period resulted in Led Zeppelin, their
first of many gold-record-winning LPs.

What music did you play when you first started?

I wasn't really playing anything properly. I just knew
a few bits of solos and things, not much. I just kept
getting records and learning that way. It was the
obvious influences at the beginning: Scotty Moore,
James Burton, Cliff Gallup he was Gene Vincent's
guitarist Johnny Weeks, later, and those seemed
to be the most sustaining influences until I began to
hear blues guitarists Elmore James, B.B. King, and
people like that. Basically, that was the start: a
mixture between rock and blues. Then I stretched
out a lot more, and I started doing studio work. I
had to branch out, and I did. I might do three
sessions a day: A film session in the morning, and
then there'd be something like a rock band, and
then maybe a folk one in the evening. I didn't know
what was coming! But it was a really good
disciplinary area to work in, the studio. And it also
gave a me a chance to develop on all of the
different styles.
Do you remember the first band you were in?
Just friends and things. I played in a lot of different
small bands around, but nothing you could ever get
any records of.

Let's start at the beginning. When you first started

playing, what was going on musically?
I got really stimulated by hearing early rock and roll,
knowing that something was going on that was
being suppressed by the media which it really was
at the time. You had to stick by the radio and listen
to overseas radio to even hear good rock records
like Little Richard and things like that. The record
that made me want to play guitar was 'Baby, Let's
Play House' by Elvis Presley. I just sort of heard two
guitars and bass and thought, "Yeah, I want to be
part of this." There was just so much vitality and
energy coming out of it.

What kind of music were you playing with [early

English rock band] Neil Christian and the
Crusaders?
This was before the Stones happened, so we were
doing Chuck Berry, Gene Vincent, and Bo Diddley
things mainly. At the time, public taste was more
engineered toward Top 10 records, so it was a bit of
a struggle. But there'd always be a small section of
the audience into what we were doing.

When did you get your first guitar?

Wasn't there a break in your music career at this

point?

When I was about 14. It was all a matter of trying to

pick up tips and stuff. There weren't many method
books, really, apart from jazz which had no bearing
on rock and roll whatsoever at that time. But that
first guitar was a Grazzioso which was like a copy
of a Stratocaster; then I got a real Stratocaster; then
one of those Gibson "Black Beauties" which stayed
with me for a long time until some thieving magpie
took it to his nest. That's the guitar I did all the '60s
sessions on.

Yes, I stopped playing and went to art college for

about two years, while concentrating more on blues
playing on my own. And then I went from art college
to the [early British rock mecca] Marquee Club in
London. I used to go up and jam on a Thursday
night with the interlude band. One night somebody
came up and said, "Would you like to play on a
record?" and I said, "Yeah, why not?" It did quite
well, and that was it after that. I can't remember the

557

title of it now. From that point I started suddenly

getting all this studio work. There was a crossroads:
Is it an art career or is it going to be music? Well
anyway, I had to stop going to the art college
because I was really getting into music. Big Jim
Sullivan who was really brilliant and I were the
only guitarists doing those sessions. Then a point
came where Stax Records [the Memphis-based
rhythm and blues label] started influencing music to
have more brass and orchestral stuff. The guitar
started to take a back trend, and there was just the
occasional riff. I didn't realize how rusty I was going
to get until a rock and roll session turned up in
France, and I couldn't play. I thought it was time to
get out, and I did.

didn't know that then. I just saw it on the wall, had a

go with it, and it was good. I traded a Gretsch Chet
Atkins I'd had before for the Les Paul.
What kinds of amplifiers were you using for session
work?
A small Supro, which I used until someone, I don't
know who, smashed it up for me. I'm going to try
and get another one. It's like a Harmony amp, I
think, and all of the first album [Led Zeppelin] was
done on that.
What do you remember most about your early days
with the Yardbirds?

You just stopped playing?

One thing is it was chaotic in recording. I mean we

did one tune and didn't really know what it was. We
had Ian Stewart from the Stones on piano, and we'd
just finished the take, and without even hearing it
[producer] Mickie Most said, "Next." I said, "I've
never worked like this in my life," and he said,
"Don't worry about it." It was all done very quickly,
as it sounds. It was things like that that really led to
the general state of mind and depression of Relf
and [drummer] Jim McCarty that broke the group
up. I tried to keep it together, but there was no
chance; they just wouldn't have it. In fact, Relf said
the magic of the band disappeared when Clapton
left [British rock/blues guitarist Eric Clapton played
with the Yardbirds prior to Beck's joining]. I was
really keen on doing anything, though, probably
because of having all that studio work and variety
beforehand. So it didn't matter what way they
wanted to go; they were definitely talented people,
but they couldn't really see the woods for the trees
at that time.

For a while I just worked on my stuff alone, and

then I went to a Yardbirds concert at Oxford, and
they were all walking around in their penguin suits.
[Lead singer] Keith Relf got really drunk and was
saying "Fuck you" right into the mic and falling into
the drums. I thought it was a great anarchistic night,
and I went back into the dressing room and said,
"What a brilliant show!" There was this great
argument going on; [bass player] Paul SamwellSmith saying, "Well, I'm leaving the group, and if I
was you, Keith, I'd do the very same thing." So, he
left the group, and Keith didn't. But they were stuck,
you see, because they had commitments and
dates, so I said, "I'll play the bass if you like." And
then it worked out that we did the dual guitar thing
as soon as [previously on rhythm guitar] Chris Dreja
could get it together with the bass, which happened,
though not for long. But then came the question of
discipline. If you're going to do dual lead guitars riffs
and patterns, then you've got to be playing the
same things. Jeff Beck had discipline occasionally,
but he was an inconsistent player in that when he's
on, he's probably the best there is, but at that time,
and for a period afterward, he had no respect
whatsoever for audiences.

You thought the best period of the Yardbirds was

when Beck was with them?
I did. Giorgio Gomelsky [the Yardbird's manager
and producer] was good for him because he got
him thinking and attempting new things. That's
when they started all sorts of departures.
Apparently [co-producer] Simon Napier-Bell sang
the guitar riff of 'Over Under Sideways Down' [on LP
of the same name] to Jeff to demonstrate what he
wanted, but I don't know whether that's true or not. I
never spoke to him about it. I know the idea of the
record was to emulate the sound of the old 'Rock
Around the Clock'-type record that bass and
backbeat thing. But it wouldn't be evident at all;
every now and again he'd say, "Let's make a record
around such and such," and no one would ever
know what the example was at the end of the song.

You were playing acoustic guitar during your

session period?
Yes, I had to do it on studio work. And you come to
grips with it very quickly too, very quickly, because
it's what is expected. There was a lot of busking
[singing on street corners] in the earlier days, but as
I say, I had to come to grips with it, and it was a
good schooling.
You were using the Les Paul for those sessions?
The Gibson "Black Beauty" Les Paul Custom. I was
one of the first people in England to have one, but I

558

Can you describe some of your musical interaction

with Beck during the Yardbirds period?

[guitarist/vocalist with Small Faces] Steve Marriott.

Finally it came down to Marriott. He was contacted,
and the reply came back from his manager's office:
"How would you like to have a group with no
fingers, boys?" Or words to that effect. So the group
was dropped because of Marriott's commitment to
Small Faces. But I think it would have been the first
of all those bands sort of like the Cream and
everything. Instead, it didn't happen apart from
the 'Bolero'. That's the closest it got. John Paul
[Jones] is on that too; so is Nicky Hopkins [studio
keyboard player with various British rock groups].

Sometimes it worked really great, and sometimes it

didn't. There were a lot of harmonies that I don't
think anyone else had really done, not like we did.
The Stones were the only ones who got into two
guitars going at the same time, like on old Muddy
Waters records. But we were more into solos rather
than a rhythm thing. The point is, you've got to have
parts worked out, and I'd find that I was doing what I
was supposed to, while something totally different
was coming from Jeff. That was all right for the
areas of improvisation, but there were other parts
where it just did not work. You've got to understand
that Beck and I came from the same sort of roots. If
you've got things you enjoy, then you want to do
them to the horrifying point where we'd done our
first LP [Led Zeppelin] with 'You Shook Me', and
then I heard he'd done 'You Shook Me' [Truth]. I
was terrified because I thought they'd be the same.
But I hadn't even known he'd done it, and he hadn't
known that we had.

You only recorded a few songs with Beck?

Yeah. 'Happenings Ten Years Time Ago' [The
Yardbirds' Greatest Hits], 'Stroll On' [Blow Up], 'The
Train Kept A-Rollin'' [Having a Rave-up with the
Yardbirds], and 'Psycho Daisies' [available only on
the B-side of the English single release of
'Happenings Ten Years Ago' and an obscure
bootleg titled More Golden Eggs], 'Bolero', and a
few other things. None of them were with the
Yardbirds but earlier on just some studio things,
unreleased songs: 'Louie Louie' and things like that;
really good though, really great.

Did Beck play bass on Over Under Sideways

Down?
No. In fact for that LP they just got him in to do the
solos because they'd had a lot of trouble with him.
But then when I joined the band, he supposedly
wasn't going to walk off anymore. Well, he did a
couple of times. It's strange: if he'd had a bad day,
he'd take it out on the audience. I don't know
whether he's the same now; his playing sounds far
more consistent on records. You see, on the 'Beck's
Bolero' [Truth] thing I was working with that, the
track was done, and then the producer just
disappeared. He was never seen again; he simply
didn't come back. Napier-Bell, he just sort of left me
and Jeff to it. Jeff was playing and I was in the box
[recording booth]. And even though he says he
wrote it, I wrote it. I'm playing the electric 12-string
on it. Beck's doing the slide bits, and I'm basically
playing around the chords. The idea was built
around [classical composer] Maurice Ravel's
'Bolero'. It's got a lot of drama to it; it came off right.
It was a good lineup too, with [the Who's drummer]
Keith Moon, and everything.

Were you using any boosters with the Yardbirds to

get all those sounds?
Fuzztone which I'd virtually regurgitated from what I
heard on '2000 Pound Bee' by the Ventures. They
had a Fuzztone. It was nothing like the one this guy,
Roger Mayer, made for me; he worked for the
Admiralty [British Navy] in the electronic division.
He did all the fuzz pedals for Jimi Hendrix later all
those octave doublers and things like that. He made
this one for me, but that was all during the studio
period, you see. I think Jeff had one too then, but I
was the one who got the effect going again. That
accounted for quite a lot of the boost and that sort
of sustain in the music.
You were also doing all sorts of things with
feedback?
You know 'I Need You' [Kinkdom] by the Kinks? I
think I did that bit there in the beginning. I don't
know who really did feedback first; it just sort of
happened. I don't think anybody consciously nicked
it from anybody else; it was just going on. But Pete
Townshend [lead guitarist of the Who] obviously
was the one, through the music of his group, who
made the use of feedback more his style, and so it's
related to him. Whereas the other players like Jeff
and myself were playing more single notes and
things than chords.

Wasn't that band going to be Led Zeppelin?

It was, yeah. Not Led Zeppelin as a name; the
name came afterwards. But it was said afterwards
that that's what it could have been called. Because
Moony wanted get out of the Who and so did [Who
bass player] John Entwhistle, but when it came
down to getting a hold of a singer, it was either
going to be [guitarist/organist/singer with English
pop group Traffic] Steve Winwood or

559

You used a Danelectro with the Yardbirds?

you could tell because you could split the pickups

you know that split sound you can get and again
you could get an out-of-phase sound, and then
suddenly they didn't do it anymore. So they
obviously changed the electronics. And there didn't
seem to be any way of getting it back. I tried to
fiddle around with the wiring, but it didn't work so I
just went back to the old one again.

Yes, but not with Beck. I did use it in the latter days.
I used it onstage for 'White Summer' [Little Games].
I used a special tuning for that; the low string down
to B, then A, D, G, A, and D. It's like a modal tuning,
a sitar tuning, in fact.
Was 'Black Mountain Side'[on Led Zeppelin] an
extension of that?

What kind of guitar were you using on the first Led

Zeppelin album?

I wasn't totally original on that. It had been done in

the folk clubs a lot; Annie Briggs was the first one
that I heard do that riff. I was playing it as well, and
then there was [English folk guitarist] Bert Jansch's
version. He's the one who crystallized all the
acoustic playing, as far as I'm concerned. Those
first few albums of his were absolutely brilliant. And
the tuning on 'Black Mountain Side' is the same as
'White Summer'. It's taken a bit of battering, that
Danelectro guitar, I'm afraid.

A Telecaster. I used the Les Paul with the Yardbirds

on about two numbers and a Fender for the rest.
You see the Les Paul Custom had a central setting,
a kind of out-of-phase pickup sound which Jeff
couldn't get on his Les Paul, so I used mine for that.
Was the Telecaster the one Beck gave to you?
Yes. There was work done on it, but only
afterwards. I painted it; everyone painted their
guitars in those days. And I had reflective plastic
sheeting underneath the pickguard that gives off
rainbow colors.

Do those songs work well now on the Danelectro?

I played them on that guitar before, so I thought I'd
do it again. But I might change it around to
something else, since my whole amp situation is
different now from what it used to be; now it's
Marshall. Back then it was Vox tops and different
cabinets kind of hodge-podge, but it worked.

It sounds exactly like a Les Paul.

Yeah, well that's the amp and everything. You see, I
could get a lot of tones out of the guitar that you
normally couldn't. This confusion goes back to the
early sessions again with the Les Paul. Those might
not sound like a Les Paul, but that's what I used. It's
just different amps, mic placings, and all different
things. Also, if you just crank it up to distortion point
so you can sustain notes, it's bound to sound like a
Les Paul. I was using the Supro amp for the first
album, and I still use it. The 'Stairway to Heaven'
solo was done when I pulled out the Telecaster,
which I hadn't used for a long time, plugged it into
the Supro, and away it went again. That's a different
sound entirely from the rest of the first album. It was
a good, versatile setup. I'm using a Leslie on the
solo on 'Good Times Bad Times'. It was wired up for
an organ thing then.

You used a Vox 12-string with the Yardbirds?

That's right. I can't remember the titles now; the
Mickie Most things, some of the B-sides. I
remember there was one with an electric 12-string
solo on the end of it that was all right. I don't have
copies of them now, and I don't know what they're
called. I've got Little Games, but that's about it.
You were using Vox amps with the Yardbirds?
AC30s. They've held up consistently well. Even the
new ones are pretty good. I tried some; I got four in
and tried them out, and they were reasonably good.
I was going to build up a big bank of four of them,
But Bonzo's kit is so loud that they just don't come
over the top of it properly.

What kind of acoustic guitar are you using on 'Black

Mountain Side' and 'Babe I'm Gonna Leave You'
[both on Led Zeppelin]?

Were the AC30s that you used with the Yardbirds

modified in any way?

That was a Gibson J-200, which wasn't mine; I

borrowed it. It was a beautiful guitar, really great.
I've never found a guitar of that quality anywhere
since. I could play so easily on it, get a really thick
sound; it had heavy-gauge strings on it, but it just
didn't seem to feel like it.

Only by Vox; you could get these ones with special

treble boosters on the back, which is what I had.
No, I didn't do that much customizing apart from
making sure all the points, soldering contacts, and
things were solid. The Telecasters changed rapidly,

560

Do you just use your fingers when you play

acoustic?

concert, playing-wise, at all, but it was the only one

with celluloid footage, so there it was. It was all
right; it was just one "as-it-is" performance. It wasn't
one of those real magic nights, but then again it
wasn't a terrible night. So, for all its mistakes and
everything else, it's a very honest filmtrack. Rather
than just trailing around through a tour with a
recording mobile truck waiting for the magic night, it
was just, "There you are take it or leave it." I've
got a lot of live recorded stuff going back to '69.

Yes. I used fingerpicks once, but I find them too

spiky; they're too sharp. You can't get the tone or
response that you would get, say, the way classical
players approach gut-string instruments. The way
they pick, the whole thing is the tonal response of
the string. It seems important.
Can you describe your picking style?

Jumping ahead to the second album [Led Zeppelin

II], the riff in the middle of 'Whole Lotta Love' was a
very composed and structured phrase.

I don't know, really; it's a cross between fingerstyle

and flatpicking. There's a guy in England called
Davey Graham, and he never used any fingerpicks
or anything. He used a thumbpick every now and
again, but I prefer just a flatpick and fingers
because then it's easier to get around from guitar to
guitar. Well, it is for me, anyway. But apparently
he's got calouses on the left hand and all over the
right as well; he can get so much attack on his
strings, and he's really good.

I had it worked out already, that one, before

entering the studio. I had rehearsed it. And then all
that other stuff, sonic wave sound, and all that, I
built it up in the studio, and put effects on it and
things treatments.
How is that descending riff done?

The guitar on 'Communication Breakdown' sounds

as if it's coming out of a little shoebox.

With a metal slide and backwards echo. I think I

came up with that before anybody. I know it's been
used a lot now, but not at the time. I thought of it on
this Mickie Most thing. In fact, some of the things
that might sound a bit odd have, in fact, backwards
echo on them, as well.

Yeah. I put it in a small room, a tiny vocal boothtype thing and miked it from a distance. You see,
there's a very old recording maxim which goes,
"Distance makes depth." I've used that a hell of a lot
on recording techniques with the band generally,
not just me. You're always used to them closemiking amps, just putting the microphone in front,
but I'd have a mic right out the back, as well, and
then balance the two, to get rid of all the phasing
problems; because really, you shouldn't have to use
an EQ in the studio if the instruments sound right. It
should all be done with the microphones. But see,
everyone has gotten so carried away with EQ pots
that they have forgotten the whole science of
microphone placement. There aren't too many guys
who know it. I'm sure Les Paul knows a lot;
obviously, he must have been well into that, as were
all those who produced the early rock records
where there were one or two mics in the studio.

What kind of effect are you using on the beginning

of 'Ramble On' [Led Zeppelin II]?
If I can remember correctly, it's like harmony
feedback, and then it changes. To be more specific,
most of the tracks just start off bass, drums, and
guitar, and once you've done the drums and bass,
you just build everything up afterwards. It's like a
starting point, and you start constructing from
square one.
Is the rest of the band in the studio when you put
down the solos?
No, never. I don't like anybody else in the studio
when I'm putting on the guitar parts. I usually just
limber up for a while and then maybe do three solos
and take the best of three.

The solo on 'I Can't Quit You Baby' is interesting

many pull-offs in a sort of sloppy but amazingly
inventive style.

Is there an electric 12-string on 'Thank You' [Led

Zeppelin]?

There are mistakes in it, but it doesn't make any

difference. I'll always leave the mistakes in. I can't
help it. The timing bits on the A and Bb parts are
right, though it might sound wrong. The timing just
sounds off. But there are some wrong notes. You've
got to be reasonably honest about it. It's like the
filmtrack album [The Song Remains the Same];
there's no editing really on that. It wasn't the best

Yes. I think it's a Fender or Rickenbacker.

What is the effect on 'Out on the Tiles' [Led
Zeppelin III]?

561

Now that is exactly what I was talking about: closemiking and distance-miking; that's ambient sound.
Getting the distance of the time lag from one end of
the room to the other and putting that in as well.
The whole idea, the way I see recording, is to try
and capture the sound of the room live and the
emotion of the whole moment and try to convey
that. That's the very essence of it. And so,
consequently, you've got to capture as much of the
room sound as possible.

was going to do with it. But I wanted to give each

section its own identity, and I think it came off really
good. I didn't think I'd be able to do it in one night; I
thought I'd have to do it in the course of three
different nights to get the individual sections. But I
was so into it that my mind was working properly for
a change. It sort of crystallized and everything was
just pouring out. I was very happy with the guitar on
that whole album as far as the maturity of the
playing goes.

On 'Tangerine' [Led Zeppelin III] it sounds as if

you're playing a pedal steel.

When you started playing the doubleneck did it

require a new approach on your part?

I am. And on the first LP there's a pedal steel. I had

never played steel before, but I just picked it up.
There's a lot of things I do first time around that I
haven't done before. In fact, I hadn't touched a
pedal steel from the first album to the third. It's a bit
of a pinch really from the things that Chuck Berry
did. Nevertheless, it fits. I use pedal steel in 'Your
Time is Gonna Come' [Led Zeppelin]. It sounds like
a slide or something. It's more out of tune on the
first album because I hadn't got a kit to put it
together.

Yes. The main thing is, there's an effect you can get
where you leave the 12-string neck on and play on
the 6-string neck, and you get the 12-strings
vibrating in sympathy. It's like an Indian sitar, and
I've worked on that a little bit. I use it on 'Stairway'
like that not on the album but on the soundtrack
and film. It's surprising; it doesn't vibrate as heavily
as a sitar would, but nonetheless, it does add to the
overall tonal quality.
You think your playing on Led Zeppelin IV is the
best you've ever done?

You've also played other stringed instruments on

records?

Without a doubt, as far as consistency and the

quality of playing on a whole album. But I don't
know what the best solo I've ever done is I have
no idea. My vocation is more in composition, really,
than in anything else. Building up harmonies,
orchestrating the guitar like an army a guitar army
I think that's where it's at, really, for me. I'm talking
about actual orchestration in the same way you'd
orchestrate a classical piece of music. Instead of
using brass and violins you treat the guitars with
synthesizers or other devices; give them different
treatments, so that they have enough frequency
range and scope and everything to keep the listener
as totally committed to it as the player is. It's a
difficult project, but it's the one I've got to do.

'Gallows Pole' [Led Zeppelin III] was the first time

for banjo, and on 'The Battle of Evermore', [Led
Zeppelin IV] a mandolin was lying around. It wasn't
mine, it was Jonesey's. I just picked it up, got the
chords, and it sort of started happening. I did it
more or less straight off. But, you see, that's
fingerpicking again, going back to the studio days
and developing a certain amount of technique at
least enough to be adapted and used. My
fingerpicking is a sort of cross between Pete
Seeger, Earl Scruggs, and total incompetence.
The fourth album was the first time you used a
double-neck?

Have you done anything towards this end already?

I didn't use a doubleneck on that, but I had to get
one afterwards to play 'Stairway to Heaven'. I did all
those guitars on it; I just built them up. That was the
beginning of my building up harmonized guitars
properly. 'Ten Years Gone' [Physical Graffiti] was an
extension of that, and then 'Achilles' Last Stand'
[Presence] is like the essential flow of it really,
because there was no time to think things out; I just
had to more or less lay it down on the first track. It
was really fast working on Presence. And I did all
the guitar overdubs on that LP in one night. There
were only two sequences. The rest of the band, not
Robert, but the rest of them I don't think really could
see it to begin with. They didn't know what the hell I

Only on these three tunes: 'Stairway to Heaven',

'Ten Years Gone', and 'Achilles Last Stand', the way
the guitar is building. I can see certain milestones
along the way, like 'Four Sticks' [Led Zeppelin IV], in
the middle section of that. The sounds of those
guitars that's where I'm going. I've got long pieces
written; I've got one really long one written that's
harder to play than anything. It's sort of classical,
but then it goes through changes from that mood to
really laid-back rock, and then to really intensified
stuff. With a few laser notes thrown in, we might be
all right.

562

What is the amplifier setup you're using now?

my guitars before I left for America; there was a lot

of old stuff hanging around which I didn't need. It's
no point having things if you don't need them. When
all the equipment came over here, we had done our
rehearsals, and we were really on top, really in tiptop form. Then Robert caught laryngitis, and we had
to postpone a lot of dates and reshuffle them, and I
didn't touch a guitar for about five weeks. I got a bit
panicky about that after two years off the road
that's a lot to think about. And I'm still only warming
up; I still can't coordinate a lot of the things I need to
be doing. Getting by, but it's not right; I don't feel
100 percent right yet.

Onstage? Marshall 100s that are customized in

New York so they've got 200 watts. I've got four
unstacked cabinets, and I've got a wah-wah pedal
and an MXR unit. Everything else is total flash
[laughs]. I've got a harmonizer, a theremin, a violin
bow, and an Echoplex echo unit.
Are there certain settings you use on the amp?
Depending on the acoustics of the place, the
volume is up to about three, and the rest is pretty
standard.

What year is the Les Paul you're using now?

When was the first time you used the violin bow?

1959. It's been rescraped [repainted], but that's all

gone now because it chopped off. [Eagles guitarist]
Joe Walsh got it for me.

The first time I recorded with it was with the

Yardbirds. But the idea was put to me by a classical
string player when I was doing studio work. One of
us tried to bow the guitar, then we tried it between
us, and it worked. At that point I was just bowing it,
but other effects I've obviously come up with on my
own using wah-wah and echo. You have to put
rosin on the bow, and the rosin sticks to the string
and makes it vibrate.

Do you think when you went from the Telecaster to

the Les Paul that your playing changed?
Yes, I think so. It's more of a fight with a Telecaster,
but there are rewards. The Gibson's got a
stereotyped sound maybe. I don't know. But it has a
beautiful sustain to it, and I like sustain because it
relates to bowed instruments and everything. This
whole area that everyone's been pushing and
experimenting in, when you think about it, it's mainly
sustain.

What kind of picks and strings do you use?

Herco heavy-gauge nylon picks and Ernie Ball
Super Slinky strings.

Do you use special tunings on the electric guitar?

What guitars are you using?

All the time; they're my own that I've worked out, so

I'd rather keep those to myself, really. But they're
never open tunings; I have used those, but most of
the things I've written have not been open tunings,
so you can get more chords into them.

God, this is really hard, there are so many. My Les

Paul, the usual one, and I've got a spare one of
those if anything goes wrong. I've got a doubleneck;
and one of those Fender string-benders that was
made for me by Gene Parsons [former drummer
with the Byrds and the Flying Burrito Brothers]. I've
cut it back from what I was going to use on tour. I
have with me a Martin and a Gibson A-4 mandolin.
The Martin is one of the cheap ones; it's not the one
with the herringbone back or anything like that. It's
probably a D-18, it's got those nice Grovers [tuning
machines] on it. I've got a Gibson Everly Brothers,
which was given to me by Ronnie Wood [guitarist
with the Rolling Stones]. That's the current favorite,
but I don't take it on the road because it's a really
personal guitar. I keep it with me in the room. It's a
beauty; it's fantastic. There's only a few of those
around; Ron's got one, and [Rolling Stones
guitarist] Keith Richards has one, and I've got one.
So it's really nice. I haven't had a chance to use it
on record yet, but I will because it's got such a nice
sound. Let's see, what else have we got? I know
when I come onstage it looks like a guitar shop, the
way they're all standing up there. But I sold off all

Did you ever meet any of those folk players you

admire Bert Jansch, John Renbourn or any of
them?
No, and the most terrifying thing of all happened
about a few months ago. Jansch's playing appeared
as if it was going down, and it turns out he's got
arthritis. I really think he's one of the best. He was,
without any doubt, the one who crystallized so
many things. As much as Hendrix had done on
electric, I think he's done on acoustic. He was really
way, way ahead. And for something like that to
happen is such a tragedy, with a mind as brilliant as
that. There you go. Another player whose physical
handicap didn't stop him was Django Reinhardt. For
his last LP they pulled him out of retirement to do it;
it's on Barclay Records in France. He'd been retired
for years, and it's fantastic. You know the story

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about him in the caravan and losing fingers and

such. But the record is just fantastic. He must have
been playing all the time to be that good it's
horrifyingly good. Horrifying. But it's always good to
hear perennial players like that; like Les Paul, and
people like that.

Were you focusing on anything in particular on the

first Led Zeppelin LP with regards to certain guitar
sounds?
The trouble is keeping a separation between
sounds, so you don't have the same guitar effect all
the time. And that's where that orchestration thing
comes in; it's so easy, I've already planned it, it's
already there; all the groundwork has been done
now. And the dream has been accomplished by the
computerized mixing console. The sort of struggle
to achieve so many things is over. As I said, I've got
two things written, but I'll be working on more. You
can hear what I mean on Lucifer Rising [soundtrack
for the unreleased Ken Anger film]. You see, I didn't
play any guitar on that, apart from one point. That
was all other instruments, all synthesizers. Every
instrument was given a process so it didn't sound
like what it really was the voices, drones,
mantras, even tabla drums. When you've got a
collage of, say, four of these sounds together,
people will be drawn right in, because there will be
sounds they haven't heard before. That's basically
what I'm into: Collages and tissues of sound with
emotional intensity and melody, and all that. But
you know, there are so many good people around,
like John McLaughlin, and people like that. It's a
totally different thing than what I'm doing.

You listen to Les Paul?

Oh, yeah. You can tell Jeff [Beck] did too, can't you?
Have you ever heard 'It's Been a Long, Long Time'
[mid-'40s single by the Les Paul Trio with Bing
Crosby]? You ought to hear that. He does
everything on that, everything in one go. And it's
just one guitar; it's basically one guitar even though
they've tracked on rhythms and stuff. But my
goodness, his introductory chords and everything
are fantastic. He sets the whole tone, and then he
goes into this solo which is fantastic. Now that's
where I heard feeedback first from Les Paul
also vibratos and things. Even before B.B. King,
you know, I've traced a hell of a lot of rock and roll
little riffs, and things back to Les Paul, Chuck
Berry, Cliff Gallup and all those. It's all there. But
then Les Paul was influenced by Reinhardt, wasn't
he? Very much so. I can't get my hands on the
records of Les Paul, the Les Paul trio, and all that
stuff. But I've got all the Capitol LPs and things. I
mean, he's the father of it all: multi-tracking and
everything else. If it hadn't been for him, there
wouldn't have been anything, really.

Do you think he has a sustaining quality as a

guitarist?

You said that Eric Clapton was the person who

synthesized the Les Paul sound?

He's always had that technique right from when I

first knew him when he was working in a guitar
shop. I would say he was the best jazz guitarist in
England then, in the traditional mode of [jazz stylist]
Johnny Smith and Tal Farlow; a combination of
those two is exactly what he sounded like. He was
easily the best guitarist in England, and he was
working in a guitar shop. And that's what I say you
hear so many good people around under those
conditions. I'll tell you one thing, I don't know one
musician who's stuck to his guns, who was good in
the early days that hasn't come through now with
recognition from everybody. [British pop/rock
guitarist] Albert Lee, and all these people that seem
to be like white elephants, got recognition. I think
he's really good, bloody brilliant. He's got one of
those string benders, too, but I haven't heard him in
ages. But I know that everytime I've heard him, he's
bloody better and better.

Yeah, without a doubt. When he was with the

Bluesbreakers [British blues band with John
Mayall], it was just a magic combination; he got one
of the Marshall amps, and away he went. It just
happened. I thought he played brilliantly then, really
brilliantly. That was very stirring stuff.
Do you think you were responsible for any specific
guitar sounds?
The guitar parts in 'Trampled Under Foot' [Physical
Graffiti], this guy Nick Kent [British rock journalist],
he came out with this idea about how he thought
that was a really revolutionary sound. And I hadn't
realized that anyone would think it was, but I can
explain exactly how it's done. Again, it's sort of
backwards echo and wah-wah. I don't know how
responsible I was for new sounds because there
were so many good things happening around that
point, around the release of the first Zeppelin
album, like Hendrix and Clapton.

Do you feel your playing grows all the time?

I've got two different approaches, I'm a
schizophrenic guitarist, really. I mean, onstage is
totally different than the way that I approach it in the
studio. Presence and my control over all the
contributing factors to that LP the fact that it was

564

done in three weeks, and all the rest of it is so

good for me. It was just good for everything really,
even though it was a very anxious point, and the
anxiety shows, group-wise you know, "Is Robert
going to walk again from his auto accident in
Greece?" and all this sort of thing. But I guess the
solo in 'Achilles' Last Stand' on Presence is in the
same tradition as the solo from 'Stairway to Heaven'
on the fourth LP. It is on that level to me.

opening chords of Stairway To Heaven, the

mystical song that was to become Zeppelins bestknown track.
The most noticeable effect of Welsh mountains on
the music was that they brought a hush and a
contemplation not there before. In the hotel rooms
of American cities while in full touring flight, they
wrote such lemon-squeezing numbers as Living
Loving Maid and Whole Lotta Love, but at BronYr-Aur they tapped into a kind of Celtic folk music
inspired by the Incredible String Band.

Steven Rosen, 1977

Stairway to Heaven, Paved with Gold: Led
Zeppelins Snowdonia

"It was time to step back, take stock and not get lost
in it all," Plant explained. "Zeppelin was starting to
get very big, and we wanted the rest of our journey
to take a level course. Hence the trip into the
mountains and the beginning of the ethereal Page
and Plant."

Steve Turner, The Independent, 6 April 1991

It was a marriage of electric bombast and Celtic
mythology; of bone-shaking riffs and ethereal
thoughts. Led Zeppelins riffs came from guitarist
Jimmy Page via the honky tonks and shotgun
shacks of the Mississippi delta. The legends from
vocalist Robert Plant via the swirling mists, border
wars and mountain spirits of Wales.

Bron-Yr-Aur stands at the end of a narrow road that

climbs off the A493 just outside the small market
town of Machynlleth in Gwynedd. It is an area rich
in myth and legend. The giant Idris Gawr has his
seat on the mountain of Cader Idris and anyone
who sits on it will either die, go mad or become a
poet. It is said King Arthur fought his last battle in
the Ochr-yr-Bwlch pass east of Dolgellau.

Plant grew up in Kidderminster, close to the Welsh

border. On a typical summer weekend his father
would pack the family into the 1953 Vauxhall
Wyvern and motor up the A5 through Shrewsbury
and Llangollen into Snowdonia. The young Plant fell
in love not only with the scenery and the place
names but with the tales of sword and sorcery.

Half a mile up the steep mountain road there is a

black slate sign on the right-hand side which points
the way to the property. After passing down through
an avenue of overhanging trees with sheep fields
on either side, the grey stone shape of the cottage
looms up in a clearing at the end. It has a blue front
door with a horseshoe nailed above it. A tattered
Welsh flag flies from a flagpole to the right of the
clearing. Mountains rise steeply behind.

One place he visited was a remote eighteenthcentury cottage called Bron-yr-Aur owned by a
friend of his fathers. Here there was no bathroom
or electricity. Lighting was by Calor gas and the
nearest town was two miles away down a gated
mountain road.

The present owner is the Reverend Canon John

Dale, a churchman in the diocese of Worcester,
who bought it in the mid-seventies with no
knowledge of its pop cultural history or of who on
earth Led Zeppelin were. When I met him, he was
dressed in running shorts and painting his window
frames. His dog was playing in the long grass. I
introduced myself and explained my interest. As
soon as "Led Zeppelin" passed my lips he smacked
his forehead in mock horror.

In 1970, when Led Zeppelins star was rising, Plant

was to return to his childhood haunt with Jimmy
Page and write a collection of songs which would
redefine the groups sound.
"I was pretty keen to go because I had never spent
any time in Wales," Page said later. "We took our
guitars along and spent the evenings around log
fires, with pokers being plunged into cider and that
sort of thing. As the nights wore on the guitars came
out and numbers were written."

Did he get a lot of trouble from fans? Not really, he

admitted, but the traffic increased whenever there
was a mention in a new biography. For the first few
years of his ownership there were no callers, but
now there is a steady trickle. Last year some people
had wanted to camp out in his garden.

It was here that they wrote Bron-yr-Aur, Bron-yAur Stomp (Bron-yr-Aur is the name on the house,
meaning "breast of gold" although to confuse
matters, the Ordnance Survey map has Bron-yaur), Misty Mountain Hop and Thats The Way. It
was here, too, that Page first fumbled with the

565

"Mostly they just want to see where the songs were

written," he said. "They just cant believe they have
found it. They are normally happy just to see the
place, marvel and then go away again."

In the same year the American director Joe Massot

began shooting The Song Remains The Same,
ostensibly a documentary about Led Zeppelin. The
core of the film was a concert at Madison Square
Garden, but spliced between the songs were
"fantasy sequences" where each band member
revealed his innermost soul.

Why was the house named "breast of gold"? Canon

Dale speculated on its origin: "The bracken at the
end of the year turns gold and that could have given
rise to the name or, possibly, it could have been a
reference to gold in the mountains behind. We are
not far from Dolgellau where gold has been found."

Plants episode, unfortunately, contained more corn

that a bumper harvest. His vision of the self hiding
behind the exterior of the flouncing cock-rock
vocalist was of a medieval hero given to sailing,
horse riding and rescuing blonde damsels in
distress.

This part of Wales, on the southern fringe of

Snowdonia, has long attracted artists and idealists
keen to escape the pressures of urban life. Rich
hippies were fond of buying Welsh cottages to go
with their Chelsea flats, and seekers of alternative
lifestyles came with their tepees hoping to return to
the Garden of Eden. In 1973, Plant decided to buy
a working sheep farm in the nearby Llyfnant Valley,
four and a half miles from Machynlleth on the road
to Aberystwyth.

The castle chosen for the filming was the fifteenthcentury Raglan Castle, built half-way between
Monmouth and Abergavenny by Agincourt veteran
Sir William ap Thomas, "the blue knight of Gwent",
and later extended by his son, Sir William Herbert.
It is a wonderful ruin for romantics, especially on a
dreary winter morning when the surrounding fields
are damp and a cold wind blows through the empty
holes of windows. There is an air of mournful
mystery about the sandstone walls that drip with
water and are flecked with moss.

*
While living here Plant immersed himself in the life
of rural Wales: taking Welsh lessons, learning to dip
and shear sheep and pursuing his fascination with
the legends of the Dark Ages through the
manuscripts kept at the National Library of Wales in
Aberystwyth.

For The Song Remains The Same, Plant was

filmed cantering alongside the long western wall
and then fencing with his enemy on the cobblestone
floor of the Great Tower, once the safest part of the
castle. The fight ends when Plant manages to hurl
his opponent into the moat.

The large library, which stands on a hillside

overlooking the university town, has on display the
thirteenth-century Black Book of Carmarthen and
the Book of Taliesin, a fourteenth-century
manuscript of poems by the sixth-century poet
Taliesin.

When Led Zeppelins career began to fluctuate,

giving rise to rumours of a break-up, the band
reconvened not far from Penallt at Clearwell Castle,
an eighteenth-century neo-Gothic mansion in the
Forest of Dean, to prepare for their last "real"
album, In Through The Out Door.

When his first son was born, Plant named him

Karac after the legendary Welsh general
Caractacus. Karac unfortunately died of a
respiratory virus in 1977.

Clearwell was then privately owned and its

cavernous cellars hired out to bands for recording
and rehearsing. Today it is a quiet country hotel
where peacocks cluster on the windows of the
banqueting hall and a log fire roars in the huge
reception hall. There are oil paintings up the oak
staircases, stuffed birds in glass cases along the
upper hallway, and evening meals are served by
candlelight in a panelled dining room. The cellars
are used for medieval banquets and business
functions.

Because the band had what Page called "warm

vibes" about this area of Wales, Led Zeppelin
decided, in January 1973, to play Aberystwyth.
They booked the 800-capacity Kings Hall, a seafront venue demolished in 1989. The gig exploded
with all the force of a damp squib. The audience
remained in their seats throughout and offered only
polite applause. "Thats the first and only time that
happened to us," said Page much later. "Its good to
have one concert that is strange and a bit
unnerving. But only one."

*
I slept in a huge room with two half-tester beds

566

where the bathroom was around the size of most

entire city hotels.

suspicious of the motives behind certain questions

and topics, the band having suffered extensively at
the hands of the media. Perhaps the equation reads
as follows - critic, for whatever reason, dislikes LP,
feels aggrieved when his request for an interview is
refused, and decides to vent his pique in a blast of
innuendo which often claims rumour as fact.
Whether or not this is the fault of the critic or of the
band is, of course, a moot point, but when Jimmy
reads this, let us reassure him at the start that there
has never been any intention to create controversy
where none exists, save where it has significantly
affected his music.

The castle is reputed to be haunted. The maid who

serviced my room spoke of the ghost with a ready
familiarity. "Her" it was who would mess up rooms
when they were under lock and key. Recently two
guests from different rooms complained about
some one singing lullabies to a child on the landing
all night and playing a musical box. My room,
apparently, was at the epicentre of the hauntings.
Led Zeppelin rose from Clearwell to make one last
album before drummer John Bonhams death
grounded them for ever. Significantly, when Robert
Plant returned to the studio it was to Wales that he
came, cutting his first solo album at Rockfield
Studios in the village of Rockfield, just outside
Monmouth.

Jimmy Page was born in Heston, West London, on

9 January 1944, and moved with his family to
nearby Feltham during his infancy, finally spending
his formative years in Epsom, Surrey, from around
the age of eight. For such an inventive and
mercurial player, it is strange to note that he made
no moves towards the guitar until his fifteenth year.

At the end of the first Led Zeppelin biography,

written by Ritchie Yorke in 1976, Plant is quoted as
saying he believed Wales would figure strongly in
his destiny: "The Welsh have voices sweeter than
angels. The beauty of their voices is just fantastic. If
I had a voice like that, I wouldnt be talking to you
now. I dont think there is anything finer than a
Welsh choir."

'Some friends had given a Spanish style guitar, but

with steel strings, to my parents, and it lay around
the house until I equated it with everything that was
going on with rock'n'roll, and picked it up. I didn't
manage to do anything with it, of course, until I
learned how to tune it, so things started very slowly.
In those days, you'd find that a sort of grapevine of
record collectors would spring up, and it was the
same with guitarists - someone at school who later
became a friend showed me how to tune it. I
remember going onto the playing fields one day and
seeing this great throng crowded around this figure
playing guitar and singing some skiffle song of the
time, and I wondered how he did it. He showed me
how to tune it, and it went on from there, going to
guitar shops, hanging around watching what people
were doing, until in the end, it was going the other
way, and people were watching you.'

Steve Turner, 1991

Jimmy Page
Stuart Grundy,John Tobler, 'The Guitar Greats'
(BBC Books), 1983
THERE ARE CERTAIN guitar players without whom
this book could not claim to approach
completeness, and, of course, one of our criteria for
inclusion was that the players should all be alive,
which accounts for the omission of Jimi Hendrix,
Duane Allman, Mike Bloomfield etc. Actually
contacting some of our subjects was next to
impossible, but in general, as soon as one of our
choices was fully acquainted with the nature of this
project, he immediately agreed to co-operate. One
of the very difficult people to whom our message
had to be passed was Jimmy Page, who was
particularly vital as the leader of Led Zeppelin,
arguably the most popular band in the World during
the first half of the '70s.

What? No Play In A Day by Bert Weedon? 'I've got

to be honest - I did get that, but more out of
curiosity. Most guitar tutors fell flat when it came to
the point of the dots, because I was far too
impatient, and all the records you heard and were
totally absorbed with at the time just weren't
matched by the songs in the tutors, which is why
one took the approach of learning to play by ear.
Solos which affected me could send a shiver up my
spine, and I'd spend hours and in some cases days
trying to get them off. The first ones were Buddy
Holly chord solos, like "Peggy Sue", but the next
step was definitely James Burton on Ricky Nelson
records, which was when it started to get difficult,
although the particular record which first made me
get interested in playing was "Baby Let's Play
House" by Elvis Presley, because it was so
infectious. It was only later that I realised it was just

It would be misleading to suggest that our time

spent talking with Jimmy was completely
straightforward - the part of his career prior to the
formation of Zeppelin presented a few problems but on the subject of his work since the group's
formation in 1968, Jimmy was understandably

567

acoustic and electric guitars and bass, but the

excitement and energy just grabbed me, and I
wanted to be part of it. Of course, I'd heard
rock'n'roll records before, but Bill Haley didn't affect
me the same way. I knew Frannie Beecher [Haley's
guitarist] was a fine player, but that wasn't the style
of guitar that really hit me - he played in more of a
country/swing style, which I should think Albert Lee
got straight into, and they were jolly intricate solos,
but it was the bending string style of solo that really
got me going, and that's James Burton. That was
where the problem came, because it took a dimwit
like me about a year to realise that you had to
remove your traditionally coated third string and
replace it with an uncoated one, because it was
physically impossible to bend otherwise.'

made a great impression on me. The Dave Clark

Five also played there, but this was before "Glad All
Over", and I played in the support band, just
auditioning, really, and the night we auditioned, Neil
Christian was there. He was actually managing Red
Lewis & the Redcaps, a Gene Vincent style group,
and we started to chat, and he asked whether I'd
like to play in London, which of course I did. He had
to talk to my parents first, which was quite a
courteous thing to do - I was tailored in the mould to
do what all young lads do, which was to go through
school and pass exams, which was what I was
doing - certainly, being a rock'n'roll musician wasn't
the choicest of professions, but he reassured my
parents and said he'd keep a watchful eye on this
young lad, and anyway, the gigs were at weekends.'

Two significant encounters during these early years

were with Jeff Beck and Glyn Johns. 'I think I met
Jeff through his sister - he came round to my house
with a home-made guitar and played the James
Burton solo from Ricky Nelson's "My Babe" and we
were immediately like blood brothers, and we're still
friends, of course. Things are a bit cloudy as far as
Glyn goes - I remember meeting him at Epsom
station and chatting, at a point where I was playing
in a local hall and he'd started work as an
apprentice engineer, but it wasn't until later that we
worked together on a business basis.'

Somewhat surprisingly (or so it now appears),

Jimmy was not immediately invited to play on
Christian's records. 'Auditions are a story in
themselves - I remember going to the BBC for an
audition with Neil Christian, and the blokes told us
that Chris Farlowe had just failed his, which gave us
the horrors, because in my estimation, they were
the best band in the south. When we went to EMI, it
was a very different situation from today, which is
one thing the Beatles did for everybody, opening the
door for groups with their own material - not that we
did, but that was the way it was. The singer
recorded and the band got the chop, and the
producer who was assigned would get his mates
who were songwriters to supply the material, and
session musicians would back the singer, while the
band weren't even invited to the session - but that
was how it was in those days, and we were quite
happy that Neil Christian was making a record.
Looking back, you can be pretty cynical about that,
but at the time, we just thought we weren't good
enough, although I think I was on one of his records
later on.'

Jimmy's own instruments changed frequently at the

start of his career, starting with a Grazioso as his
first electric guitar. 'I did a paper round and got a
Hofner Senator, which was really so that I could
hear myself, and after increasing the paper round, I
got an electric pick-up for it, but obviously, what I
always wanted was a proper electric guitar, which to
me was one with a solid body. It was a question of
economics, and the Grazioso was the first one of
that type that I had - it looked similar to a guitar that
came out sometime later called a Futurama,
basically a Stratocaster idea, but that shouldn't be
thought of in today's terms where you see copies of
Strats or Les Pauls, which are dead copies. This
one had its own identity - it's like Hank Marvin with
his Antoria. I had the Grazioso for about eighteen
months, and then I think I got an orange-coloured
Gretsch Chet Atkins for most of my period playing
with Neil Christian.'

To some extent, destiny finally struck when Jimmy

became very ill as a result of the rather irregular life
he was leading. 'Eventually I said I couldn't go on,
and curiously enough, at that point, Cyril Davies,
who had just broken away from Alexis Korner, and
was the one who turned everybody on to the
electric harmonica, asked me to join his band. I
thought it would be awful to go with him and really
start enjoying it, and then start getting ill again, but I
did in fact play with them a bit, and the band was
basically the nucleus of Screaming Lord Sutch's
band. I think Neil Christian felt I wanted to go with
Cyril Davies, but I was being perfectly honest in
telling him that I couldn't carry on - I couldn't
understand why I was getting ill all the time, and I
just retreated to the only other thing I could do,
which was a pretty grim prospect. It was painting,
and I went to art college at Sutton, although I was

Neil Christian's Crusaders was the first seminotable band in which Jimmy played, a later
graduate of the Christian guitarist school being
Ritchie Blackmore. 'I played at the local Epsom
dancehall, where a lot of really good bands came
through, the best of which was Chris Farlowe and
the Thunder-birds, whose first guitarist, Bobby
Taylor, had the other Stratocaster that came into
England - Hank Marvin had the first one - and he

568

also accepted by Croydon - I don't know how,

because I was a terrible draughtsman. The Cyril
Davies thing was quite interesting - he had what
was known as an interval band which played at the
Marquee. We never actually rehearsed, but we
were allowed to play the interval spot, which was all
right, but the most terrifying night of all was when
they had a big blues package over, with Muddy
Waters and a guy called Matthew Murphy, who,
believe me, was some guitarist. I'd always had this
theory that Murphy had played on some Chuck
Berry records, and in fact he had, on things like
"Sweet Sixteen", the B.B. King song.

into the whole sort of impenetrable brotherhood,

and it was great fun and games to start with,
although it had its embarrassing moments, such as
recording with Van Morrison and Them. This wasn't
when he was being produced by Bert Berns,
because those sessions were fantastic, but one
particular time, I'd been booked as a guitarist with a
group, and often, there'd be a drummer, and bit by
bit, as the evening went on, another session
musician would appear, one sitting next to the bass
player, another sitting next to the keyboards, so in
the end, it was just Van Morrison, session players
and the group, but the session players were just
duplicating the group. You can imagine the tension,
and what these chaps from Ulster must have
thought - it was so embarrassing that you just had
to look at the floor and play because they were
glaring. It could have been the end of their musical
career in one evening.' Jimmy played on several
famous tracks by Them, 'Baby Please Don't Go',
'Gloria' and 'Here Comes The Night'. However,
there presumably came a time when an endless
round of sessions, although lucrative, left something
to be desired in terms of ambition fulfillment...

From this point, Jimmy, to some extent due to his

poor health, became involved in playing as a
session guitarist - the "hired gun" who could play in
most styles and was available in case the guitarist
with a new recording group was found to be
unsuitable by a producer. In fact, his first session
was for a hit record, 'Diamonds' by Jet Harris and
Tony Meehan, who had shortly before departed
from the Shadows.
'Glyn (Johns) introduced me to the session world,
although that was a long time before I did the work
which everything stemmed from. What went wrong
there was that they stuck a row of dots in front of
me, which looked like crows on telegraph wires,
which was awful. I could have played it so easily,
and it was so simple when another chap came and
did it - I realised what had to be done, but that
wasn't the game. I'd never bothered or tried to read
music, because it just didn't come into the pattern of
things at that time, so they said I'd better play the
acoustic bit, and when the other chap played this
simple sort of riff, I gave myself hell for it. It wasn't
so much a matter of a lost opportunity as a matter
of pride - I felt really stupid.

'For the first eighteen months, it was really

enjoyable, and I'd come to terms a lot more with the
technical side of it and having to read music.
Although I could never read music in the same way
that I could read a newspaper, I could scan through
a sheet of music and know it by the time they
counted the song in. So I never actually learned to
read, although I wish I had...As the situation and
mood of the music scene changed, and say, the
Stax sound came in with saxophones, the guitar
was still riffing in the background at that point, but
then orchestras would be reintroduced, and the
guitar would go even further into the background to
such a degree that whereas I'd initially been there
doing all the hot licks, so to speak, now I'd be doing,
for example, a session with Tubby Hayes, the jazz
saxophonist, then something with Petula Clark, and
to follow that, anything from rock'n'roll to a jingle to
a folk session, so I was really having to stretch my
musical resources and knowledge without even
realising it, which was really good, as far as
discipline and an education went.

'Then, some time later, I was invited to do a session

after one of those Thursday nights at the Marquee,
and that was my first proper session, which was for
Carter-Lewis & the Southerners [later better known
as the Ivy League] and that record, which was
called "Your Mama's Out Of Town", made a dent in
the charts, and it was at a point when the Beatles
and the Stones were really coming on strong in the
charts -groups were burning like dynamos all over
the country, and as far as the session world went,
there were just two young guitarists, Big Jim
Sullivan and Vic Flick, but Jim seemed to be the
only one in tune with what was happening, so they
also pulled me out by the scruff of my neck, and
gave me an opportunity to have a go...

'So at the start and for some time afterwards, it was

really good, until the day I was booked to do a
muzak session, and then it really came down hard
as to what it was all about. The way they do these
things is you have a sheet of music which looks like
a magazine or something, and you just keep turning
over and over, and they don't stop - for someone
who was having a bit of trouble with reading music,
it was terrifying. The whole thing wasn't enjoyable
any more, and putting that side by side with the fact
that I was getting booked on muzak sessions, I just

'I was in on a lot of sessions for Decca artists at the

start, and some were hits, although not because of
the guitar playing. Nevertheless, I'd been allowed

569

wanted to leave, and after that, I tried to find out

what I'd been booked on, and I actually turned
things down if I thought it would be a waste of
everybody's time.'

obviously, as it was the same producers,

Townshend must have said that he could handle it.'
Another unlikely liaison was with American
singer/songwriter Jackie DeShannon, with whom
Jimmy had what was described as 'a whirlwind
romance' in 1964. Ms De Shannon was in England,
having been invited to cross the Atlantic by the
Beatles, who had previously asked her to be their
support act on tour.

Among the other more notable artists for whom

Jimmy played sessions were Billy Fury, Joe Cocker
(under his early alias of Vance Arnold and the
Avengers) and the Kinks, the last of which at one
point became a controversial topic. Jimmy
confirmed that he hadn't played on the group's first
hit, 'You Really Got Me', but was certainly on
several later singles and an album, playing both
lead and rhythm guitar. 'That's like the Van Morrison
business - I never mentioned to anyone that I was
on Kinks records, but it was mentioned to me later.
Certainly, in the early days of Led Zeppelin, I wasn't
telling people that I'd played on this, that and the
other, which might have gained us some mileage,
but a lot of people knew about it and were doing it
on my behalf, which I guess was a drag as far as
Ray Davies was concerned, but the thing was that
he didn't straighten the situation out beforehand.'

'She was over here recording this single, "Don't

Turn Your Back On Me, Babe", which was good,
actually, and she said "It's like this". I did it, and she
said "That's fast - it usually takes them a long time
to get it off in the States", although I don't know
whether or not that was true. We wrote about eight
songs together - well, she certainly wrote the lyrics,
and I probably came up with a title or a line,
because she was really a writer.'
Several of these songs were recorded by artists of
the calibre of Marianne Faithfull, among others.

In 1965, Jimmy released a solo single, 'She Just

Satisfies/Keep Moving', which may have been the
very first time on which a noted session player was
invited to make a record under his own name.
Possibly so...I was just asked to do it. They
probably hoped for a lot more than they got - it was
just a drummer, Bobby Graham, and myself, and
initially a bass player, but eventually I did the bass
and everything else but the drums. It really sounds
funny now when you listen to it. "Keep Moving" has
a lot of harmonica on it - you had to play harmonica
as part of the blues thing, and once you'd heard
these great players like Little Walter, which was
such a rude sound, and realised the mechanics of
the thing, even though you played badly, it was
really fun to do, so I just played it a bit, and every
now and then, I got the chance to play it on a
record.' Other harmonica sessions were for Mickey
Finn & the Blue Men, whose leader later played in
the Heavy Metal Kids, and for Cliff Richard, while
Jimmy was also used on an early David Bowie
release, when Bowie and his group were known as
Davy Jones & the Lower Third, plus sessions for
Dave Berry and also for the Everly Brothers.

A slightly more substantial part of rock history came

in the form of Immediate Records, which was in
operation for the second half of the 1960s, and with
which Page was involved in various guises for the
first part of its existence. One of his first jobs for
Immediate was working with German chanteuse
Nico (this is prior to her more celebrated period as a
member of the Velvet Underground), for whom he
produced a single released on Immediate, 'I'm Not
Saying/The Last Mile', also writing the latter song.
'Andrew Oldham [who launched the label,
concurrently also managing the Rolling Stones] had
a remarkable ear and was totally vibed into
anything that was going on anywhere. He was
really sensitive, a remarkable intuitive man, who
could always put his finger on the pulse here, there
and everywhere.' Page also produced a single for a
band named Fleur De Lys, 'Moondreams', and
another for a band known as Fifth Avenue, 'Bells Of
Rhymney'.
Page's most famous production for Immediate was
of a single by Eric Clapton and John Mayall, 'I'm
Your Witchdoctor'/'Telephone Blues'. 'I'm glad you
said that, because I was just starting to wonder
what I had done - I knew Mayall from the Marquee,
and Eric and I had been mates there as well. I first
met Eric when I was booked to do a session and
he'd just been recording in the same studio
beforehand, and we met up in the lobby. He said
"They tell me you play a bit of Matt Murphy" and I
said "Well, I have a shot", but I didn't hear him play
at that time - it was a fantastic shock when I did,

Both the Kinks and David Bowie sessions had been

with Glyn Johns engineering and Shel Talmy
producing, while another act using this team was
the Who, at this point just starting their recording
career with their first single, 'I Can't Explain/Bald
Headed Woman' on which Jimmy says that he was
'basically riffing. OK, I was there, and I think there's
a couple of phrases on the B-side, but what the
heck? The next one, they did on their own, and

570

because he's a tremendous player. I did four tracks

altogether with Mayall and Eric - the other two were
"Sitting On Top Of The World" and "Double
Crossing Time", and that last one came out on the
Bluesbreakers album on Decca, or at least a very
similar recording.'

friends, and I'd been going with him to a number of

Yardbirds gigs, and he had always said it would be
great if we could play together, which I never
thought would be possible. Then one night they did
a gig at Oxford University, and Keith [Relf, the
group's singer] saw all these chaps in the audience
dressed like penguins, and let them know what he
thought of them, but the bass player, Paul SamwellSmith, didn't really like that too much. He said he
was leaving the band, and I think he suggested to
Jim McCarty, the drummer, that he should do the
same, but Jim didn't. I guess they thought Paul
would change his mind the next day, as I did - I
thought it was a bit of a joke - but then Jeff called
me and said he'd definitely left the band, and I said
I'd play with them if they wanted, because I'd
certainly been listening to what they were doing.
Mind you, Samwell-Smith's was a big position to fill,
because he was a noted bass player, and although
I may have played bass before, I'd never played it in
that role, but the thing was that we hoped we could
get Chris [Dreja, rhythm guitarist] to play the bass
parts, and then Jeff and I would be doing a sort of
dual lead thing, which really could have started a
whole new thing going. Viewed that way, the rest of
the band seemed really keen on it, so I picked up
the bass, and when we played the Marquee, which
was one of their strongholds, I was terrified, having
to fill Samwell-Smith's role, but fortunately it went
OK. Eventually, we did the dual lead thing, although
there aren't that many recordings of that line up,
which is a great shame; just "Stroll On", a
commercial for American radio, "Happenings Ten
Years Time Ago" and "Psycho Daisies", but it was
already starting to get into solo projects - Keith had
already done his first one before I joined, and Jeff
was going to do his, which was when the "Bolero"
was done.'

Which leads to what was arguably the largest blot

on Immediate's escutcheon, a series of substandard recordings released in many different
forms with several different titles, the best known of
which is probably Anthology Of British Blues,
Volumes I & II. Had it not been for the fact that
these albums 'featured' Jimmy, Eric Clapton, Jeff
Beck, Nicky Hopkins, John Mayall, Cyril Davies,
Albert Lee, several members of Fleetwood Mac and
other almost equally famous names besides, the
records would have been forgotten, although in fact
three of the very few good tracks are those by
Mayall and Clapton produced by Page, the omitted
item of the four mentioned above being 'Double
Crossing Time'. A number of other tracks are
credited to 'Eric Clapton with Jimmy Page', and it
has been rumoured that these were in fact sections
of a single 45-minute jam session recorded
informally at Jimmy's home, which were later
claimed as being the property of Immediate
Records.
'That wasn't Andrew Oldham personally, by the way
- there were other parties in that company - but it
was claimed that at the time we made the
recordings, Eric was signed to Immediate, and they
wanted to put the tapes out as they were, which
was ludicrous. But as they were going to do it
anyway, I asked if some extra instruments could be
added, and so Mick Jagger played harmonica on
some of it, and Stu from the Stones played piano,
and Charlie [Watts] and Bill [Wyman], but really it
was pretty much the same theme of blues, but with
those extra musicians. I actually thought they were
only going to use one track - when one of the things
that was just a jam at the end of the session came
out as a B-side, I hit the roof, but there wasn't much
I could do about it, being pretty green at the time.
Then this Anthology Of British Blues came out just
as Immediate was folding, so there was really
nothing to be done, but the whole thing was just an
experiment, and it wasn't done in the way in which it
finally appeared - I think everybody was cheated at
the end of the day on that.'

In fact, 'Stroll On' was a curious mutation of the

Johnny Burnette song, 'Train Kept A-Rollin', whose
title was changed apparently in order that a
financial advantage should be gained as regards
publishing royalties, and was featured in the
Antonioni film Blow-Up. A recent showing of the film
on television reinforced an original impression that
the brief scene featuring the Yardbirds, in which Jeff
Beck destroys a guitar, seems contrived.
'The curious thing was that nobody in the film crew
seemed to know what the film was about when we
asked them, which sounds ridiculous, but it's
absolutely true - when you see the film, you know
it's about photography, and what I've just said
seems totally off the wall, but that's how it came to
me at the time, and we didn't know what the film
was about. I suppose it was put together to be a
statement of a particular point in time, and maybe
Antonioni felt that whole issue there was relevant,

At this stage in his career, Page began to achieve

greater public visibility when he joined the
legendary British R&B band the Yardbirds in June
1966, although not initially as lead guitarist, Jeff
Beck still holding that position in the band, but as
bass player. 'It was fate that brought that Yardbirds
opportunity around - Jeff and I were the greatest of

571

but our bit is rather a sore thumb, isn't it? The club
in which we were supposedly playing was
supposed to be the Ricky Tick at Windsor - I never
went there, but the other lads said it was identical,
cobweb for cobweb.'

because they'd lived through songs that I hadn't,

like "Heart Full Of Soul" and "Shapes Of Things",
thinking back. The first thing we did was "Little
Games", which was at the point where we were two
separate entities, and Jeff did "Love Is Blue",
although we were still mates and we told each other
what we were doing. We were allocated "Little
Games", but it didn't do anything. I think the straw
that broke the camel's back was one particular
song, "Goodnight Sweet Josephine", which we
didn't want to record, because we weren't at all
keen on it. We knew it wasn't anything like the sort
of thing we were moving towards, because by this
time the band had started to feel itself as a four
piece unit, and I'd managed to get some identity
into it with new material and new directions for
some of the things that they'd done before - not
songs like "Shapes Of Things", which were done
pretty much like the original, but "Smokestack
Lightnin"' and things like that - and this number was
put to us. We knew it wasn't right, but we decided to
try it to see if it worked, but it didn't work, and
unfortunately it came out - in the States, not in
Britain - and it was really upsetting. In Mickie Most's
defence, he must have believed in it, because he
obviously wouldn't release if he didn't, but it didn't
do anything and everyone was upset at the end of
the day.'

'Beck's Bolero' was mentioned as one of the solo

projects which members of the Yardbirds were
involved in... 'There was a plan for Jim (McCarty) to
do a comedy record, and his humour was amazing,
so as weird as that might sound, it could have been
really good. Jeff's solo project was to be
instrumental, although it could have been vocal,
and this thing was cooked up, the "Bolero". I was
mainly instrumental in getting it together, I think Jeff obviously added lyrical parts to it, and he also
put a riff in the middle of it, but the major part of it
was mine, and I did arrange it up to the middle point
where the riff comes in. The other side to that
occasion was that the band which played on
"Beck's Bolero" might have turned into the first Led
Zeppelin, because Keith Moon was on drums, John
Entwistle was going to do the session, but
something else cropped up, and John Paul Jones
actually did it, and Nicky Hopkins was on piano, and
there was a lot of talk afterwards of actually getting
a band together - Keith was really keen on doing it,
but there were certain politics involved - and singers
were approached, but suddenly, it got a bit hairy
and everyone backed off. Steve Winwood and
Steve Marriott were the two immediate names that
were thought of - Rod Stewart didn't come up until
later - and it was a dream at the time.'

To revert to the guitars which Jimmy used, he had

played a Gretsch Chet Atkins during his days with
Neil Christian, which he changed eventually for a
Gibson Stereo, which he owned very briefly indeed.
'It wasn't really a case of it not being right, but
rather that I saw a Les Paul Custom, which I'd
never seen before, just after I bought the other one,
so I traded it in for the Les Paul, which was called
both the Black Beauty and the fretless wonder, and
was just the most magnificent guitar I'd ever seen.
The frets were actually filed down to produce a very
smooth playing action - in fact, at a later stage I had
it fretted in a standard manner, but it just sounded
so pure and fantastic...plus at that time, I was over
the top with Les Paul anyway, as a player, so it all
followed.'

Encouraged by the 'Bolero', Jeff Beck soon

afterwards left the Yardbirds. 'That was really a
shame, because we'd just got it going. There was
about six months of the twin guitar thing, I suppose
- we did a tour with the Stones, and then there was
a tour of the States which was thirty-three dates, I
think, and of those thirty-three, twenty-five or
something were doubles! You'd think a double [two
shows in one night] would be in the same town, but
it wasn't, it was in two different towns - the show
was in two halves, and as the first half finished and
there was an interval, that lot would be in the coach
driving to the next venue while the second half went
on, and they in turn carried on to the next place
when they'd finished. Jeff stood about four days of
that, and then knocked it on the head - he had
really bad tonsils, and I think the whole thing made
him ill, but we carried on.'

It was presumably on the Les Paul that Jimmy first

attempted an effect for which he later became
famous, using a violin bow across the strings of the
guitar. The first definitely identifiable occasion
where this effect can be heard on record was on a
late Yardbirds B-side, 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor'.

The impression gained of the morale of the

Yardbirds during their final period, following Beck's
departure, was of a somewhat discontented quartet,
particularly with regard to their recordings. 'It wasn't
the happiest period, and it must have been very
depressing for the founder members of the band,

'I had used it on a session many years before, but I

can't remember what it was, because it wasn't my
idea - one of the violinists suggested that I try it to
see what would happen.' This technique would
assume far greater proportions after Led Zeppelin
was formed.

572

Almost the final episode in the career of the

Yardbirds was the recording of a live LP in New
York, which has appeared for sale briefly on a
couple of occasions, before injunctions have
removed it from the market - the album's title was/is
Live Yardbirds featuring Jimmy Page.

'I was mainly going after Terry Reid, who had really
impressed me during a Yardbirds tour when Jeff
was with me in the band, and we toured with the
Stones. I remembered him from that, but as fate
would have it, he'd signed to Mickie Most. But he
recommended Robert [Plant] and I went to see
Robert and was gassed out, because he was really
great. It seemed really strange to me that
somebody that good hadn't emerged before, but it
always seems that at the end of the day, someone
who's good will come through, a classic example of
that being Albert Lee. I wasn't sure about who to
use as a drummer. B. J. Wilson was somebody I'd
worked with on the Cocker sessions and he was
really good - as far as I can remember, he called
me up, but I wasn't absolutely sure, because it was
something where you had to really work out the
chemistry to make sure it matched before the first
rehearsal, or else it would be a total disaster and
might spoil three elements out of four. Robert
suggested Bonzo [John Bonham], and obviously,
when I saw him, there couldn't be anybody else as
our drummer. At that point, as far as I can
remember, there were some outstanding contracts
to be fulfilled with the Yardbirds, and Chris was still
there, but then John Paul Jones, who I'd met
through studio work, rang up - he was getting into
sessions about halfway through the period that I
was doing them, and he was firmly established by
the time I decided to get out. He was doing
arranging as well, and he'd done stuff for Andrew
Oldham on the Stones records, and for Mickie
Most, the Donovan things - and said "I hear you're
getting a group together and I'd like to be part of it",
and when that happened, Chris told me to go
ahead, and suddenly there it was - four guys that
could go into a rehearsal room and know it was
going to be dynamite.'

During 1968, the Yardbirds finally threw in the towel,

but somewhat strangely (or so it seemed until it was
explained), the newest member of the band, i.e.
Jimmy, owned the copyright to the name 'Yardbirds'.
'That sounds really ghastly, doesn't it? What
happened was that I was trying to keep the band
together - when I think about it now, I can see
exactly why Keith and Jim wanted to leave, but at
the time, I couldn't. It was wanting to do something
different, and I thought that no matter what it might
be - Mr Big Head, who'd done it all in the studio! we could try it and maybe get it together, but Keith
came out with it and said "The magic died for me
when Eric left the band", which seemed most
peculiar to me, because I thought the best stuff
they'd done had been with Jeff, but if you think
about it, you can see that those were the days that
were more important to him, as opposed to the way
we see it. He said "If you want the name, you can
have it" - I don't know where there's any copyright
thing, and I certainly haven't put my name on any
piece of paper, but he said I could keep the name if
I wanted it.'
Page played considerably fewer outside sessions
during his time with the Yardbirds than he had
previously, although some were with notable artists,
including Johnny Halliday, maybe the only French
rock'n'roll artist to gain any credibility outside
France, Donovan and Ian Whitcomb. However, the
two biggest hit records on which he played during
the second half of the 1960s were Chris Farlowe's
"Out Of Time" and Joe Cocker's "With A Little Help
From My Friends", which both topped the British
chart. Of the Cocker record, Jimmy recalls 'That
session was fantastic to do, just one big smile, with
such a warm feeling going round the studio. It was
one of those things where it deserved to be heard
elsewhere, and you hoped it would be - you could
sometimes tell that a record was going to be a big
hit, but more often, you knew that they weren't.'

Led Zeppelin were rumoured to have been

recommended to their record company, Atlantic, by
one of the label's very few British acts prior to
Zeppelin, Dusty Springfield, but Jimmy thinks this is
unlikely, although he is more willing to concede that
his band may have been the first British group to be
signed directly to an American label, rather than via
a UK subsidiary. 'As far as I know, we were the first
white band on Atlantic, because all the earlier white
bands had been on Atco. At the time, we said we'd
really like to be on Atlantic as opposed to Atco,
because it was the first true independent label that
had really sailed through and done it well.'

After the Yardbirds, Page and Chris Dreja, along

with manager Peter Grant, who had been involved
with the group during their death throes, were left to
make new plans. And what Jimmy did, of course,
was form Led Zeppelin. It has been suggested
elsewhere that a possible projected line up might
have been Jimmy on guitar, Chris Dreja from the
Yardbirds on bass, Terry Reid singing and B. J.
Wilson (from Procul Harum) on drums.

So what did Jimmy intend to do with Led Zeppelin

when he first conceived of the band that would be
different from the groups with which he'd be
competing? 'I think it's all there on the first LP, but
personally speaking, I was trying to explore the
different avenues of the guitar, establishing that we

573

could play acoustically (as well as with electric

instruments) right from the start so that it didn't
make any difference come the third LP, when there
was more of a leaning towards acoustic numbers
than before - in fact, acoustic playing figured on the
first album. Apart from that, I wanted the band to
come through with something that was hard hitting
dynamite that other musicians would respect as
well, but would be so good that everyone in the
band would feel committed to it, which was how it
went, in fact, and what was great was that such a
respect was built up between the four of us for each
other.

intrigued me, because the tonal quality of the

approach to classical guitar is totally different in its
finger style from say, folk guitar, and the way the
fingers have to shape on the right hand to attack is
quite different, and the tones are absolutely
stunning, and from that, you can get to Django
Reinhardt's beautiful tone and emotive feeling.
'I just love every aspect of guitar playing, and I try
and play a little bit of everything. On "Babe I'm
Gonna Leave You", which was pretty original as far
as it went, and I don't think anything like that had
been done before, I tried putting on a pedal steel
guitar, which I'd had, but never known the legitimate
tuning of, so the only thing I could really play on it
was the sort of instrumental thing that Chuck Berry
had done, things like "Deep Feeling". I'd heard
those and read afterwards that they'd been done on
a pedal steel that was sitting in the studio, and the
full extent of my knowledge on pedal steel was
finding a tuning that emulated those slow blues
instrumentals which Chuck Berry did, but anyhow,
out it came, and it was okay on "Babe I'm Gonna
Leave You", but on "Your Time Is Gonna Come", the
intonation was extremely suspect, and that one
tried to get a bit too ambitious.

'We rehearsed quite a lot within the framework of

the numbers, but the full construction - the
embellishments, the overdubs, and certain lyrics,
like the verses on "Communication Breakdown",
where there had just been a chorus - was added.
We had numbers from the Yardbirds that we called
free form, like "Smokestack Lightnin'", where I'd
come up with my own riffs and things, and obviously
I wasn't going to throw all that away, as they hadn't
been recorded, so I remodelled those riffs and used
them again, so the bowing on "How Many More
Times" and "Good Times, Bad Times" was an
extension of what I'd been working on with the
Yardbirds, although I'd never had that much chance
to go to town with it, and to see how far one could
stretch the bowing technique on record, and
obviously for anyone who saw the band, it became
quite a little showpiece in itself. It was really
enjoyable to do, and people used to remark on it, so
obviously they enjoyed watching it, and it was also
musical as well - some of the sounds that came out
of it were just incredible, and sometimes it would
sound like that "Hiroshima" piece by Penderecki,
and other times, it would have the depth of a cello.
"Good Times, Bad Times", as usual, came out of a
riff with a great deal of John Paul Jones on bass,
and it really knocked everybody sideways when
they heard the bass drum pattern, because I think
everyone was laying bets that Bonzo was using two
bass drums, but he only had one.

'The idea of "Communication Breakdown" was to

have a really raw hard hitting number. It's hard to
describe the feeling of playing those numbers at the
time, but it was so exciting and electrifying to be
part of it, and that one was always so good to play,
so staccato - just a knockout to do.'
Led Zeppelin was made at high speed, which
Jimmy explains was partly due to the fact that the
band had previously played some live dates, and
was engineered by Glyn Johns, who claimed he
also produced it, although Jimmy, who was credited
with the production, feels that the credit was
correct, although it was in fact the first complete LP
he had ever produced.
'What happened afterwards came as a massive
surprise, that success, and to be perfectly truthful,
the shock didn't hit me until a number of years later.
We were touring until the day when we were
presented with a gold record - I thought "My
goodness! A gold record!".'

"'Dazed And Confused" came from the Yardbirds,

and that was my showcase, show-off bit with the
bow, and that was one example, I guess, of how
everything but the kitchen sink was in that first
album from my end - I think that was something I
did consciously, because I started off all the
numbers on that LP, and I did a lot of different
things with different instruments, leaning heavily on
some of the ideas that I'd developed with the
Yardbirds because I knew they were things I'd come
up with myself rather than riffs that Eric or Jeff had
done. I'd always been interested in every facet of
and approach to guitar playing, from flamenco to
classical to early '50s rock'n'roll - it's always

Both the first and last months of 1969 saw Led

Zeppelin albums released. Led Zeppelin II
obviously differed from the first album in that the
material was not as well-established before
recording. 'We were extending the repertoire at that
point, and recording it at the same time, so we were
pretty much working all the time, and looking back,
it seemed like a 24-hour commitment every day.
There were so many overdubs applied to the

574

numbers that some of them actually changed their

format. On the first LP, we had benefited by having
played some of the songs before going into the
studio, but I can remember during that time around
the end of the second LP, we started to work on
"Since I've Been Loving You, which we recorded on
the third LP, and that was one we got used to
playing onstage, but it was the hardest one to
actually record. That was at the point where we
were getting very self-critical. Anyway, the second
album was recorded while we were touring, so it
was recorded partly in London, partly in Los
Angeles, some was done in New York, and a vocal
overdub was even done in an 8-track studio in
Vancouver, and that's how it was done until the
mixing, which was all done in New York. Contrary to
rumour, I was quite happy with the album, because
I thought it had the energy that was totally relevant
to what was happening onstage at that point.'

Equally significant was the large part Robert Plant

was taking in lyric composition. 'In the early days, I
was writing the lyrics as well as the music, because
Robert hadn't written before, and it took a lot of
ribbing and teasing to actually get him into writing,
which was funny. And then, on the second LP, he
wrote the words of "Thank You" - he said "I'd like to
have a crack at this and write it for my wife".'
Between the recording of their second and third
LPs, Jimmy and Robert Plant went to India, where
they spent some time in a local recording studio.
'The intention was always to do a complete world
tour, at the same time recording in places like Cairo,
Bangkok and Bombay, and involving local
musicians as well. It was just an experiment to see
how well we would get on, so we recorded two
tracks in India, "Friends" and "Four Sticks", just to
see how it would go, and it was tremendous. It
would have been lovely to do that with the group,
but we never got around to it, and those two tracks
never came out in that form.'

The best known track from Led Zeppelin II is

undoubtedly 'Whole Lotta Love', which for some
years was used, although not as recorded by
Zeppelin, as the theme tune for Top Of The Pops.
The riff used in the song was instantly memorable.

They were, however, included on Led Zeppelin III

and the untitled fourth LP, respectively, but in more
straightforward studio recordings and by the
complete band. The third LP was released in
October, 1970, and received a mixed critical
reaction. 'We went and stayed in a cottage in
Wales, and wrote some songs which fitted in with
the mood there, so obviously one recorded them our albums were mostly a statement of where we
were at the time we recorded them. But after the
second LP, which had a lot of hard-hitting rock, it
was interpreted as us mellowing and losing all our
power.

'The riff came from me, but don't ask me where it

came from before that, because it just came out of
thin air, as nearly all riffs do. It was pretty infectious,
I suppose, although its being on Top Of The Pops
every week killed it over here, which was a drag.'
Another interesting aspect of the recording of
'Whole Lotta Love' is that on it, Jimmy plays a
somewhat obscure instrument known as a
theremin. 'The theremin was something that came
out of France in the '30s, an oscillator, where the
closer you get to the aerial, the higher the pitch
goes. I saw one being used by Spirit, but I don't
remember what they did with it - they were quite
readily available in music shops, although they're
far rarer now, and I remember having a lot of
trouble getting it going at Knebworth.'

From this point on, a noticeable and perhaps

understandable reluctance on Page's part to
respond to a substantial percentage of our
questions became noticeable, thus a good deal of
what follows is rather sketchy. Led Zeppelin III
topped the LP charts around the world, as had II
before it, but, as noted, critical reaction was muted.
The critical flak led directly to some basic rethinking
for the fourth album, which was released in 1971,
but lacked a title, and in fact lacked words of any
sort on the sleeve, apart from those dimly visible on
an Oxfam poster photographed as part of an urban
landscape.

Another standout track, especially from Jimmy's

point of view, was 'Heartbreaker', in the second half
of which he plays an excellent guitar part. 'That
song's pretty much in two sections - it stops and
there's a whole guitar bit before it moves into the
solo, like changing gears into overdrive. It was fairly
similar to the sort of thing that was coming out in
live performances - I wish there was more material
recorded live, apart from that film soundtrack, but
as far as that heavy metal label we were given, it
wasn't that, because it wasn't just like hitting a riff
and going on and on at it at the same intensity, it
was a question of light and shade and dynamics,
and it would be really loud one minute, and so soft
that a pin could drop and be heard the next.'

'The band came under a lot of attack from the press

after the third LP - the musical press attitude is that
you're God one minute and shit the next, and
you've got no right to be recognised by anyone else
and become successful or whatever - so on the
fourth LP, we decided to release it with nothing on
whatsoever, no name of the band, but just the runes
(symbols apparently relating to each individual band

575

member), and just saying "This is us - you don't

have to buy the LP, so don't, if that's the way it is".
That was a hell of a legal battle - I remember sitting
in the office for a whole afternoon and being told it
had to have this, that and the other written on it,
and I said "Well, it doesn't, and if it does...." You
have to make certain stands at times - afterwards, it
may seem totally ridiculous, but at the time, the
band were totally in agreement, so it was worth
doing.'

stage, and it was tear gas! The statement in the

press the next day said that a bottle had been
thrown at the police, which obviously was true by
the end, because there had been quite a few of
these puffs of smoke going on over a period of time,
and it was about fifteen minutes before it hit the
stage. But the police were just provoking the
audience, and suddenly it went off like you couldn't
believe. It was just pandemonium, and nowhere
was immune from this blasted tear gas, including
us. I was terribly upset afterwards - I couldn't
believe that we'd be used as the instrument for a
political demonstration like that.

A postscript to the third LP concerns the track

'Celebration Day' - 'The beginning of that track
actually got wiped (erased) by an assistant
engineer, who made a terrible mistake, so we lost
the first part of it. The bloke just ran out, in case he
was going to get killed! Between "Friends" and
"Celebration Day", there's this drone that brings the
track in, there's part of the vocal, and then it comes
into the rhythm, and I put that together as a salvage
job after having lost it.'

Concurrent with several major British concerts,

whose atmosphere was far happier, during
November 1971 came the release of the fourth LP,
the first track of which was titled 'Black Dog'. 'I didn't
have a black dog, but there was one at Headley
Grange, where we recorded the album. Another
track reworked at Headley Grange, recording with a
mobile truck, was "The Battle Of Evermore" and
there was a mandolin there, which actually
belonged to John Paul Jones. I don't think there
was anything going on at one point, and I just
picked up this mandolin and started playing a
sequence, which probably consisted of the most
basic chords on a mandolin, but from that, I worked
out the sequence to that song. Listening to it now, it
seems strange that it was really the first time I'd
ever played a mandolin, although as I say, its
probably pretty basic chords, but the end result was
really great.'

Reverting to the fourth LP, which became popularly

known as either the 'runes' album, or 'Four
Symbols', the four curious shapes were referred to
as 'artistic symbols chosen by the band'. 'Initially, it
was just going to be one symbol, but then it was
down to one each, so everyone had a shot'. Page's
own symbol seems to read 'Zoso'...'That's not the
pronunciation, it's just a doodle, and although it
looks more like writing than the other three, that
wasn't the intention.'
During the recording of the LP, several interesting
occurrences took place - Peter Grant, the group's
manager, attempted without success to organise
live concerts in central London for them, first at
Waterloo Station (which would have been a
remarkable coup) and also at the headquarters of
Surrey Cricket Club, Kennington Oval. However,
one venture which did come off during 1971 was a
tour of small clubs around Britain, including such
venues as London's Marquee Club.

Another notable track on the LP, which is arguably

the groups finest moment, was 'Four Sticks', which
had been previously attempted during Jimmy and
Roberts Indian trip. 'We tried a different way of
approaching it, because it wasn't four sticks to
begin with at all, it was two sticks. Bonzo was
playing with two sticks, and the idea was to get this
kind of abstract number, but then he had a Double
Diamond, picked up four sticks, and we did it again,
and it was magic, one take, and the whole thing had
suddenly been made.

During July 1971, the group were inadvertently

involved in a major riot in a stadium in Milan, Italy.
'When we went in, we could see these riot police to which we're now accustomed, but at that time,
we hadn't seen anything like that. We saw a few of
them in a van, but as we started to play in this
football stadium, which was oval shaped with a
catwalk round the top, we could see movement
round the catwalk, and all these riot police coming
in. We just carried on playing, and there was smoke
at the far end of the outdoor arena, and the
promoters ran onstage and said would we tell them
to stop lighting fires. So Robert asked them, we
carried on playing, and there was a bit more smoke,
and suddenly there was smoke by the front of the

An album with many high points, but the highest of

all was certainly 'Stairway To Heaven'. 'That really
sums it all up - its just a glittering thing, and it was
put together in such a way as to bring in all the fine
points, musically, of the band in its construction.
When it came to the point of running it down with
Robert, there's actually a first rehearsal tape of it,
and sixty per cent of those lyrics, he came in with
off the cuff, which was quite something, just by
running through and coming in with the first thing that was amazing. When we were recording it, there
were little bits, little sections that I'd done, getting
reference pieces down on cassette, and sometimes

576

I referred back to them if I felt there was something

that seemed right that could be included. I wanted
to try this whole idea musically, this build towards a
climax, with John Bonham coming in at a later
point, an idea which I'd used before, to give it that
extra kick. Then there's this fanfare towards the
solo, and Robert comes in after that with this
tremendous vocal thing. At the time, there were
quite a few guitars overlaid on that, and I must
admit I thought - I knew - it was going to be very
difficult to do it on stage, but we had to do it, we
really wanted to do it, and I got a double-necked
guitar to approach it. We were doing a tour in the
States, and we'd worked this song in, and I
remember we did it in LA and got a standing ovation
at the end of it.'

'Along with "Stairway", that's probably the one that

most people would think of if we were mentioned,
although they were totally different numbers in
terms of content. The intensity of "Kashmir" was
such that when we'd done it, we knew that it was
something that was so magnetic within itself, and
you couldn't really describe what the quality was. It
was just Bonzo and myself at Headley Grange at
the start of that one - he started the drums, and I
did the riff and the overdubs, which in fact get
duplicated by an orchestra at the end, which
brought it even more to life, and it seemed so sort
of ominous and had a particular quality to it. It's nice
to go for an actual mood and know that you've
pulled it off.
'Physical Graffiti was the longest album to make,
because we had about three sides of new material
recorded, and it seemed to be a good idea to put on
some of the numbers that had been left off previous
LPs at that stage, because there had been quite a
few out by that point, and obviously there was a
period of going through, listening to the different
tracks and adding things if they were necessary.
There would usually be a guitar solo needed, which
I'd do, and I'd usually add other parts as well, and at
other times, Jonesy would do bits. You'd have the
overall idea of what it was going to be like,
especially once the vocal lines and phrasing were
sorted out, because then you'd know where not to
play, which was as important as knowing when you
should play. With "In The Light", for instance, we
knew exactly what its construction was going to be,
but nevertheless, I had no idea at the time that John
Paul Jones was going to come up with such an
amazing synthesiser intro, plus there's all the
bowed guitars at the beginning as well, to give the
overall drone effect. We did quite a few things with
drones on, like "In The Evening" and all that, but
when he did that start for "In The Light" it was just
unbelievable.'

It might appear odd that Led Zeppelin never

released a single in Britain, while very few were
released in the United States, and those primarily
for promotional purposes. 'Stairway To Heaven' was
one obvious possibility for single release, but
making it available in that form would have
necessitated, as Jimmy put it, 'breaking the
continuity of that album. Of the song, Jimmy finally
said that he regarded it as the pinnacle of the
band's achievements, which he considered tragic
'because we haven't got the opportunity to explore
any more.'
Almost eighteen months later, in March 1973, a fifth
LP, Houses Of The Holy, was released, again with
no writing on the sleeve. Probably the classic track
on the album is 'The Rain Song', which Jimmy
recalled had also been difficult to play on stage
initially. It was hard until we got the feel of it, but it
became a classic in the end. It was one of those
cases of keeping going at it, especially as we had
initially played all the instruments ourselves and it
was a matter of sorting out which overdubs were
the least important, or maybe inserting a new
phrase. Although the album predictably enough
topped charts everywhere, it seemed to be
generally accepted that it was by no means the
groups most instantly accessible record. The group,
however, were starting to work on other projects shooting began on a film featuring them, the Swan
Song record label, owned by the band, was
launched during 1974, and during 1975 came the
first Zeppelin release on Swan Song, the double
album, Physical Graffiti.

The first of two 1976 LPs was Presence, which was

recorded in three weeks, a particularly impressive
statistic considering that Robert Plant had been
involved in a very serious car accident, which was
made worse by the fact that he was unable, due to
tax problems, to recuperate at his own home, or to
be with his wife, who had also been injured in the
accident. One of the tracks on Presence not only
relates to this problem, but also illustrates a further
problem which Jimmy encountered during
recording.

As well as many new tracks, the fifteen songs

included several items recorded some time before,
but for various reasons not included on previous
albums. The track from the album generally singled
out for praise was 'Kashmir.'

'When we were doing Presence, we made an

attempt at a blues that was called "Tea For One",
about ultimate loneliness in a hotel room, which
was Roberts title, and a really good one, and which
had a really laid-back feel to it. It was basically a

577

12-bar, and there were two verses to do as solos on

guitar, and it suddenly hit me at that point that
everybody has played a blues number, and there
are so many musicians whose forte it is, like Eric
[Clapton], so what was I going to do? It was one of
the last solos to go on, because I'd feared it a bit,
and it had this atmosphere to it, which I knew was
there, and when I heard it back, I was really
pleased with it.

before with films, I knew nothing whatsoever about

how to really do it properly. I was working mainly to
action, making the music synchronise with the
action, even if it hadn't really been called for,
because it would still be good and acceptable if it
worked like that, although there were obviously a lot
of sections which did need to be totally in synch. I'd
find a metronome count where particular
movements would coincide on the beat, which
might be a dissipated beat, but would have a sort of
tempo, and then count the bars from it and work on,
being totally confident that something would be
dead on the nail. I wrote everything from scratch
that way, apart from one riff that I'd had from before
- the rest of it was off the cuff, and it was an
absolutely incredible exercise in discipline, which
was terrifying, but I just about made the deadline.
The only unfortunate thing was that it was a mono
soundtrack that was needed, and the music had to
be remixed in stereo for the LP, but none of the
tracks were re-recorded.'

The second Zeppelin album of 1976 (the only year

other than 1969, when the first and second albums
had appeared, when the group would release more
than one record during a year) was the double
soundtrack LP of the film which had been in
preparation since 1973, and was finally premiered
in October 1976, accompanied by the album whose
title it shared, The Song Remains The Same.
Following this, there was a lengthy silence from Led
Zeppelin as far as newly recorded material went,
this being partly explained by the tragic death of
Robert Plant's five-year-old son in July 1977. By
mid-1978, the group began preparations for what
was to be their final album - 1979 saw them fully
active again, releasing the LP, In Through The Out
Door, and also playing to a vast crowd at the
Knebworth Festival in Hertfordshire. A subsequent
international tour seemed to indicate that the group
were gearing up for further work, but on 25
September 1980, John Bonham was found dead in
Jimmy Page's house, the coroners verdict being
accidental death.

One particularly interesting aspect of the Death

Wish II LP concerns Pages personal use of
synthesisers, something for which he was not
previously well known. Did he, like some of our
other subjects, suspect that the age of the guitar
was nearly over?
'The thing is that technology changes so fast within
every six months that you see so many
developments in every area. I must admit that guitar
synthesisers had stimulated my imagination for
quite a long time, but before the one I am using
now, none of those available would track properly.
You'd play, and it would be late, or it would just stop
tracking, and the pitch to voltage would go wrong,
and it would make a horrible squeak. But this
particular machine is the works, and it finally gives a
guitarist a chance to compete with keyboard
players, purely because in the past it just wasn't
technically possible. Now it is, and they're getting
extra units so that you can have memory banks and
at the push of a button, the sound will totally
change. It's got great new scope for that for
somebody like myself, who can't play a keyboard
with two hands! On Death Wish II, I did some
keyboard synthesis, but when it came down to
needing a proficient player, I got Dave Lawson.
Nevertheless, this has really opened up a new
world, and as we see now with new groups,
synthesisers really are a big part of what's going on.
The guitar synthesiser that's been in any way
comparable to the keyboard has been a long time
coming, but its here now, and I think we're going to
hear a lot more of it. So you'll still see me with
something that looks like a guitar - I might have
some strange sounds coming out of it, and I may
not be using the bow to do it, but I'll still be there.

After a period when it was uncertain whether or not

Bonham would be replaced, the remaining
members of Led Zeppelin finally decided that they
would prefer not to relaunch the group with a new
member, and instead, the three survivors went their
separate ways, although, of course, there may
come a time in the future when more than one exmember of the group will appear on a stage
simultaneously.
After a lengthy gap, Jimmy Page released his first
solo project during 1982, this being his soundtrack
to a film starring Charles Bronson, Death Wish II.
'I went to see the film at the director's house, and
he asked me if I liked it. I said I thought it would be
a challenge, and he correctly presumed that I
wanted to take it on, and told me that I had eight
weeks to do it. I walked out of his house after
having had a very pleasant afternoon, feeling like a
sledgehammer had hit me over the head. I had
eight weeks to do forty-five minutes of music - that's
collectively, the longest section was two and a half
minutes, and most of the bits were 17 seconds or
45 seconds. I worked from videocassettes with
timing on them, and realised that whatever I'd done

578

DID JIM FEEL his guitar playing had grown rusty

over the past few years? "Let's put it this way. If you
think about the ARMS show at the Royal Albert Hall,
I hadn't been onstage for three years then. I knew I
was rusty. I might have done the odd jam but no...I
hadn't really played. My playing improved a bit with
the American tour, but after that I was determined to
make something of the guitar again. When I played
with Ian Stewart's Rocket 88 in Nottingham, none of
us was announced. It was great, because I heard
people say, 'Oh, that guitarist wasn't bad' and they
didn't know who it was. Do you know that meant
more to me than anything in the world? It really did.
I felt, that's bloody magic. It sounds like I'm blowing
my own trumpet, but it's not that. It's just that it
meant so much to me at that point in time. It helped
me put things in proper perspective and see how
things ought to be."

Jimmy Page Discography

Early session work
As there is a great deal of this, and presumably the
vast majority of it was recorded in the form of
singles rather than albums, and since Jimmy was
rarely, if ever, credited, it would probably be
misleading to provide a list.
Miscellaneous work pre-Led Zeppelin
1969 Anthology Of British Blues Volumes I & II
(These tracks have been released in many different
forms under several titles)
1967(?) Little Games - Yardbirds (only released in
USA)
1969 With A Little Help From My Friends (Joe
Cocker)
1969 A Way Of Life (Family Dogg)
1969 Love Chronicles (Al Stewart)
1969 Three Week Hero (P. J. Proby: on which all
four Led Zep members appear as session
musicians)
1976(?) Jimmy Page & Sonny Boy Williamson &
Brian Auger (material recorded during mid-1960s)

Jimmy had a tremendous legacy behind him,

almost a burden, right?
'Yeah, yeah. I'm not ashamed of ANY of that. Led
Zeppelin was magic for me. It was a privilege to
play in that band. It would have been wrong for me
to go out playing the same material now, and even
worse, get a singer to sing all Robert's songs. That
would have made me an absolute Philistine. You
know what I mean? That's how it could go. But I felt
that was morally wrong. I know Bonzo (John
Bonham) wanted that music to go on forever. I see
kids wearing Led Zeppelin T-shirts at our gigs.
That's all right. But I think they're there to hear the
new things we can do."

Led Zeppelin
1969 Led Zeppelin
1969 Led Zeppelin II
1970 Led Zeppelin III
1971 Untitled fourth LP (Runes LP or Four
Symbols)
1973 Houses Of The Holy
1975 Physical Graffiti
1976 Presence
1976 The Song Remains The Same (soundtrack)
1979 In Through The Out Door
1982 Coda

How had Jimmy's style changed?

"Well, I don't want to get into 12 minute guitar solos
and all that. I've grown up a lot more. But it's not
just growing up or even owning up. At the time
when I played long solos with Zeppelin there was a
lot of excitement and I got carried away. Now we
play much more punchy statements. The longest
piece is 'The Chase', from Death Wish II, which
incorporates bass and drum solos. But we keep
everything to the point. I used to waffle sometimes
in the past, but that's down to concentration.

Post Led Zeppelin

1982 Death Wish II (original soundtrack)
Stuart Grundy, John Tobler, 1983
The Jimmy Page Interview, Pt. 2

"I love doing things like 'Everybody Needs

Somebody To Love'. Isn't that great? It was Paul's
idea to do it. It's our encore number, and if it was
too tight it would be awful. It would spoil the whole
thing. When it gets slick it's horrible isn't it? It's
boring. Well, I think so."

Chris Welch, Creem, May 1985

(This is the concluding segment of an interview
writer Chris Welch recently conducted with Jimmy
Page in Frankfurt, Germany, following one of the
guitarist's premiere gigs with his new band, the
Firm. In this portion of the interview, Page
discusses guitar technique, the state of modern
rock and Led Zeppelin Ed.)

Jimmy and his generation have suffered at the

hands of the rock press particularly in England,
still filled with post-punk angst. Jimmy nodded. He
knew what I was on about.

579

"They had such a field day knocking bands from the

'70s and what they were doing, making jokes about
flower power and hippies. Let's face it the
psychedelic era, when you look back, made so
much difference to all kinds of music. It influenced
jazz when Miles Davis brought out the funky rhythm
section on Bitches Brew. I know from guitar as well
that musos then wouldn't use a third string you
could bend, which is what rock 'n' roll is all about
bending strings. Then suddenly it's all there, and
things got really good. All the classical students got
interested in rock as well, which was brilliant, and
that all came about at that time. Prior to that there
was such snobbishness in music it was ludicrous.

psychedelic era Bill Graham started the Fillmore.

That's quite a legend isn't it? Okay, I played there
with the Yardbirds on the same bill as jazzman Cecil
Taylor, It's A Beautiful Day, a flamenco guitarist and
next week, the Grateful Dead. It was a really mixed
bag. People had the ability to take in music, as
music. I feel really sorry for people who can only
listen to one type of music.
"When I started playing guitar, I got involved in all
sorts of music. During the psychedelic period, it was
like all 360 degrees of music there is in this world
became appreciated. The people being listened to
then included Ravi Shankar and Jimi Hendrix.
There was traditional music and progressive rock,
all being listened to at the same time. I just thought
that was such a brilliant time. As a musician I
thought it was magic. I hope that in the future things
will get better.

"OK, so that went on, and then came the bands of

the '70s, like Led Zeppelin. They knock it because
the bands appeared to become demi-gods. But
from our part of it, well, I say it was just supply and
demand. I remember when we tried to go back to
playing small clubs when we were at our peak. It
was absolutely chaos. People couldn't get in. It all
went wrong. You can never win. We played at the
big stadiums because so many people wanted to
see us!

"I learned all my stuff from '50s guitar records. Of

course I did! They were my text books. I just feel a
bit disappointed about the way the scene has
changed. But who am I to say?"
People tended to be a mite bitter today, I began.

"OK, they started calling us demi-gods. Well, one

thing they got wrong. If they didn't think we played
with conviction they were damn wrong. And there
was so much variety at that time, if you think about
the '70s, OK, so now they say all those bands were
absolute nonsense, and they don't amount to
ANYTHING and they can't relate to anything we
ever did. And they've got all this new technology,
and they're learning computers at school, and what
do they do with it? Verses and choruses, which is
exactly the same thing bands were doing in the
mid-'60s like the Hollies and Herman's Hermits.

"Bitter? Who? Bitter about what?" snapped Jimmy.

The press...about rock musicians, I ventured.
"Well, that's just absurd. They must be hypocrites if
they are bitter. You're not going to tell me they
weren't first of all involved in rock, in the music of
somebody like Hendrix, who you know was a
genius?
"I can't think of anybody playing today who is a
powerful force like that. Yet. But I hoped that it
would happen. I always looked forward to the
future. I do appreciate what is going on, but I
thought what would happen and I was wrong
was that with all the training and influences we'd
have new composers like Stravinsky. I really did.
Fresh minds, all those influences to draw from and
be turned onto...I thought something good would
have come through by now.

"Now, I can be very cynical about it, but I'm not

going to be. It's all very well them knocking people
who tried to work on their instruments, when all they
do now is get in a damn good producer to do super
mixes. [Jimmy loves Frankie Goes To Hollywood by
the way.] That's where the state of the art is at.
Production. And then miming on stage with tapes?
What is that all about? I'm sure the general public
don't want to know about it.
"I don't want to sound nostalgic...but I AM, 'cos
those times were GREAT for me, just like these
times are great for others. These are the formative
years for other people. There is a whole new
generation going out on the road...breaking up hotel
rooms!

"People put me down for what I've done in the past.

So I'm waiting for them to be a bit adventurous."
Jimmy recalled how Bonzo had experimented with
electronic drums years ago. "I always thought he
was the most underestimated musician ever. And
who else could get that much volume, just playing
from the wrists!

"Now everyone is back into little boxes, and

everyone over 30 is finished which will be fun
when THEY get to 30, by the way. During the

"I tried using small amps and I just couldn't be

heard, because he got so much power out of his

580

drums. It's amazing, people think of heavy metal

drummers being all arms. But he played from the
wrists. That is one of the plus factors of The Song
Remains The Same coming out. These people can
have look and see what he could do."

"Yes, I am a musician of the '60s and '70s. I got

fired by the music of Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley.
I was hit by so much energy from their records. But
every five years people get fired by the music they
hear and want to become part of it. So now...I'm
past middle age. But what do you do when you get
to middle age? There was no one for me to look up
to who said, 'This is what you do next.' I read in the
music press that after 30 you are fucked. But I'm
not, and there's a lot more for me to do."

Was there any more old Zep material in the vaults

to make another Coda style album (Zeppelin's
last)?
"Ah, no," said Jimmy. "There's some great live stuff,
but there's also some great live bootlegs, ha-ha!
Thank God they are there, and thanks to the people
who send me these things. I listen to them and go
'Oh my God, that was good. I wish it had been
recorded online.' Our performances changed so
much through all those years. It shocks me
sometimes to hear what happened. Oh, it was a
privilege, that band the sort of thing everybody
dreams about no matter who they are, a bank
manager even. They want to be part of something
like that, in their own field.

Jimmy ordered an Indian takeaway meal and

downed his Scotch. "Right, I've gotta go...or I'll miss
the gig!"

Chris Welch, 1985

Getting it Together at Bron-Y-Aur: The Story of
Led Zeppelin III
Phil Sutcliffe, Mojo, April 2000

"For me it was such an honor, and that's the only

way I think of it. And that's why I don't really want to
mar it. I think we have all done it right up to now,
Robert, myself and John Paul Jones. Did you know
John Paul has written a classical piece? He's had it
premiered with an orchestra. He lives down in
Devon, and I didn't know anything about it until
recently.

Whos moving into Bron-Y-Aur? Why, its that

Led Zeppelin, come to shake off their blues
roots and get talked. Phil Sutcliffe on the Welsh
sojourn that made them world beaters.
IT WAS EARLY MAY 1970. JIMMY PAGE and
Robert Plant, the biggest new stars in the
firmament, rocknrollers of such ill repute that they
were rumoured to have sold their souls to the Devil,
were walking in the spring flower-decked hills of
Snowdonia. Boots on their feet, knap sacks on their
backs. Not a soul for miles. Silence, except for a
murmur of conversation when they came across a
deserted cottage, or a shout of laughter as they
encountered wild horses and their sorry attempts at
Wild West bronc-busting ended in muddy ignominy.

"I know he did a film score for Michael Winner, and I

played guitar on a couple of tracks. I always wanted
to keep contact with John and Robert and the only
way you can really do it is not talking on the
telephone but by playing, even if it's just jamming
on a concert or playing on a track that isn't used.
That is the only way I can communicate properly: by
music. Love-wise and respect-wise it's all still there.
We're still mates. Now I want to enjoy life and feel
fortunate I'm part of this band. Sometimes
physically and mentally I think, 'I'm not gonna get
through the set.' But I do. I used to play three hours
a night with Zeppelin. I don't think I could do that
now."

As the sun dipped, they turned back towards BronY-Aur, the remote cottage where they had set up
camp. Puffing along a steep track through a ravine,
they decided to rest and take in the view. Page had
an acoustic guitar slung round his neck and, when
hed caught his breath and lit a cigarette, he began
to strum a tune hed been working on, the chords as
warm and balmy as the day. To his astonishment
their writing partnership as still at the tentative stage
Plant started singing, not just la-di-das but a
lyric, a whole verse, spilled out: "I dont know how
Im gonna tell you/I cant play with you no more/I
dont know how Im gonna do what mama told
me/My friend, the boy next door..."

After his triumphant but exhausting years with Zep,

did he feel he didn't want to tour ever again?
"No, never. Once I came off the road it was such a
major part of me missing and I didn't know what it
was. It turned out to be having no vehicle to play in.
And I had such a reputation for playing 'live' I got
frightened about doing it. If I did four bad gigs
nobody would want to know me anymore. You
probably think, How stupid what's he talking
about? But it's amazing what you go through.

They smiled at one another the way musicians do

when a song has written itself. They hauled a

581

cassette recorder out of one of the knapsacks. The

song was sweet and subtle. Plants unfamiliar,
restrained delivery begged intriguing questions: this
boy next door, what had he done, why the warning
from mama was he bad company? Was the
singer in character as a girl? That October when it
was released on Led Zeppelin III, Rolling Stones
late, great Lester Bangs, who detested the band for
their "insensitive grossness", wrote: "Thats The
Way is the first song theyve ever done thats truly
moved me. Son of a gun, its beautiful."

refurbishing it. Page (26 on January 9, the night he

met Charlotte Martin after the bands Royal Albert
Hall concert) supplemented the Pangbourne
Thames-side boathouse provided by his busy
session career with the rather more exotic
Boleskine House at Loch Ness, formerly home to
notorious self-styled Great Beast 666 Aleister
Crowley and, perhaps more intriguing, "site of a
notorious swindle involving many of the local
farmers and fictitious pork sausage works"
(according to Stephen Davis, author of band history
Hammer Of The Gods).

Page and Plant celebrated with squares of Kendal

Mint Cake and bounded back to the cottage. A fire
in the hearth against the evening chill, a hearty fryup, cups of cider mulled with red-hot pokers, a
Havana Corona-size spliff. They played the new
song for Plants wife Maureen, five-month-old
daughter Carmen, and Pages girlfriend Charlotte
Martin. Then, feeling good, they took themselves to
bed.

Being rich, Zeppelin had power. They recorded Led

Zeppelin in 37 studio hours paid for with 1,750 of
Pages life savings. Then, finished product in hand,
they signed to Atlantic for a record-breaking
$200,000 advance. They were one of the first bands
to demand a "total artistic control" clause in their
contract. On their latest American tour, they defied
convention by refusing to accept a support act and
playing for up to three hours themselves. While the
singles ban they tried to impose throughout their
career was breached by the back-door release of
'Whole Lotta Love' in America, they were in no way
bowing the knee to industry standard practice. In
fact, manager Peter Grant had lately demonstrated
that his band was all but bulletproof.

*
BY THE TIME LED ZEPPELIN FLEW BACK FROM
LAS Vegas on April 20th, 1970, at the end of their
fifth American tour, they had it all.
Created only 20 months earlier through the
spontaneous combustion of two young session
veterans, Page and bassist John Paul Jones, and
two Midlands pub-circuit tyros, Plant and drummer
John Bonham, they had conquered the USA in a
trice. Steamrollering the concerns of a national soul
tormented by Vietnam, racial strife, student unrest
and the President you wouldnt buy a used car
from, Led Zeppelin went Top 10 with their self-titled
debut album, then hit No. 1 with their second,
meanly dubbed Led Zeppelin II.

On April 17th in Memphis, the city fathers gave Led

Zeppelin honorary citizenship. That night at the
Midsouth Coliseum, the crowd erupted so
volcanically that the nervy promoter told Grant to
stop the show. When he refused, the promoter
pulled a gun, stuck it in the managers billowing
belly and wailed, "If you dont cut the show, Im
gonna shoot ya!" Grant laughed in his face. "You
cant shoot me, ya cunt," he roared. "Theyve just
given us the fucking keys to the city." The show
went on.

It stuck around in the charts for months, sustained

by an epoch-making heavy hit in 'Whole Lotta Love'
and their determination to relentlessly tour the
worlds biggest market: 153 gigs between
December 26, 1968, and April 18, 1970. But the
shows were no mere record promotion. Within
months, their gig fees rocketed from $500 a night to
$100,000 guaranteed.

Invincible, invulnerable, in America Led Zeppelin

took full advantage of their position and, notoriously,
lived the rocknroll lifestyle like hogs. Well, no more
so than their lively contemporaries, they always
argue and with the restrained Jones absenting
himself from the dirtier deeds. But mention of the
GTOs (Girls Together Outrageously), The Dog Act
and The Shark Episode is enough to recall why, in
1969-70, the story about Robert Johnsons Faustian
deal with Satan was revived and reattributed to Led
Zeppelin.

So they got rich. 1970 was the year they all bought
grand houses. Jones (24 on January 3) settled into
a handsome place in Chorleywood, Hertfordshire,
with his wife Mo and their two daughters. Bonham
(22 on May 31) swapped the caravan he shared
with his wife Pat for a farmhouse and 15 acres at
West Hagley, outside Birmingham. Plant (22 on
August 20) paid only 8,000 for Jennings Farm
near his native Kidderminster, and set about

The music and the life was all cut from one gaudy
cloth. Plant expressed it best, exulting in "the
recklessness that for me became the whole joy of
Zeppelin" and declaring that "10 minutes in the
music scene was the equal of 100 years outside it".

582

So Led Zeppelin had it all. However, as onlookers

always appreciate learning in such circumstances,
they werent happy. It happened that the four had
just reached the point where the glitter of everything
gained cast a melancholy light on everything lost or
left behind.

Jansch, who, in an unbuttoned moment, he called

"a real dream-weaver".
On Led Zeppelin, Page had reworked the Anne
Briggs/Bert Jansch arrangement of traditional
lament Blackwater Side as Black Mountainside and
"borrowed" American folk singer Anne Bredons
'Babe Im Gonna Leave You' via a Joan Baez LP
(Bredons credit was added to the sleeve in the
early 80s). After Led Zeppelin II, Pages interviews
were full of lines like, "I want to do a Pentangle-type
thing", "Theres going to be a lot more emphasis on
acoustic guitar" and "Weve always had this desire
to do acoustic things", generally concluding with his
mantra about "dynamics, light and shade, drama
and versatility..." Just what Variety ordered, yet true
to himself too.

Although they were bursting with adrenalin, the loss

of privacy, the endless travel, the highs and comedowns (musical and narcotic), the sheer hard work,
the superficiality of on-the-road relationships
compared to home life, all these things ground their
emotions to pulp. The apparently Herculean Plant
was perhaps most vulnerable. Peter Grant coddled
him through outbreaks of stage fright. In his book
Stairway To Heaven, infamous roadie Richard Cole
wrote that, by the end of the fifth American tour,
"more than anyone, Robert seemed oo the brink of
collapse".

Even the stoic Jones noted that, "touring makes you

into a different person. I realise that when I get
home. It takes me weeks to recover after living like
an animal for so long." Further, for all their strutting
confidence, Zeppelin did come under fire. As well
as loving them, America scorned them. Because
they had long hair and fame, people spat at them in
the street. Deep South restaurants refused to serve
them. More woundingly, most critics treated their
music with similar disdain, lambasting them as
crude heavy metal R&B rip-off merchants. Varietys
concert coverage spoke for the reviewing
community: "This quartet's obsession with power,
volume and melodramatic theatrics leaves little
room for the subtlety the other Britishers employ.
There is plenty of room for dynamics and
understatement in the Zeppelin brand of ultra-hard
rock. But the combo has forsaken their musical
sense for the sheer power that entices their
predominantly juvenile audience."

THEY HAD PROMISED THEMSELVES a break

when they got back from America. Bonham and
Jones went home to sort themselves out. But Plant
was restless. And called Page about a remote
cottage near Machynlleth, Gwynedd, which he
remembered fondly from a childhood holiday. Page
liked the idea. A surprise, maybe, but before Led
Zeppelins year of five star suites he had been an
inveterate solo traveller in India, America, Spain
and elsewhere. Both a loner and a natural group
leader, he once said: "Isolation doesnt bother me at
all, it gives me a sense of security."
So, in late April, they set off for Bron-Y-Aur
("Bronraar"), hoping to recover some closeness
with each other an echo of their first extensive
meeting when Plant spent several days at Pages
Pangbourne home playing records and talking
music. But they did take along roadies Clive
Coulson and Sandy Macgregor to take care of
domestic matters.

In part, the American experience had gone sour on

them. And the quartet knew they had neglected
their British audience. Now their instinct was to put
that right, and re-engage with what were genuinely
strong elements in their background: country life
and folk music. All of them hailed from small towns.
Page had spent a lot of his childhood on an uncles
farm near Northampton. Given a few days off, Plant
would hurl himself into agricultural activity at
Jennings Farm, footling about with chickens or, as a
rustic neighbour dryly noted, over-zealously
"digging tunnels" for potatoes.

The cottage was accessible only via muddy farm

tracks. It had stone walls, no electricity and no
running water. "It was freezing when we arrived,"
recalls Coulson, now a beef farmer in his native
New Zealand. "We collected wood for the openhearth fire which heated a range with an oven on
either side. We had candles and I think there were
gaslights. We fetched water from a stream and
heated it on the hot plates for washing a bath
was once a week in Machynlleth at the Owen
Glendower pub."

Alongside their studious passion for the blues, Page

and Plant were also besotted with Fairport
Convention, The Incredible String Band and Joni
Mitchell. Pages "all-time favourite" guitarist was not
a black man called King but acoustic virtuoso Bert

Who did the chores, then?

"Me and Sandy were the cooks, bottlewashers and
general slaves. Pagey was the tea man. Plants

583

speciality was posing and telling people how to do

things," Coulson laughs and then, lest anyone take
his Kiwi sarcasm for gospel, corrects himself. "No,
everyone mucked in really. I wouldnt take any of
that superior shit. They were wonderful people to
work for, normal blokes, they werent treated as
gods. Although Pagey was two people, one of the
lads and the boss. And Im not sure who got the job
of cleaning out the chemical toilet..."

A cosmic and enriching experience for the roadies

too, then?
Coulson guffaws. "Not really. It was a job for us. ME
and Sandy were just totally fucking bored."
*
WHEN PAGE AND PLATN REPORTED BACK,
Jones and Bonham needed little persuasion that
the band should go bucolic. After a brief interlude at
Olympic in Barnes, they decamped to Headley
Grange in Hampshire, a mansion with more than a
whiff to decay about it. "Orrible place, dripping with
damp," according to John Paul Jones. Its threestorey high entrance hall bore the memory of
elegance, but one cold night a section of the
bannister ended up on the fire as the band strove to
heat the large and empty living room.

They drove the tracks, walked the hills, met a biker

gang of local farm boys and a bunch of volunteers
restoring an old house (Page said, sorry, hed never
played guitar so he couldnt join in on Kumbayah).
They took evenings "off" at the pub and talked
country matters with the farmers; Page even bought
some goats and had Coulson ferry them up to
Boleskine House in a Transit. This amply offset the
truculence of a local butcher who snarled at them in
Welsh and hacked their fillet steaks to mince.

Still, once he got used to wrapping up warm against

the ague, the gripes moderated. Even Jones quite
enjoyed "sitting out on the grass a lot playing
acoustic guitars and mandolins. It was very
pleasant."

With Page strumming and Plant tootling a

harmonica, the songs came songs which,
according to Page, "changed the band and
established a standard of travelling for inspiration,
which is the best thing a musician can do". They
wrote the rudiments of material that fed into their
repertoire for years afterwards, sustaining the
acoustic element: 'Over The Hills And Far Away'
(Houses Of The Holy, 1973), 'Down By The
Seaside', 'The Rover', 'Bron-Y-Aur' (Physical
Graffiti, 1975), 'Poor Tom' (Coda, 1982), and
possibly others, as well as three songs which
appeared immediately on Led Zeppelin III, 'Thats
The Way', the Neil Young-influenced 'Friends' and
'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp'.

Relatively relaxed too, with breaks for a show in

Iceland (where they wrote the clangorous
'Immigrant Song') and, on June 28th, for the Bath
Festival Of Blues & Progressive Music. Strenuously
publicised as a commitment they chose to honour
despite an offer of $200,000 to play in America that
weekend, this was a key moment in winning over a
British audience. Ever alert, Peter Grant spotted
that the sun was setting directly behind the stage
and ordered his crew to remove The Flocks gear,
cutting off violinist Jerry Goodman mid-cadenza.
Led Zeppelin caught the light and played to a crowd
of 150,000 for three hours. Page appeared in
agricultural character with a stout tweed coat and
hat and a beard which renounced both Mod
sharpness and pre-Raphaelite foppery. Hippie
ingenu Plant told the crowd, "Its really nice to come
to an open-air festival where theres no bad things
happening."

Begun the previous autumn as 'Jennings Farm

Blues', 'Bron-Y-Aur Stomp's hoedown knees-up
captured the arcadian idyll they craved.
Momentarily eschewing sex and Vikings, Plant sang
to his dog: "Walk down the country lanes, Ill be
singin a song, Ill be callin your name/Hear the
wind whisper in the trees that Mother Natures
proud of you and me."
Bron-Y-Aur was a strange thing for the two young
stars to do, but it worked. "The great thing was
there was no motion," Plant said later, "just privacy
and nature and the beauty of the people there. [As
a lyricist] Im finding myself now. Its taken a long
time, a lot of insecurity and nerves and the Im a
failure stuff." Of his relationship with Page, he said
that "in the beginning I held myself a long way off
from him", but now the barriers were coming down,
as Page later confirmed to writer Ritchie Yorke.
"Living together at Bron-Y-Aur, as opposed to
occupying nearby hotel rooms, was the first time I
really came to know Robert."

At Headley Grange, exploring the different sounds

offered by every room, stairway and cupboard, they
worked on 'Friends', 'Out On The Tiles' and
'Gallows Pole' (a thumping rampage derived from a
traditional English song which Page picked up from
an obscure Folkways album by Californian 12-string
player Fred Gerlach). But the, with deadlines
pressing, in July they went back to town, hiring
Islands redeveloped Basing Street (27.10s an
hour, the ads said).

584

The engineer on Led Zeppelin III was Andy Johns,

then a young blood renowned in the studio fraternity
for playbacks "at hooligan level", now a veteran
based in Las Angeles. Younger brother of Glyn
sacked by Page after Led Zeppelin when he asked
for a production credit he remembers hard,
anxious days at the desk. "I was uptight because
these guys were so good," he says. "You always
wanted to do your best for them. And they worked
fast. Pagey was really easy to get on with and I
dont ever remember him having an emotional
block, not knowing what to do."

again submit themselves to the pulverising process

of mixing and re-recording between gigs, which had
rendered the making of Led Zeppelin II such a
misery.
Page found an ally, Terry Manning of Ardent
Studios, Memphis, a friend since the mid-60s days
on the road, and plunged back into the familiar but
loathed routine of flying in for even three or four
hours in transit between shows. Now manager of
Chris Blackwells Compass Point Studios in the
Bahamas, Manning believes he recorded "the best
rock guitar solo of all time" when Page fired off a
one-take for 'Since Ive Been Loving You' which
finally satisfied him and made the record: "He would
do a sort of rocking back and forth of his shoulders
when the mix was coming into the feel area he
desired and was moving him."

Richard Digby Smith, often Johnss tapeop/assistant, now owner of RDS Studios/Isis
Productions in Chiswick, had the same sense of
unremitting drive: "There was nobody twiddling their
thumbs. No Lets go down the pub, then. They
never ran out of ideas."

Manning says he mastered the album with Page in

Memphis. As an interested bystander to Pages
preoccupation with Aleister Crowley, he had the
task of scratching The Wickedest Man In The
Worlds mottos on the inner groove for pressing
onto vinyl: on side one, "Do What Thou Wilt", and
on side two, "So Mote It Be" or "Shall Be The Whole
of the Law".

While recalling Jones only as the quietly

consummate craftsman, Johns says: "Bonham was
the one whod complain. Always. It needs more
thrutch. I sort of knew what he meant.. But he was
a great drummer, whether it was a heavy death
march or an acoustic thing with small animals
cavorting in the meadow. A naturally fantastic
timekeeper and not a trudge merchant, very
creative with sound."

Smith, nine months on from a job stacking

supermarket shelves in Birmingham, was awed to
sit in on a session when Plant sang the maximum
R&B moan 'Since Ive Been Loving You': "I can see
Robert at the mike now. He was so passionate.
Lived very line. What you got on the record is what
happened. His only preparation was a herbal
cigarette and a couple of shots of Jack Daniels.

ZEPPELIN TOPPLE BEATLES SAID THE

HEADLINE when they won Best Group in the
Melody Maker readers poll that September after
eight years of Moptop domination. But bad news
followed.
The release of their beloved Led Zeppelin III on
October 23 was heralded by reviews reiterating the
usual whinges about crass metalism and blues
thievery plus new complaints that the acoustic
emphasis on the second side exposed a band
either going soft or ripping off the West Coast
sound. While Discs headline proclaimed Zepp
weaken! and an editorial enquired: Dont Zeppelin
care any more?, Rolling Stones Lester Bangs
thundered: "Their music is as ephemeral as Marvel
comics...[there is] something awesome in its very
insensitive grossness like a Cecil B. DeMille epic."

"The way they recorded, it was a team effort but

Page had the final say. When Robert was singing
Page would be on the desk, not telling him what to
do, working with him, and Robert would comply with
enthusiasm. He was a lovely guy, sweet-natured.
On 'Since Ive Been Loving You' I remember Pagey
pushing him, Lets try the outro chorus again,
improvise a bit more and I can see Robert
shaking his mane on that line Im about to lose my
worried mind. Im sure its the one that went on the
album. There was a hugeness about everything
Zeppelin did. I mean, look behind you and there
was Peter Grant sitting on the sofa the whole
sofa."

At first, Page, again proving vulnerable to the slings

and arrows of outrageous critics, admitted he "got
really brought down" by the reaction. Plant took on
the defensive interviews: Plant Denies Soft
Charge, as Record Mirror put it. "Now weve done
Zeppelin III the skys the limit," he stoutly insisted.
"It shows we can change. It means there are
endless possibilities and directions for us to go in.
Were not stale and this proves it."

By the time Led Zeppelin embarked on their next

American tour on August 5th 37 concerts in 46
days the album was still not finished, partly
because of the Bron-Y-Aur compositional splurge.
They had 17 songs on tape and no option but to

585

And if Page had a small sulk, musically he was not

to be discouraged. For many months he had been
talking up plans for an epic track, maybe 25
minutes, which would immutably fuse the bands
overwhelming hard rock and acoustic ambitions.
That he and Led Zeppelin went ahead was a crucial
act of artistic resolve and integrity.

time he would say, What do you think?, and Id

say, Not bad, meaning it needed work. Eventually
when he asked me yet again, I sort of cracked and
said, Youre making me paranoid!, and he said,
No, youre making me paranoid! and we had a big
argument. It made me realise he was as insecure
as anyone."

In the autumn Page, Plant and the roadies returned

to Bron-Y-Aur for a few days, refurbishing their
souls and developing some songs they already had
under way. They began recording 'Stairway To
Heaven' at Basing Street in December 1970. "Id
written the music over a long period, the first part
coming at Bron-Y-Aur one night," said Page (almost
certainly referring to their spring stint at the
cottage). Andy Johns and Richard Digby Smith
were again in attendance on the day they recorded
the basic tracks.

Page was acutely aware of the way the pivotal role

that he commanded could undermine him too. "I get
terrible studio nerves," he admitted when the
officially untitled "Four Symbols" was released in
December 1971. "Even when Ive worked the whole
thing out before hand at home, I get terribly nervous
playing it particularly when its something that
turned out to be a little above my normal
capabilities. My bottle goes."
Even so, when it came to the lyrics, the draughty
rural setting and Pages gentle prompting again lit
the fuse to Plants muse. With Jones and Bonham
taking a night off at the Speakeasy, the two sat by
yet another hearthful of glowing embers. Page
strummed the chords. Plant recalled: "I was holding
a pencil and paper. All of a sudden my hand was
writing out the words, Theres a lady is sure, all that
glitters is gold, and shes buying a stairway to
heaven. I just sat there and looked at them and
almost leapt out of my seat."

"Stairway was quite a challenge for me and for the

band," says the engineer. "Getting the take on the
track required a lot of concentration because there
are so many changes."
Smith watched the group dynamics: "Im running
the tape and they do a take, John Paul Jones
playing the bass on an electric piano, Page sitting
on a stool playing acoustic in this hutch we built for
him with screens all round and even a roof on top,
Bonham waiting until its his moment to come in [at
4:18 in the final version]. Its almost faultless from
beginning to end.

His brisk explanation of the lyric was that it

concerned "a woman getting everything she wanted
without giving anything back". It can be
philosophised to death, but its a fact that those
words hit the spot for millions and for 30 years.

"They run up the stairs for the playback. Sounds

wonderful. Bonham says, Thats it, then! But
Pageys quiet. Hes a man of few words anyway.
His hands on his chin, hes going Mmmm, mmmm
you never knew what he was thinking. So
Bonham looks at him and says, Whats up? And
page says hes convinced that they have a better
take in them.

Back at Basing Street, Richard Digby Smith

reckons he saw Jimmy Page get over his lead
guitar-break trauma and finish the track: "He did
three takes. He didnt use headphones, he
monitored the backing tracks through speakers
which was how the classical soloists who used that
studio did it. I can see him now, leaning against one
of these speakers, like this."

"Well, Bonhams not best pleased. This always

happens we get a great take and you want to do
it again.' They go back down. Bonzo grabs his
sticks, huffing, puffing, muttering, 'One more take
and that' it!' He waits and waits until he his grand
entrance and, of course, when the drums come in, if
you thought the one before was good this one is
just explosive. And when they play it back, Bonham
looks at Jimmy, like, Youre always right, you
bastard."

Smith acts it out, probably not for the first time

becoming Jimmy Page, casually leaning like a
ghetto king of the street corner, guitar cradled,
stroking the strings). "Oh, and a fag stuck between
the strings by the tuning peg always the sign of a
master musician. He was the epitome of cool."
'Stairway To Heaven' proved to be the apotheosis of
all the musical and commercial forces they had
wrestled with throughout 1970 and the making of
Led Zeppelin III. A sort of white and black pop-rock
quasi classical R&B-infused heavy metal folkie
vaudeville-operatic Presley ballad thing. Well might

But one night in January 1971, at Headley Grange,

Johns saw pages self-doubt laid bare. "He was
trying to get the 'Stairway' guitar solo for three or
four hours. It started to worry me because time after

586

Page opine that "'Stairway' crystallised the essence

of the band. It was a milestone for us." On various
occasions, he further described it as "a glittering
thing", "an apex lyrically", and with boastful humility
declared: "Ill have to do a lot of hard work before I
can get anywhere near those stages of consistent,
total brilliance again."

lady furiously taking pictures in front of me was

conceived," he said. "What? Was I there? Possibly!"
He looked round, perhaps concerned that hed
caused offence, but Page too was wearing a sloppy
smile.
"See. Were happy again," said Plant.

They played the song live for the first time at Ulster
Hall, Belfast, on March 5. The surrounding streets
were blaze as rioters threw Molotov cocktails and
set fire to a petrol tanker. It was nothing to do with
Led Zeppelin, but it was hardly at odds with their
attachment to weighty symbolism.

Phil Sutcliffe, 2000

Been A Long Time: Led Zeppelin
Barney Hoskyns, Mojo, July 2003

They've been going in and out of style/But they're

guaranteed to raise a smile/So may I introduce to
you/The act you've known for all these years...

LED ZEPPELIN IIIS REPUTATION has grown over

the years, even though sales remain in paltry
single-figure millions compared to its blockbuster
predecessor and successor.

EVEN NOW, after all these years of hairtree

wannabes and idiot tribute bands, there's
something so fierce and coruscating about Led
Zeppelin in their prime that it can scare you half to
death.

Yet, in 1994, when Page and Plant reunited for No

Quarter they went back to Wales to re-record
'Gallows Pole' (at Corris Slater Quarry near Bron-YAur) and other tr4acks. Then, in London, they also
reworked 'Friends', 'Since Ive Been Loving You',
'Gallows Pole' and 'Thats The Way'. Further more,
the No Quarter sleeve acknowledged old times by
reproducing Led Zeppelin IIIs stilted tribute to a
house with no electricity, running water or
sanitation: "Credit must be given to Bron-Y-Aur, a
small derelict cottage in south Snowdonia, for
painting a somewhat forgotten picture of true
completeness which acted as an incentive to some
of these musical statements."

Watching new live footage of the group from a

seismic 1970 show at London's Royal Albert Hall
I'm reminded of my first pubescent exposure to
these four horsemen of the rock apocalypse, with
their strangulated shrieking, their blood-curdling
riffology, their serpentine tendrils of hair.
I see all too clearly why the marauding quartet of
Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Paul Jones and
John "Bonzo" Bonham was off-limits to callow
Bolan-boppers like me. (My buddy John Smeddle
had a Robert Plant poster on the dorm wall, but my
buddy John Smeddle had an Older Brother. For Led
Zeppelin was nothing if not Older Brothers' Rock.)

During the 90s, Plant called Led Zeppelin III "our

single most important achievement", observing that
the wild ride to megastardom of the bands first 18
months had been "quite a move for a kid from the
Black Country. To go on from that to the cottage
album that was incredibly important for my
dignity." When his current hobby band Priory Of
Brion gigs, unadvertised, in a Midlands club or
marquee they play loose, semi-acoustic, and cover
old Neil Young songs.

When my glam passions flagged, what stood lean

and mean, proud and defiant, was the savage
sensuality of those first four Zeppelin albums: the
grinding menace of Dazed And Confused, the
bestial lustfest that was Whole Lotta Love, the
searing anguish of Since I've Been Loving You, the
bone-quaking When The Levee Breaks.

Despite all the mayhem, the Bron-Y-Aur thread

remains unbroken. In 1994, filming the Unledded
reunion concert for MTV, Plant spotted pages
daughter Scarlet, a well known photographer. He
grinned a big, silly grin of middle-aged nostalgia
and saucy time remembered, then introduced
'Thats The Way'.

What a difference a decade makes. If I fast forward

my internal Zeppelin tape to 1979, I'm out the other
side of it, dissing them as dinosaurs, gobbing in the
face of the Behemoth. In through the out door... but
only to return like a contrite puppy when the punk
dust has settled, clinging to the great Zep albums
as life rafts in the desensitised, enervated '80s.

"This was written on the side of a Welsh mountain

in a cottage about half an hour before the young

587

Anyone of you out there remember "anti-rockism"?

Boy, did I smirk when LZ were suddenly the
presiding animus behind '90s rock the platform for
grunge and retro-rawk. And boy is it fun to hear that
animus in every last guitar lick and vocal snarl that
Gen'leman Jack White lays down.

submission, leaping into the breach that opened up

when Clapton slowed his hand, Hendrix freed the
gypsy funkateer within, and everyone else went
singer-songwriter-acoustic on our asses.
Symbolically enough, 1969's mighty Led Zeppelin II
recorded here, there and everywhere as the band
toured remorselessly had dislodged Abbey Road
from the top of the U.S. album chart. In January '70,
Whole Lotta Love, released against their own
express wishes, crashed into the U.S. Top 5,
cementing their fearsome rep Stateside.

"I love the way that Jack in his interviews says,

'Robert Plant is the thing I least liked about Led
Zeppelin'," the former Zep frontman says, supine in
an armchair in a Birmingham hotel. "And I think,
'Well, that's fine, boy, but if you're gonna play In My
Time Of Dying, listen to the master... or even to
Jesus Gonna Make Up My Dying Bed from 1930'. I
tell you, there's no Blind Willie Johnson there. But
you know, that sound hasn't really been heard in the
contemporary world, in bedsit-college land since
1970. So its sudden re-emergence via The White
Stripes is, like, 'Hey, what's that?'"

Yet the spark had failed to ignite in the band's own

homeland, not least because the British press
refused to believe the hype. "I think our success in
America had an effect on the critique over here,"
says Plant. "It was like, 'They've gone, and who the
fuck are they anyway? Oh well, it's overblown...'"

Reviled by the music press in their heyday, Led

Zeppelin now reign unchallenged as the ultimate
gods of hard blues-rooted rock. If you don't believe
me or you just want to know why cup an ear to
the three-CD set How The West Was Won. Drawing
on two storming 1972 shows in LA and Long Beach,
this is the great live Zep album that never was.

To rectify this, Zep's man-mountain manager Peter

Grant set up a short UK tour for the New Year.
Kicking off in Bristol and taking in the Plant/Bonzo
parish of Birmingham, the tour hit London's august
Albert Hall on January 9th.
"We did some touring in England," says John Paul
Jones, "but it was much harder to get anywhere
here because the press wasn't very interested. So
maybe the Albert Hall was the first sort of 'Here we
are' type of show in England. I've heard it reported
that some of the press thought we were an
American band."

"How The West Was Won is honestly where all four

of us are right on top of it," says Jimmy Page,
healthy and happy in a Covent Garden photo
studio. "It's just magic. When we went to the States
we didn't give a fuck, we just went out there and
became total showoffs."

What's fantastic about DVD's Albert Hall footage is

how stark and elemental it is. No trippy lights, no
dry-ice clouds, no Jagger-esque preening. Just four
men barely more than boys bound together in
intense rhythmic symbiosis, rooted in the most
brutal, pulverizing grooves ever devised: Dazed
And Confused, Whole Lotta Love,
Communication Breakdown, How Many More
Times.

"It's stunning," agrees Plant. "Even though the

currency of Led Zeppelin has been re-evaluated so
many times for different reasons out in the cold,
back in again, big riffs, here comes The Cult it's
stunning stuff."
After you've been wowed by West, feast your
peepers on DVD, five hours-plus of priceless Zep
footage painstakingly pieced together by Page and
engineer Dick Carruthers. Forget the band's 1976
film The Song Remains The Same: bookended by
the 1970 Albert Hall show at the start of Disc 1 and
by one of the group's 1979 Knebworth shows at the
close of Disc 2 (with all manner of goodies and
snippets as side-orders on the menu), DVD is, I
assure you, the mutt's 'nads.

Nothing flashy. Jonesy a heavy metal monk.

Bonzo all moustache and muscles. Jimmy Page
in a sleeveless harlequin sweater. Robert Plant's
pre-Raphaelite face all but obscured behind his
flaming mane of hair.
"At the Albert Hall I was 21, and I was just a Black
Country hippy," the singer says. "I was hanging on
for dear life, weaving my way through the three
greatest players of their time. I had places where I
would dive into the game and sort of swim around
in the middle of the music, like a bit-part actor in the
middle of some great musical moment. I enjoyed it

*
AT THE DAWN of the decade pop-culturally
speaking, anyway the quasi-supergroup that was
Led Zeppelin was in pole position, ready to boss the
new epoch. They'd bludgeoned America into

588

like a fan, and I never even really thought about it

like this until I looked at the DVD."

voice is that of a genial schoolmaster, talking with

an incredulous chuckle about the band's
escapades. His face is virtually unchanged from
1970.

His famous locks scrunched in a pony-tail, Plant

grins with a mixture of pride and wistful regret at the
memory of those young boy's blues. In the next
room his eleven-year-old son twiddles with a video
game. This is one wise and contented rock god.

"It's funny, people say to me, 'You can just see the
communication on the stage, and my band doesn't
do that. It's like we're all in separate bands.' Our
priority in Led Zeppelin was to make Led Zeppelin
sound great, and if that meant playing two notes in
a bar and shutting up for a bit, that's what it took."

"As the project developed," he goes on, "I kept

gazing at it and going, 'Christ, if you didn't see the
haircuts, this is pretty good!' I was almost startled
by parts of it. But it's a long time ago, a long time. I
mean, I've kind of gone now."

Zeppelin took their empathy and telepathy back to

America at the end of March their fifth U.S. tour in
eighteen months. This time it was less of a blast.
With the country in the throes of Vietnam-related
violence the Kent State shootings were just
around the corner Zep were on edge. Peter Grant
and road manager Richard Cole got into scrapes
with promoters. Bonzo got homesick and restless,
taking out his feelings on hotel rooms. A show had
to be stopped when a brawl erupted in Pittsburgh.
Another promoter pulled a gun in Grant in Memphis.
Southern cops hassled the limey longhairs. Plant
suffered stage fright.

Of all the surviving legends of that time, few have

been less sentimental about their glory days than
"Percy" Plant. Nine years ago, when MOJO's Mat
Snow asked Page and Plant about the Zep
archives, Plant recoiled at "the whole idea of
studying [the Albert Hall footage] as a piece of
history", decrying the Zep feature film The Song
Remains The Same as "such a load of old
bollocks".
Page, on the other hand, told Snow that
documenting events such as the Albert Hall was
"something for maybe down the line". Today he
feels more than vindicated by several years of
trawling and editing.

Back in England in the last week of April, Jones and

Bonham scuttled back to the safety of their homes.
But there was no rest for the wicked or at least for
band's principal songwriters: Atlantic was owed
another album. For a change of scenery, and
perhaps inspiration, Plant suggested to Page that
they hole up with partners plus Plant's baby
daughter and mutt in a remote Welsh cottage
called Bron-Yr-Aur.

His Satanic Majesty turns out to possess a quiet,

fragile, sweetly boyish speaking voice Robert
Wyatt meets Dennis Wise, if you will. No longer the
wasted Brett Anderson androgyne of Zep's classic
years, Jimmy's round, ageing-cupid face twinkles
with excitement about both DVD and How The
West Was Won.

"Robert had this place that he'd been to with his

parents in the past and he asked if I fancied coming
down there," recalls Page. "I said it would do me a
lot of good to get out to the countryside. And really,
what came out on the third album was a reflection
of the fact that the pendulum had swung in the total
opposite direction from all of that Led Zeppelin II
live thing and the energy of being on the road. It
was like, Oh, we're here, we're in nature, we can
hear the birds sing, there's not a car sound, there's
no aeroplane, there's no concert to do. It was just
fantastic."

"When we lost John [Bonham died at Page's

Sussex home in 1980]," Page says, "I was very
keen to do a chronological live album, because I felt
that Led Zeppelin's live performance was so
important to the sum of the parts. We'd go onstage,
and if all four of us were really on top of it, it would
just take on this fifth dimension, and that fifth
dimension could go in any direction."
"The power came from the music," concurs John
Paul Jones. "You didn't notice that there wasn't a
set, because the music drew you in. And there
wasn't much leaping about the stage, because
everybody was working hard and concentrating."

So fantastic that Page and his French girlfriend

Charlotte Martin conceived their daughter Scarlet at
Bron-Yr-Aur, not long after he and Plant had been
on the long walk that led to the writing of The Boy
Next Door, aka That's The Way just one of
several folk-infused songs on the original second
side of Led Zeppelin III. (The cottage may also have
inspired Page to purchase his own bucolic retreat,
Boleskine House, on the shores of Loch Ness. Lest
we forget, this was the former residence of Satanist

On a bright hot April morning, JPJ sits a stone's

throw from the old Island studio on Basing Street
where Stairway To Heaven, Since I've Been
Loving You and other Zep peaks were scaled. His

589

dope fiend Aleister Crowley, on whom "Pagey" was

rather keen.)

That's The Way, the raucous traditional Gallows

Pole, the distorted Bukka White blues of Hats Off
To (Roy) Harper that Page and Plant brought
back from Wales?

Folk had already been heard, of course, on Led

Zeppelin's debut: in Anne Briggs' arrangement of
Babe I'm Gonna Leave You, in the Bert Jansch
staple Blackwater Side, aka Black Mountain Side.
(Shortly before departing for Bron-Yr-Aur, Page
performed Black Mountain Side and his acoustic
Yardbirds instrumental White Summer on Julie
Felix's TV Show Once More With Felix. There's also
a version of White Summer in DVD's Albert Hall
set.) But for the two men there was now a need to
give proper space to this side of Zeppelin a story
told definitively by Phil Sutcliffe in MOJO 77.

Jones: "Well, Jimmy had always had acoustic

guitars lying around, and he would often play things
on acoustic guitar. It was very organic. Suddenly we
found ourselves with a bit more time and we sat
down with some acoustic instruments and we
started exploring. I'd bought a mandolin on tour
somewhere, and as soon as I get a new instrument
I want to start using it it's a very natural thing. And
we were listening to more Joni Mitchell by then
anyway, plus people like Fairport. I'd probably
learned my first mandolin tunes from Fairport's
Liege and Lief. I mean, there was more folk-rock
about, and there were people like Poco and
Matthews Southern Comfort, and like any curious
musician you just start playing it."

Plant: "The idea of using acoustic guitars and

developing much more of a textural thing came
about because if we weren't careful we were going
to end up part of a whole Grand Funk Railroad,
James Gang thing that was sort of two-dimensional.
By the time Whole Lotta Love had been such a
statement, it was definitely time to veer over to the
left and see how far we could take it in another
direction.

The spirit of Bron-Yr-Aur carried through to the May

sessions at Headley Grange, a damp Hampshire
pile which had already been used by such bluesrock peers as Fleetwood Mac.

"So we went to Wales and lived on the side of a hill

and wrote those songs and walked and talked and
thought and went off to the Abbey where they hid
the Grail. No matter how cute and comical it might
be now to look back at that, it gave us so much
energy, because we were really close to something.
We believed. It was absolutely wonderful, and my
heart was so light and happy. At that time, at that
age, 1970 was like the biggest blue sky I ever saw."

Jones: "At Headley it was literally sitting around a

fire and picking things up and trying things out.
There was no conscious desire along the lines of,
'Oh, we've done Heavy, now we should look at
Soft', and thank goodness."
There was a generous helping of Heavy on III, in
any case: Celebration Day and Out On The Tiles
were stonking Zep dizzbusters. A trip to Iceland in
the early summer fuelled the writing of the mighty
Immigrant Song, a thunderous Viking threnody
delivered in Plant's most cod-heroic wail.

For Plant, Zeppelin III was a coming-of-age, as well

as the by-product of the band's growing links with
such folk avatars as Roy Harper, Fairport
Convention and the Incredible String Band.

"My true love is some years my junior," laughs

Plant, "and when she hears stuff like Immigrant
Song she goes, 'Why did you do that?' And I say,
Well, you just had to be in Iceland that night. And
anyway, Immigrant Song was supposed to be
powerful and funny. People go, 'Zeppelin had a
sense of humour?'"

"The places that the String Band were coming from

were places that we loved very much, but because I
was a blues shouter and Pagey was out of the
Yardbirds, we didn't have that pastoral kick. And so
hanging out with the String Band was pretty great,
and they introduced me to these teachers who
taught Bulgarian scales. It was part bluff and part
absolute ecstasy, and the Zeppelin thing was
moving into that area in its own way, going from
You Shook Me to That's The Way. Zep III was
something we felt good about because it would
have been more obvious to use Whole Lotta Love
as a kind of calling-card and carry on in that
direction."

On June 28th, with Jimmy Page attired like a

rock'n'roll farmer and Robert Plant sporting a pointy
Catweazle beard, the band played to 150,000
people at the Bath Festival of Blues and
Progressive Music, alongside of slew of Plant's
Californian heroes the Mothers, the Byrds,
Santana, Country Joe and the Fish, Jefferson
Airplane.

What did Jonesy and Bonzo make of the songs

Friends, Bron-Yr-Aur Stomp, the Neil Young-ish

This was the legendary occasion when Peter Grant

pulled the plug on hapless electric-violin act The

590

Flock in order that his boys should take the stage to

the backdrop of a glorious sunset. Did such
strongarm tactics ever bother the band?

deviations. (Not that this affected the album's

skyrocketing sales for a minute: in its second week
Zep III topped the U.S. album chart and lodged
itself there for a month. In the long term, though, III
has sold significantly less than II or IV.)

John Paul Jones: "There wasn't as much as was

made out. Peter didn't heavy everybody. He got
pissed off at people who tried to stitch him up, but if
you played fair with him he was fine. A lot of the
stories came from people who tried to pull some
number on him and didn't succeed."

"When we talk about that time," says Robert Plant,

"we have to understand that the press itself was a
completely different animal beer-swilling,
monosyllabic guys who reviewed gigs from the beer
tent. I don't think Nick Kent had surfaced, and
Lester Bangs and those guys in America, the real
poets, weren't involved in what we're talking about
here. We weren't even visible, and yet we were
everywhere. And that gave it even more power."

Bath made exactly the difference Grant had hoped

for: in Britain, Zep were now regarded as the equals
of the Stones and The Who.
July found the band on Basing Street, hunkered
down at Island Studios. The tortured blues ballad
Since I've Been Loving You, already developed
enough to have featured in the Albert Hall set
(though not on DVD), would be another of III's
electric highlights. It is surely Plant's greatest vocal
performance Janis Joplin reborn as a lovesick
Black Country brickie.

"If we were crap and they said we were crap, well,

fair enough," says John Paul Jones. "But we were
really good and we couldn't understand what the
agenda was. Why didn't they like us? We felt they'd
missed the point. And the problem was that we then
put up a defensive shield, and unfortunately if
defensive shields are successful they defend
against the good stuff as well as the bad stuff."

"I don't know where it came from," says Plant, "but

the musical progression at the end of each verse
the chord choice is not a natural place to go. And
it's that lift up there that's so regal and so emotional.
I don't know whether that was born from the loins of
JP or JPJ, but I know that when we reached that
point in the song you could get a lump in the throat
from being in the middle of it."

Back in England, with the defensive shield well and

truly in place, Led Zeppelin repeated what they had
done in the spring. Jonesy and Bonzo went home
while Page and Plant hid away at Bron-Yr-Aur.
"What we wanted to do was to continue with the
momentum of the thread, which was ever onward,"
says Page, who was particularly keen to work on an
epic new song that would supplant Dazed And
Confused as the pice de resistance of Zep's live
repertoire.

Zeppelin III was finally wrapped while Zep were in

the midst of their sixth U.S. tour, which started in
Cincinnati on August 5th. Scratched into the
album's run-off matrix by Memphis engineer Terry
Manning was the Aleister Crowley dictum "Do what
thou wilt. So mete it be."

By the time the band were back at Basing Street in

December, winding down this most mirabilis of
rock'n'roll anni, the first section of prog-folk
symphonette Stairway To Heaven was finished.
The stage was set for Led Zeppelin's masterpiece.

With Zep II still riding high in the U.S. chart, the

group capitalized still further on their burgeoning
word-of-mouth reputation. The cult of Zeppelin as
the band for suburban stoners was in full swing
the juvenile denizens of Jersey and Long Island
packed Madison Square Garden for two September
nights, coughing up a cool $200,000 for the
privilege even as the likes of Rolling Stone
continued to sneer.

*
ONE OF THE coolest bits of footage on DVD is a
black-and-white TV appearance from 1968, with
Zep miming to the first album's high-octane
Communication Breakdown.
Watching a shortish-haired Plant pulling snotty
faces at the camera, it occurs to you that
Communication Breakdown is almost dare one
say it punky. And how apt, frankly: as Chuck Eddy
asks in his brilliant metal guide Stairway To Hell,
where did the Pistols pilfer God Save The Queen
from if not Communication Breakdown?

Ah, the music press. The fact that Zep showed as

much awareness of rock's roots as, say, The Band
frequently sprinkling their sets with Elvis and Fats
Domino covers counted for nowt in the eyes of
Stone and co. The reaction to Zeppelin III, released
in October, said it all: having proved they were
about so much more than power, the band were
now pillaged precisely for the album's acoustic

591

"It was punk," says Robert Plant of the clip. "We

were so in your face. A three-minute tune, with the
power that we'd got, and that bass drum..."

environment from which I came. There was a

subterranean condition all around the Welsh
borders which was really stimulating. There was a
lot going on, so I never ever moved. The whole deal
was, I didn't go to Guildford, and I didn't go to LA or
Virginia Water or wherever it was you were
supposed to go. And I'm still moving in the same
space with the same people as I was thirty odd
years ago. So I think my luck has been that,
inasmuch as I've always believed in the strength of
family. I don't think there's anything noble about
that, I just think it's a better drug than anything you
can buy around the corner."

So how did Led Zeppelin feel at the beginning of

1979, with punk laying waste to the credibility of the
great '70s acts?
John Paul Jones: "It made us feel we ought to look
at the way we were doing things, and to look at
what we'd perhaps become. I remember when we
went back out on tour after punk we stripped it right
down again."

With Jimmy Page scrambling to deny that the group

were calling it a day as well as to refute the
callous insinuations that his Aleister Crowley
fixation was somehow to blame for Karac's death
Zeppelin attempted to get themselves back on track
with a meeting in May 1978 at Clearwell Castle in
the Forest of Dean. It was Bonham who persuaded
his old Black Country mucker to join them.

Plant: "Out of sheer pride and arrogance and

knowledge that we were once really happening, and
bearing in mind that John Lydon was falling on his
haunches in a club in Covent Garden and taking the
piss out of me, we got some purpose, and then we
started to play."
Yet punk was the least of Led Zeppelin's problems
at the decade's end. After the group's 1977 tour
climaxed in a vicious fracas between Peter Grant
and promoter Bill Graham at the Oakland Coliseum,
Robert Plant's world was shattered irreparably by
the news that his five-year-old son Karac had died
the cause a severe respiratory virus. For at least a
year the singer sank into deep grief and depression,
barely able to see the point of music, let alone of
success and fame.

"Bonzo came over and worked on me a few times

with the aid of a bottle of gin," Plant remembers.
"He was the only guy that actually hugged me, that
helped me at all. And he said, C'mon, we're gonna
go down to Clearwell and try some writing. But it
had changed so much. And I really like being light
and being happy, and it was just almost turning up
to keep it going in a way. And all the time I just
wondered where Captain Beefheart was..."

"After losing my son," Plant says today, "I found that

the excesses that surrounded Led Zeppelin were
such that nobody knew where the actual axis of all
this stuff was. Everybody was insular, developing
their own world. The band had gone through two or
three really big huge changes. Changes that
actually wrecked it before it was born again. The
whole beauty and lightness of 1970 had turned into
a sort of neurosis. It had gone over the top, and
over the top again. It was like a very big tackle from
Vinnie Jones."

"I think Robert was interested," says John Paul

Jones, "but he was seeing things in a different light.
He was wondering whether it was all worth it."
Especially when he saw up close the state Page
and Bonham were in.
"We were questioning things," says Jones. "Robert
and I were getting a bit closer, and probably splitting
from the other two in a way. We were always to be
found over a pint somewhere thinking, 'What are we
doing?'"

Plant healed at home, tending to his family and

repairing to the local pub: "I tinkered on the village
piano and grew so obese drinking beer that nobody
knew who I was." When the worst of the grief was
past, he applied to take a job at a Rudolph Steiner
training college in Sussex.

How worried were they about their bandmates?

Asked why despite his tragedy he never fell into

the narcotic traps that snared Page and Bonham,
Plant attributes his comparative sanity and
emotional health to his roots.

"Well, these days everybody knows so much about

helping people, and in those days it was other
people's personal life and area. And whilst you say,
'For Christ's sake, don't do this' or 'Be here then',
you didn't really know enough to start telling other
people how to live their lives. We were beginning, I
suppose, to think, 'Well, wait a minute, it may be
coming apart more than it should'."

"Maybe I was frightened," he says. "Or maybe I was

just very lucky. But I was very content with the

The growing schism between Plant/Jones and

Page/Bonham was only too evident when the group

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left for Stockholm in late '78 to record their ninth

album.

Whichever way you cut the cake, In Through The

Out Door isn't terribly good. The riffs are lame, the
choruses limp, the keyboards dated and cheesy.
There's no blues groove to any of the seven tracks.
The album sounds like what it is: a hard rock band
trying to reinvent itself as some kind of AOR-new
wave hybrid. Carouselambra is over-egged prog.
The funky-shuffle muso-samba of Fool In The Rain
is unconvincing and can't mask the fact that Plant's
singing is flat. The bland boogie of South Bound
Saurez and the knees-up hoedown of Hot Dog are
hopeless. Only All My Love, an elegy for Karac, is
affecting on any level whatsoever. Oh well, at least
the album got made.

"The band was splitting between people who could

turn up at recording sessions on time and people
who couldn't," says Jones with a serene smile. "I
mean, we all got together and made the album in
the end, but it wasn't quite as open as it was in the
early days."
The more nocturnal contributions of the guitarist
and the drummer brought the other two still closer.
Indeed, Plant and Jones wound up writing most of
In Through The Out Door.

"1979 dawned with the album done," says Plant. "I

was lucky enough to be given another son, Logan.
It was lifting again. And we decided we could work,
and we should start all over again. We'd done these
things again, like 'Led Zeppelin Go Back To The
People'. Well, bollocks. Playing Nottingham Boat
Club for four cases of Nut Brown. All these great
ideas in that great nave time. But it was agreed
that we should play in England, and the
preparations were made for Knebworth."

Jones: "I'd got a brand-new instrument, the Yamaha

GX1 [aka "The Dream Machine"], and suddenly
there was nobody else to play with. I was at
rehearsals and Robert turned up, and between us
we pretty much wrote the album. We'd have it all
worked out by the time Jim turned up."
"It was kind of odd," says Plant, "but it gave the
whole thing a different feel and a different texture.
All Of My Love, I'm Gonna Crawl... and when
Jimmy came in, his contribution generally was spoton. We weren't gonna make another
Communication Breakdown, but I thought In The
Evening was really good, and I thought parts of
Carouselambra were good, especially the darker
dirges that Pagey developed. And I rue it so much
now, because the lyrics on Carouselambra were
actually about that environment and that situation.
The whole story of Led Zeppelin in its latter years is
in that song... and I can't hear the words!"

At the beginning of August 1979, Zeppelin played

two shows in front of more than a quarter of a
million fans at Knebworth, the Hertfordshire estate
where five festivals had been held in the '70s (and
where Oasis would hold court in the '90s). Not
having played live in Britain since the Earl's Court
shows of 1975 (also featured on DVD), the four
horsemen were scared shitless.
"It was dumbfounding to see what had happened,
that 260,000 tickets had been sold in two days,"
recalls Plant, who'd been reluctant to do the shows.
"Fred Bannister, who used to book me in the Town
Hall in Stourbridge for eight quid, was going, 'Well, I
say, Robert, I think you've made a bit of a killing
here'. And in some ways it was a bit of a shambles
and in another way I think I was a bit embarrassed
about how big it was."

One of Carouselambra's most telling couplets

reads: "Powerless the fabled sat, too smug to lift a
hand/Toward the foe that threatened from the
deep..." Jimmy Page, however, is keen to dispel
some of the rumours about the threat:
"There are people who say, 'Oh, Jimmy wasn't in
very good shape' or whatever. But what I do know is
that Presence was recorded and mixed in three
weeks, and In Through The Out Door was done in a
little over three weeks. So I couldn't have been in
that bad a shape. I'd never have been able to play,
and I wouldn't have been able to keep my head
together to do this, that and the other.

"Robert didn't want to do it, and I could understand

why," says Jones. "But we really did, and we
thought he would enjoy it if we could just get him
back out there. And I think he enjoyed Knebworth.
Did he say he didn't? He looks like he did in the
DVD. I was listening to it, and it was tight and it was
good. And Robert looks like he's enjoying himself!"

"What I remember about the Stockholm sessions is

that the album took on a different movement from,
say, the earlier albums, where we were consciously
not trying to do choruses. All of a sudden we were
doing choruses, and we were just travelling along
another route for a moment."

Plant: "I was watching it on the DVD and thinking,

'Christ, that was crap. That was a shit gig.' I know
how good we had been, and we were so nervous.
And yet within it all, my old pal Bonzo was right
down in a pocket. And I'd thought he was speeding
up on the night I must have been so nervous

593

myself that every single blemish and twist that was

just a little bit away from what I expected was
making me a little bit hyper. And for all that had
gone wrong, if you listen to Achilles' Last Stand
from Knebworth, it's absolutely spectacular. It's
prog-rock gone mad."

nights, it was an absolute extravaganza for me to

be around it.
"Right the way through, the majority of the music
was built on an extreme energy obsessively
extreme at times, and joyously so. Pagey's ability to
take teeny-weeny bits and develop them into huge
anthemic moments was stunning. And despite
people's desire to think it was dark, it was just an
enthusiasm to grab this music, and grab it so tight.

"The reality of Knebworth was that it was fantastic,"

says Page. "I mean, we had to come in by
helicopter, and you could see this huge sea of
people. It was astonishing."

"I was 21 and going, 'Fucking hell, I want some of

that'. There was no perception of taste, no
decorum. Led Zeppelin was the greatest adventure
of my life."

Were the band moved by the reception, especially

when the crowd broke into You'll Never Walk Alone
after the encores?
Page: "Well, that was absolutely incredible. I'll tell
you, there were a few tears in the eyes at that
point."

What Is and What Should Never Be?

Page, Plant and Jones on Led Zeppelin now and
zen.

Plant: "I guess I was. Although I don't know if I was

breathing a sigh of relief because we'd got to the
end of the show in one piece or whether we'd
actually bought some more time to keep going."

MOJO: What's the longest time you've spent

without being asked about a Zep reunion?

For all three surviving members, the What Might

Have Been factor in Led Zeppelin's story still
weighs heavy.

JPJ: A month. You get asked as soon as you put

your head above the parapet.
RP: If I stay in, days. Because the media is tilted
the way it is, everything's got to be a splash. And
that's exactly why it's not a good idea.

"The band had been on its knees," says Plant. "The

cause and effect of all that success had taken its
toll, and we just managed to get back. And just as
we started to move again..."

JP: I get asked about it by people in the street all

the time. But the last time I took offence to it was
when I was in the studio working on all this material
and all of a sudden we're touring again. I'm right in
the middle of this project and someone's already
got us out on the road. I find that really distasteful.

Jones: "At the time of Bonzo's death it was just

coming round again. There was a rebirth. It had hit
a low and was just on its way up again."
"Who knows where we would have gone?" says
Page. "Maybe the band would have broken up. I
don't know. But what I do know is that John
Bonham and I had discussed that the next album
was going to be more hard-hitting. I don't know how
that would have turned out."

So, what about a Zep reunion? Is this a staging

post on the way there?
JPJ: It certainly seems to be a reason to ask the
same question again. And as usual, it's not going to
get an answer.

RP: Who asks these questions? Is this The Daily

Star?

ROBERT PLANT pauses for a moment a rare

occurrence, as anyone who's interviewed him will
tell you. He stops to consider the feelings that DVD
and How The West Was Won have rekindled.

JP: I think it's a staging post to this going out and

having a life of its own. And then let all the dust
settle and we'll see where we are. If you commit to
going out and touring, that's committing to quite a
long time, and you've got to really make sure you're
making the right decision. Let me put it this way: the
idea of going out and being seen to promote
material you did 30 years ago to me is something

"I really only revisit Led Zeppelin when other people

do. The rest of the time I'm in two or three other
places, musically. The thing is, it was such an
amazing time, and things moved at such a rate of
knots. With those three guys, on 80 per cent of the

594

that's quite comical, and I couldn't be part of that.

It's not the way to present Led Zeppelin, is it.

JPJ: The whole dinosaur thing that we were

somehow musically bloated and pretentious. We
were never pretentious.

When did you all last speak to each other? And

what did you chat about?

JP: I don't really care about the lies or the myths.

The most important thing is what the music was
about, and how it was played and the honesty with
which it was executed. The other thing is, we were
living our youth. I've had a lot of people say to me, 'I
grew up to Led Zeppelin'. Well, so did I.

JPJ: Oh, a couple of weeks ago. Artwork.

RP: Probably about ten days ago. Probably about
artwork. Also, I think I asked Jimmy if he'd got my
Larry Williams/Johnny 'Guitar' Watson album.

RP: I can't tell truth from lies anymore. But it's all in
the ether anyway.

JP: Unfortunately we usually only get together to

discuss various pertinent business matters of the
time. I usually leave a day open-ended just in case,
but invariably everybody's got something else to do.
That's how it is. That's life.

What music are you listening to at the moment?

RP: Calexico in my car. It sounds a bit like Kiko by
Los Lobos, which is a stunning collection of
beautiful understated songs. And I like Josh Rouse
too. I'm playing the Bergen Blues Festival in
Norway, and Neil Young's doing an acoustic set and
so is Jay Farrar, who I really like. Justin Adams,
who's in my band, is a mine of beautiful information
and great style.

How did it feel, looking at footage of yourself in

1970?
JP: It felt fantastic. Really exciting. We really had
something going.
JPJ: I loved it. Who wouldn't like looking at
themselves when they're young, thin and cute?

JPJ: Bluegrass at the moment. It has been for a few

years now, because I've been playing a lot of
mandolin. I like the new bluegrass and the old stuff.
I had a bluegrass gig in a couple of weeks but I had
to cancel it to do promotion for this!

RP: It was an absolute shock when I first saw that

Albert Hall stuff. It's so disarming not unnerving
but kind of cute and coy, and you see all that sort of
naivety and the absolute wonder of what we were
doing... and the freshness of it, because the whole
sort of stereotypical rock-singer thing hadn't kicked
in for me.

JP: Nothing that's had the impact on me that Jeff

Buckley did. But there's a lot of catching up that I
need to do.

If you were speaking to a young kid who'd never

heard Led Zeppelin, what's the first album you'd
direct them to?

Given that we have a Sir Paul McCartney, a Sir

Mick Jagger etc, do you expect your knighthood
in the post one day?

JPJ: The first album. It's all there, right from the
word go.

RP: I don't think so... though Sir Percy Plant sounds

quite good, doesn't it!

RP: Physical Graffiti. Or the rockin' chair album by

Howlin' Wolf.

JPJ: Not this week, no.

JP: Put it this way, I'm not chasing one.

JP: I don't know. I don't know. Probably not In

Through The Out Door. I guess a good album
where we'd matured and where it's not a really
condensed situation such as Presence is
Physical Graffiti. Because it's a band working, and
you can hear all the different things we were able to
do and other people can't do now.

Barney Hoskyns, 2003

Anchor Man: The Ultimate John Paul Jones
Interview, Pt 1
Dave Lewis, Excerpt from 'The Tight But Loose
Files', December 2003

What's the biggest misconception or lie you've

heard about Led Zep?

In an in-depth extract from his new Led

Zeppelin: The Tight But Loose Files (Omnibus

595

Press), Dave Lewis gets the lowdown from the

Led Zep bass man.

and perceptively presented. And thats the purpose

of this meeting. To hear the gospel according to
John Paul Jones.

DURING 1997 I made a request to interview John

Paul Jones through his manager Richard Chadwick.
The timing proved perfect John was about to
begin recording the Zooma solo album that would
propel him back in to the spotlight as a fully fledged
solo artist. He was more than happy to oblige.

For too long JPJ has been the silent voice of Led
Zeppelin. Now is the time to put that right. In the
light of the BBC Sessions album release, John has
decided to be the main spokesman of the group in
dealing with the media. A number of interviews have
been lined up and an online Q & A session
arranged.

Rather like the interview I did with Zep manager

Peter Grant, I saw this as an opportunity to present
a complete in-his-own-words career overview. Our
meeting was to prove very illuminating. John was
extremely forthcoming on all levels - happy to
discuss his pre-Zep career, the trials and
tribulations of life in and out of Zeppelin, his
thoughts on his being ignored by Page and Plant for
Unledded and his plans for the future.

My own interview quest actually occurred before it

was apparent that he would be more vocal than
ever before in answering questions about his former
group. It was back in September that I first decided
to approach his management with regard to John
conducting a full-scale interview for Tight But
Loose. Just prior to that, Chris Charlesworth at
Omnibus had bumped into Jonesy at the unveiling
of the Jimi Hendrix English Heritage plaque. Chris
told me that John had been most complimentary
about my book describing it as one of the very
best ever written on the group.

Our conversation spread over three hours and it

was evident John was very keen to put the record
straight on several issues. The resulting text was
published in Tight But Loose 13. In line with the
Peter Grant interview, it stands as the longest
question-and-answer John Paul Jones feature ever
published. Since then John has re-established his
career with the Zooma and Thunderthief albums
and accompanying touring activity.

Faxes and phone calls went to and fro throughout

October and the response was positive. John
would be happy to do an interview as soon as his
schedule would allow. Come November and the
impending BBC release, I was keen to get things
moving. Thus it was a big relief when JPJs
manager called me to relay a date and time for the
interview to take place. Wednesday November 12
3.30pm. "Was the interview to be based around the
BBC Sessions?" I enquired. "Johns quite happy to
talk about whatever you like" was the reply I was
well pleased to hear.

NOVEMBER 12 1997
I first heard John Paul Jones voice on the radio
back in late 1973. He had agreed to do a rare
interview for Radio Ones Rockspeak programme to
explain his involvement with Madeline Bells new
album Comin Atcha. In between the failing mediumwave frequency, JPJs soft-spoken tones wafted out
of the radio as he discussed the recording of Ms
Bells album and a few Zeppelin topics.

You have to go back a long way (possibly as far

back as a 1977 interview in Guitar magazine) for
the last real major Q & A interview with John. In the
intervening years he has rarely opened up (or been
asked to divulge) about the Zeppelin years. It was
something I was very keen to redress. I spent the
preceding week researching a set of questions that
I hoped would form the basis of our conversation.

Two things struck me on that first hearing: 1) How

on earth did this softly-spoken man fit in with all the
off-stage craziness that Led Zeppelin were now the
undisputed leaders of? 2) This rarely-heard voice
offered an intelligent perspective of the group quite
distinct from the more high profile interview friendly
Plant and (to a lesser degree) Page. His viewpoint
was an important one but in the long tradition of
silent bass players.

Wednesday November 12, a mild, early, winter

afternoon. Armed with the trusty TBL notebook and
Dictaphone I arrive at the comfortable basement
office the seasoned musician conducts business
affairs from. He looks... well, Jonesyish. For his 50
plus years he is wearing remarkably well. A pile of
freshly-delivered BBC CDs sit on his desk. He has
a mission to autograph these for US promotion
duties. Wearing a pair of cords and well-cut woollen
bomber jacket, his hair is around the length of the
mid-70s period Zeppelin.

Sitting in front of John Paul Jones in a very

comfortable tearoom in Holland Park nigh on 25
years on, not much has changed. He still speaks in
that soft-spoken clipped English accent
sometimes drifting into third person phrasing to
illustrate a point. His perspective on what happened
to him between 1968 and 1980 is still intelligently

596

We walk the short distance across Holland Park to

the interview venue, a classy tearoom tucked away
from the main road. Nobody recognizes him as we
walk along but then again, nobody ever did.
Above us, perhaps symbolically, one of those
promotional airships hover in the air. "Now theres
an omen." He grins.

DL: So it was more a case of you approaching

Jimmy, rather than being asked to join?
JPJ: Yes. I knew him well from the session scene of
course. He was a very respected name. So I rang
him up. He was just about to go up to Birmingham
to see Robert. He told me he had already been
turned down by Terry Reid. He came back and said
Robert was fantastic and had suggested a
drummer. That was John Bonham, who was at the
time with Tim Rose. Peter Grant had to persuade
him to give up his 40 a week job to come and join
us! From the first rehearsals it was obvious we
could do something with this line-up. It seemed to
come together very quickly from making that call to
Page and then being on the first tour finishing The
Yardbirds outstanding Scandinavian dates.

Its around then that I have a minor fit of pre-match

nerves. How is he going to fare with all these
questions about his past? His treatment of the
press can be curt at best. I have a momentary
flashback to the Melody Maker poll awards in 1979;
JPJ sporting a Rock Against Journalism badge and
dismissing a junior reporters plea to the question
"Any quotes?" "Quotes?" he replied, "Oh Eric
quotes, havent seen him!"
Luckily theres to be no such confrontation this
afternoon. Once seated with a pot of tea in a
secluded part of the tearoom, John proves to be an
illuminating interviewee as I had hoped. We sat
discussing countless topics from the Zeppelin era
and beyond for the best part of the next three
hours. In something like chronological order we
assessed his thoughts on the remarkable events he
has been a part of for the past thirty years. John
was often very keen to emphasis a point,
sometimes slipping into third person mode to
illustrate a particular scenario. Mostly he was bright
and upbeat once or twice stony-faced and
intensely serious.

DL: What memories do you have of the first Led

Zeppelin album sessions?
JPJ: The first album was really our live act of the
time. It was what wed been doing on stage up to
that point. It didnt take a lot of preparation. We had
those Willie Dixon blues things; and How Many
More Times and Dazed And Confused had arisen
out of The Yardbirds last days. My contributions
were Good Times, Bad Times and Your Time is
Gonna Come.
DL: That latter number featured organ. What is
always the intention for you to play keyboards
as well as bass?

"Well, its all out now!" was his good-humoured final

parting as I left him at the office signing the BBC
CDs.

JPJ: Yes it was. I remember at an early rehearsal at

Jimmys place there was a Honer organ and we did
a couple of things using that. One was Tribute To
Bert Berns (later to be released as Baby Come On
Home) and I recall we also rehearsed Chest Fever
by The Band though we never took that further. I
had some bass pedals made at the time so it was
quite easy to take the organ on the road and work it
with the group.

So what follows is the complete transcript of this

major TBL interview. This is JPJ talking lucidly and
authoritatively on the way it was for him to be part
of what those BBC ads so rightly put as "the group
that continues to be the worlds biggest rock band".
DL: During your stint as a session musician,
were you asked to join other groups before
Zeppelin came along?

DL: The breakthrough for Zeppelin in America

seemed to occur very quickly. What do you
think the turning point was as far as the UK was
concerned?

JPJ: No. I was viewed as a sessionman really

primarily, and a very in-demand one. Id been in
groups before the sessions started, notably with
Tony Meehan. After a few years of non-stop
sessions it got too much. I was making a fortune but
I wasnt enjoying it any more. It was my wife Mo
who noticed an item in Disc saying that Jimmy was
forming a new band out of the old Yardbirds. She
prompted me to phone him up. It was the chance to
do something different at last.

JPJ: America wasnt entirely instant. We did have to

work really hard to make a name for ourselves.
During the first 12 months of the band we seemed
to be on tour in America constantly. We also did a
lot of radio promotion. FM radio was just beginning
to have a huge influence they werent afraid to
play longer tracks or even whole albums. We went
around a lot of radio stations to plug the record. We
would turn up at little shacks that doubled as radio

597

stations in some very odd places. You have to

remember that we also suffered from some terrible
press early on in America. All that stuff about us
being a hyped band that didnt help us early on.
When people saw us live though they realised that
we were actually trying to make some very good
music. In the UK it took a while for us to register
and we were playing lots of club dates. Then the
album began to get noticed. As for turning points, I
seem to recall a great night at Birmingham Town
Hall. This would have been just after our album
came out here. The Albert Hall was another good
one. The UK was slower mainly because we had so
little press coverage. What also helped of course
was the early BBC radio appearances

Jimmy has really done a great job on it. There were

certain limitations with the sound at the BBC studios
at the time so when listening to the sessions now
you have to take that into consideration. Overall
though its an excellent job. The first version we got
was on cassette from a DAT tape. That wasnt that
good but by the time it got to mastering on CD all
the early flaws had been ironed out. Brilliant.

DL: What do remember about the Danish TV

recording?

DL: Do you remember recording the session for

the Alexis Korner show which was
subsequently wiped by the BBC?

DL: Were you aware of the many bootlegs that

exist of these sessions?
JPJ: Yes Im aware of some of them I get sent
them now and again. I must say the packaging has
certainly come a long way.

JPJ: It was all a bit strange. We had a good giggle

when we set up surrounded by all these people
sitting on the floor wondering what we were about.
Later on we had all that trouble in Copenhagen with
the Countess. Bit of a mad woman really. Odd
things did keep happening to us in that part of
Europe.

JPJ: I cant really they all seem to blur a little. We

recorded different shows in different studios like
Maida Vale and the Playhouse Theatre. I know we
would have been very pleased to do anything that
Alexis was associated with.
DL: Whats your opinion on the two previously
unreleased tracks on the album The Girl I Love
and the cover of Eddie Cochrans Somethin
Else?

DL: How important was Peter Grant to the

overall success of Zeppelin?
JPJ: Absolutely vital. He left the music completely
up to us. He made all the decisions on when and
where we would tour and took care of all the
business side. It was great to have so much artistic
freedom. He was crucial to the band and as we all
know, virtually rewrote the rule book on group
management. It was very sad when he died. I
couldnt get to the funeral as I was in America but
Mo went. He really made so many things possible
for us.

JPJ: Somethin Else was a fun thing that I recall we

did as an encore in the live set at that time. It gave
me the chance to bang around on piano. As for The
Girl I Love that sounds like one of those jam type
numbers we often made up as we were going
along.
DL: The Playhouse Theatre 1969 live version of
You Shook Me has a lengthy organ solo is
that a stand out performance for you?

DL: Why do you think the BBC sessions were

so important to the band?

JPJ: Whats good about the BBC CD set is that we

are able to illustrate how we varied every track.
There are two versions of that song and I think the
Playhouse version is almost double in length to the
first BBC version we cut. As I said earlier thats one
of the key elements about our approach. We were
very proficient musicians and it was a joy to get
involved in those improvisations. Mind you, later on
they did begin to stretch to ridiculous proportions!
With something like No Quarter it was a test each
night to see how it would work out. Nothing was
pre-planned about our solos - we took some
chances and sometimes wed get a bit lost. But
when that improvisation really worked it was very
satisfying.

JPJ: Well we were very young and cocky at the

time. Very sure of ourselves. I dont think too many
bands were doing the sort of improvising we were
doing and the BBC, particularly the In Concert live
recordings, allowed us the scope to do that on the
radio. This was in the days of restricted needle time
so we were determined to make the best of every
BBC radio opportunity.
DL: Are you happy with the sound on the
recently released BBC Sessions album?
JPJ: Its something that I did worry about when I
knew we were going to release the tapes, but

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DL: The 1971 live version of Stairway To

Heaven is a very tentative arrangement. Was it
a difficult number to play live initially?

spend too much time digging up the past Ive got

plenty of current music to do.
DL: Can you think of many unreleased Zeppelin
tracks that might be lining the archive?

JPJ: It was like that with a lot of new numbers, and

there was certainly a lot of different moods to that
number. You had to concentrate to get it right with
every change. At the time we didnt know it was
going to turn into something of a monster we just
played it as part of our new album. We certainly felt
it was one of our best compositions up to that point.

JPJ: Hardly anything, if anything at all. We werent

the sort of group to hoard tracks. If something didnt
get used on one album it tended to be carried over
to the next album.
DL: There was a lot of unrest at Zeppelin gigs in
America around 1970 and 1971 with the police
making their presence felt. How did you cope
with that being on stage?

DL: Have you had much input into compiling the

BBC set?
JPJ: Im still one third of the surviving group so Im
very keen to be involved in releases such as this.
Jimmy did the actual compiling but I have my say
on the track listing, artwork etc.

JPJ: It was around the time of student unrest in

America and obviously the police didnt help. Then
we would get some people turning up and trying to
claim the gig as a free show. It became a bit of a
two-way fight. From our standpoint it was like
saying "Hey, were up here as well just listen and
enjoy it". Robert was always making gestures for
calm. I think we then realised wed be better off
without the police and got rid of them and brought in
our own security.

DL: How would you like the new BBC set to be

perceived?
JPJ: Its an excellent opportunity to hear the band in
the making. It was an early stage in our career. That
first session captures us just after coming back from
America and we were pretty hot. Its good to
compare that feel to some of the later stuff. It also
once again shows just how good John Bonham was
and how vital to our sound. The thing about John
was that he was much more than a mere drummer
who kept time. He was a true musician with an
incredible feel for the music. He was a big Tamla
Motown fan and he seemed to bring a lot of
influences into his drumming. He never played the
basic drum patterns the same and thats what made
it such an exciting band to be a part of. As a rhythm
section it was everything I could have wanted and
more.

DL: Getting back to the music, Black Dog is

obviously your riff, how did that come about?
JPJ: I recall Page and I listening to Electric Mud at
the time by Muddy Waters. One track is a long
rambling riff and I really liked the idea of writing
something like that a riff that would be like a linear
journey. The idea came on a train coming back from
Pages Pangbourne house. From the first runthrough at the Grange we knew it was a good one.
DL: On the third and fourth albums you began
using mandolin. Had you played the instrument
prior to that?

DL: Now that the BBC album has been released

- would you be happy to see more archive tapes
released - perhaps a chronological live album
box set or even a Beatles type anthology with
accompanying visual footage?

JPJ: No, I just started learning it from scratch. I

brought a ropey old copy of Teach Yourself
Bluegrass Mandolin, and that was it. Buying
mandolins has been a hobby ever since that period.

JPJ: If it sounds good, then yes, I would be happy

with that. I dont know how much live stuff there is
left though I would think Jimmy knows whats there.
Im pretty sure theres scope to do it.
As for a video - if its a good representation of the
group then thats fine. The Song Remains The
Same movie did not turn out as we would have
liked so it would be nice if something more
representative was out there. It was good to present
some of that stuff in the recent Whole Lotta Love
promo clip. The only thing is I dont really want to

DL: No Quarter was an ambitious arrangement,

how do you look back on it now.
JPJ: It just came about sitting around the piano.
Using various effects. I knew instantly it was a very
durable piece and something we could take on the
road and expand.
DL: It turned into something of a marathon.

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JPJ: Yes, I suppose too long in the end, as some

things were. It was fun. I used to use it to challenge
myself musically. I was getting a bit blas, but
something like that tested you. Sometimes it
worked but on other occasions it didnt. But it was
worth taking a chance because when it was good it
was so fulfilling.

JPJ: Looking back now there were some major

contributions that seemed to get lost in the final
credits. Achilles Last Stand is one - that bass line
that I created with the Alembic eight string was an
integral part of the song. I think John suffered like
that as well. Lots of things came out of jams. I came
up with a lot of arrangement ideas such as Friends
on the third album. What one put into the track
wasnt always reflected in the credits. It probably
didnt seem worth shouting about at the time. A
more democratic four-way credit might have been a
better idea on some things.

DL: You even threw in a version of Nut Rocker

on the 77 tour.
JPJ: I put it in spontaneously one night and they all
said I should keep it in, but it got a bit tiresome.

DL: Tell me about the time you told Peter Grant

that you wanted to leave the group to become
choirmaster at Winchester Cathedral?

DL: With Zeppelin you used many different

instruments including the Mellotron. How
difficult was it to play?

JPJ: The choirmaster thing was a tongue-in-cheek

joke I made to some journalist who made more of it
than it was. It is true, however, that I did consider
leaving after our American tour in 1973. Id just had
enough of touring and I did go to Peter and tell him I
wanted out unless things were changed. There was
a lot of pressure on my family what with being away
so long. Funnily enough things changed pretty
quickly after Id seen him. We didnt tour in the
school holidays as much and there was more notice
given for when we were touring. Things had to
change and they did, so it quickly blew over. I
trusted Peter to put it right.

JPJ: The trouble with the Mellotron was that it would

not stay in tune . Everybody used to moan about it
and say it works for the Moody Blues but they had
the guy who invented it working with them and I
didnt! In the end it had to go. Later with Zeppelin I
used the GX1 dream machine keyboard synth.
Along with Stevie Wonder I was one of the first to
use this. It was excellent for the time because it
could do everything on one unit that three
keyboards had done before. I got some great
sounds out of it - things like In The Evening and
All My Love. They came out of experimenting with
it in the studio.

To see an illustrated version of this piece click here

DL: What about that three-necked guitar that

you began using on Zeppelins 1977 US tour?
JPJ: That came about after the guitar tech Andy
Manson came to see us live and saw how many
guitar changes I was going through. He told me he
could build a guitar that would incorporate
mandolin, six and twelve sting acoustic. I also had a
bass pedal unit. It worked well on Ten Years Gone
though it took a while to set it all up.

Dave Lewis, 2003

DL: Was In the Light another of your ideas?

Dave Lewis: How do you look back on the

experience of making The Song Remains The
Same.

Anchor Man: The Ultimate John Paul Jones

Interview, Pt 2
Dave Lewis, Excerpt from 'The Tight But Loose
Files', December 2003

JPJ: In The Light had that drone on which I think

Page and I came up with - he might have used the
bow. I had a VCS 3 synth, it was attempting to get a
sort of Indian sound. The challenge was trying to
get an ethnic sounding out of a synthesiser. It was
similar with Kashmir - we did the strings with an
English orchestra in Olympic Studios. Id worked
out all the parts beforehand rather like I would have
done for one of the 60s sessions.

JPJ: It was a massive compromise. We never knew

what was happening. When we first had the idea, it
was a relatively simple one to film some shows
and then release it as a film. Little did we know how
difficult it would all become. Theres that claim
about how I wouldnt wear the same stage clothes
over the filming nights. Its not true what
happened was is that Id ask if we were filming
tonight, but be told that nothing was going to be
filmed so Id think, "Not to worry, Ill save the shirt I
wore the previous night for the next filming". Then

DL: Did you ever feel some of your ideas went

unaccredited within the bands songwriting
credits.

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what would happen is that Id get on-stage and see

the cameras all ready to roll, nobody seemed to
know what was going on. It was frustrating.

will do it. We got through it, but it was all part of the
acoustic set that we all agreed should be a part of
our live show again.

DL: You then re-shot some of the live footage at

Shepperton.

DL: By the time of that 1977 US tour, the whole

Zeppelin operation had become huge. How did
you cope personally with all the offstage goings
on?

JPJ: Ah yes... the trouble with that was that the

office rang me up and asked if I needed anything
for the Shepperton shoot. I replied "well how about
6 inches of hair for starters! Id just had it cut short!
We had to re-shoot the scenes because there were
gaps in the footage so I had to use a wig which
caused some laughs. Then there were the fantasy
sequences. Somebody said "Youve got to do a
fantasy sequence and I thought "What?". Actually,
my idea was to use an old film, Doctor Sin, which
had all these horseman crossing the marshes and
have me added in at the end. Turns out the film is
owned by Disney, so I had to do all the riding myself
which was hilarious really as I cant ride that well.

JPJ: If it was fun you joined in, if it wasnt you didnt.

I was often in another part of the hotel I guess. But
that sort of stuff got a bit tedious after a while.
Things were getting a little crazy with Richard Cole
and the likes of John Bindon. He was actually a
nice bloke in the daytime, but at night just went
crazy. I just avoided it because I disliked all that
violence stuff. I know Robert never liked it and
Jimmy was not around much on that tour. In fact,
Robert and I used to go out walking a lot to try and
get a daytime existence. Every band was doing the
drugs thing at the time we didnt really worry
much about it but by then it was getting a bit out
of control.

DL: Presence was recorded incredibly quickly,

and had little keyboard input. Can you recall
why that was?

DL: How do you view the Oakland incident?

JPJ: We rented these houses in Malibu and it

became apparent that Robert and I seemed to keep
a different time sequence to Jimmy. We just couldnt
find him. I wanted to put up this huge banner across
the street saying "Todays the first day of
rehearsals. Myself and my then roadie Brian
Condliffe drove into SIR Studios every night and
waited and waited until finally we were all in
attendance, by which time it was around 2 am in the
morning. I learned all about baseball during that
period as the World Series was on and there was
not much else to do but watch it. There just wasnt a
lot of continuous rehearsal and it was easy to lose
interest. When we eventually started recording in
Munich I just sort of went along with it all. Jimmy did
work really hard then and it came together quickly
possibly because the studio time was limited. The
main memory of that album is pushing Robert
around in the wheelchair from beer stand to beer
stand! We had a laugh I suppose, but I didnt enjoy
the sessions really. I just tagged along with that
one. The one good thing about that period was that
Id started using the Alembic 8 string which I felt
really added to our sound.

JPJ: Well I remember there being a lot of running

around with security before the show screaming
and shouting but that happened a lot at the time,
so I didnt take much notice. In fact, I seem to
remember the Oakland show was a good gig. I
actually had all the family over and was due to
travel to Oregon the next day. Id rented a motor
home and I had it parked outside the hotel. We
heard the Police were on the way and they were
swarming around the lobby. So me and my family
went down this service elevator out the back,
through the kitchen and into this motor home
which Id never driven pulled out of the hotel, onto
the freeway and away from the trouble.
DL: Then the news came of Roberts tragedy.
JPJ: Well I just couldnt believe it. I was up in
Oregon. Somewhere in Oregon I called in to New
Orleans I was going to stay with Tommy Hullat
from Concerts West. It was quite a time for him,
what with the Zeppelin tour being cancelled, and
then Elvis died a couple of weeks later and he had
to sort that out too. Anyway, Robert had gone home
with Bonzo and I drove on to Seattle. It was a very
strange time. We just knew we had to give him time.

DL: You then made your singing debut on the

1977 tour. Were you happy about that?

DL: What did you do during the lay-off?

JPJ: They got me to sing on Battle Of Evermore.

Ill never know how I agreed to that. I suppose
Jimmy and Bonzo werent going to do it so it was
left to me that happened quite a lot "Oh Jonesy

JPJ: I had just got a farm in Sussex so I did a bit of

farming and generally caught up with my family
life. It was a case of cooling out and just taking

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stock. Wed been working hard for so long. We

needed some breathing space. Getting back
together at Clearwell was a bit odd. I didnt really
feel comfortable. I remember asking, "Why are we
doing this? We were not in good shape mentally or
health wise.

period. It was a chance to see what else we could

do. The next album would have been even more
interesting had we followed that direction.
DL: During the latter period of Zeppelins career
the band suffered a major backlash in the wake
of the punk revolution. How did you view all
that?

DL: Did that become frustrating?

JPJ: It did, but it wasnt easy to do much about.
Perhaps nobody was strong enough to stop it
including our manager who wasnt that well himself
anyway. In the end it was like, "Lets get through
this and get back on stage. If I was a little down
Robert would try to cheer me up, if he was down Id
do the same and pull ourselves through. Around
that time I did get closer to Robert. Its not that we
didnt have a laugh at Clearwell, it just wasnt going
anywhere.

JPJ: I must say I didnt like punk at first. It just

sounded loud and horrible. Actually, at the time, the
stuff I did like was the Two-Tone bands such as The
Specials, The Selecter and The Beat. That was kind
of punky - I didnt like the Sex Pistols initially,
though I did begin to appreciate it later. For us it
was a case of just carrying on regardless. I would
say that that sort of stuff did get us writing numbers
with that kind of energy. Punk did remind us of the
way we had sounded early on - all brash and
confident as you can now hear on the BBC set. In
the wake of the punk thing we began recording
tracks like Wearing And Tearing, which we did in
Abbas studio in Stockholm. We could still turn our
hand to that high energy stuff and have great fun in
the process.

DL: It was around then you acquired the GX1.

JPJ: I was one of the first to get one I think it was
Stevie Wonder and myself. It certainly added to the
sound. It was much easier to sit down and play at
one keyboard. The sound that one could get out of
the machine was at the time very inspiring.

DL: Were you apprehensive about returning to

live performances in the UK by playing at
Knebworth?

DL: What about that telephone that sat on top of

it at Knebworth and the Over Europe shows?

JPJ: Only in so far that it was going to be a very big

gig and you had to do your best. I remember the
sound initially was ropey, but then I found they
didnt have the bass on for the first three numbers
which was a little disturbing. It was after a long layoff and Robert was getting back into it. That was
around the time he started using harmoniser effects
on his voice, which I cant say I was in favour of,
really. That seemed to change the vocal delivery too
much. Overall, though, it was great to be back
doing it as a band again and we really hoped it
would now go on from there.

JPJ: I just put it on in rehearsal and it looked good

and we kept it. It always ended up in the flight case
it was just one of our in jokes.
DL: Of all the Zeppelin albums, In Through the
Out Door is the one that carries your influence
more than most. Why do think that was?
JPJ: Basically because for much of the time at
those Polar sessions only Robert and I were turning
up. There were two distinct camps by then, and we
were in the relatively clean one. Wed turn up first,
Bonzo would turn up later and Page might turn up a
couple of days later. The thing is when that situation
occurs you either sit around waiting or get down to
some playing. So thats what we did in the studio.
Id got this huge machine installed and I wasnt
going to sit and just look at it. Thats where All My
Love came out and things like that. I know Jimmy
has said that song wasnt right for Zeppelin but the
same could be said for Down By The Seaside so I
dont agree with that at all. The thing is Robert and I
spent much of the time drinking pints of Pimms and
waiting around for it to happen. So we made it
happen. I think theres some excellent stuff on the
album. In The Evening and Carouselambra, which
I worked really hard to get right. It was a transitional

DL: How would you describe the bands state of

mind when it came to undertaking the Over
Europe tour in 1980?
JPJ: The state of mind was this: lets sharpen up,
cut the waffle out, take a note of whats going and
reinvent ourselves. Actually, reinvent is too strong a
word. It was like, lets take it to the next stage. It
was a way of getting back to the people and I really
enjoyed the European tour. I know we spent much
of it trying to persuade Robert to go to America,
which he finally agreed to. We were battling on.
Looking back on that period, it did that seem Robert
and I were holding it together, while the others were
dealing with other matters. The thing was it seemed

602

to be such a shame to let it go down the toilet. You

know... it was what we did. Nobody ever wanted to
say it was over. We certainly didnt want to throw
that away.

those first couple of years it was hard to get hold of

him. He wasnt coping very well at all. It was a
frustrating time.
DL: Did you consider joining another band?

DL: So you were ready to take on America

again?

JPJ: No, that was never an idea. I mean, how do

you follow being in Led Zeppelin?

JPJ: It was all very positive. Peter played it clever in

making sure we were going back in different stages
and not taking on a 30-date tour straight off. It was
positive right up to when Benji and I found John. We
were at Pages house in Windsor. We got up and
went to look for Bonzo. Jimmy had a guest suite at
his house so we went to stir him.
It was just so tragic. I remember after we found him
I came out and Jimmy and Robert were in the front
room laughing about something. I had to go in and
say hold it and tell them what happened. It
was such a shock.

DL: Did you have much input into the compiling

of the Coda album?
JPJ: Yes. In fact, it was my title. It seemed to close
the book on that chapter. We had a bit of a job
finding enough tracks there was also talk of a live
album, but that came to nothing.
DL: Your first substantial work in the 1980s was
the Scream For Help soundtrack.
JPJ: It was a horrible film a bit of a disaster all
round really. There was a couple of good tracks the one that Jimmy played on called Crackback
was good fun to record.

DL: Where do you think Zeppelin might have

headed had you not have been forced to
disband after John Bonhams death. Was there
a feeling that the best days of the group might
have been behind you by that time?

DL: What was it like performing at Live Aid and

the Atlantic reunions?

JPJ: For all the lay-offs that we had endured I know

there was a feeling that we still had much to offer. If
anybody within the band felt otherwise it wasnt
really apparent. We did have a job getting Robert to
tour America again after all his personal tragedies,
but after our Europe tour in 1980 he agreed, and it
was all set up. As far as Im concerned we just
needed to get back to America, get on the road and
then get into the studio. I still felt that we had a lot to
offer. I certainly felt no desire to do anything outside
of the group. I think we were still up for it. We were
keen to make our mark on the 1980s as we had
done in the 70s. But it was not to be.

JPJ: At Live Aid it was great when we got there. I

forced myself onto it, really. I guess that was the
beginning of not being asked to do these things... I
wasnt asked, but I knew Robert was doing it and
then somehow Jimmy got involved. It looked as
though it was going to be a Zeppelin event so I
didnt really want to miss out on that. But when we
got up there well, it was fantastic. It was like wed
never been away. Very exiting.
DL: You had that get-together in Bath in early
1986. Did you feel that a proper reunion might
be on the cards?

DL: After John died, was there any way you

could have continued or was it immediately
apparent that without Bonzo there could be no
Zeppelin?

JPJ: I suggested after Live Aid that it might be nice

to have a bit of a blow again. It was obvious after
Live Aid that the demand for the band was as great
as ever. I felt we should do something, So we
started to feel our way back in at Bath. The first day
was alright, I dont know if Jimmy was quite into it,
but it was good. I had all sorts of ideas for it. In fact,
Ive still got some tapes from the Bath session
somewhere. Then Tony Thompson was involved in
that accident. What I recall is Robert and I getting
drunk in the hotel and Robert questioning what we
were doing. He was saying nobody wants to hear
that old stuff again and I said, "Everybody is waiting
for it to happen". It just fell apart from then I

JPJ: There was no way he could be replaced then.

We knew it was going to be the end.
DL: What was it like for you personally after
John died it must have seemed very odd not
being in a group after all those years?
JPJ: At first the main emotion for me was anger. It
seemed such a waste. There was also a feeling of
mortality after all it could have happened to
anyone of us. It was a difficult period. I was
supposed to be managed by Peter still, but during

603

suppose it came down to Robert wanting to pursue

his solo career at the expense of anything else.

accountant. It was like "Oh didnt you know theyre

working on an MTV Unplugged? I was on tour in
Hamburg with Diamanda Galas when I switched on
the TV and saw a bit of the film. It was a bit
unsettling seeing someone else play my bass and
organ parts to say the least. Calling it No Quarter
was also pretty baffling. I remember at the time
being asked for my comments on No Quarter by a
journalist at a press conference for Diamanda. He
was obviously referring to the Unledded project. I
curtly replied that I considered it to be one of the
best compositions Id written, which shut him up. I
was answering that sort of question constantly, and
it did hurt to have to deal with it. It was a great
shame, particularly after all wed been through
together. As for the tour well, I felt that Evolution
Of Led Zeppelin slogan on the adverts was a bit too
close for comfort.

DL: And the Atlantic anniversary show in 88?

JPJ: Great in rehearsal, particularly with Jason. He
was really into it and had listened to all the
arrangements on the live bootlegs. On the night I
remember coming off thinking it had been OK. But
the sound was terrible on the TV. As I said, the
rehearsal the day before was really good. Again,
perhaps something could have come out of that but
we never took it any further.
DL: Wasnt there another effort to reform around
the time of the Remasters releases?
JPJ: Yes, Id forgotten about that. There was a
meeting at Trinifold to discuss it all. Robert wasnt
keen on using Jason. I remember Jimmy and I
coming away from the meeting and going to Tower
Records in Piccadilly and buying a video of Faith
No More because he was the drummer who had
been mentioned. Once again it did look as though
something might occur, but once again, for
whatever reason it did not.

DL: What was the Hall Of Fame reunion like?

JPJ: A proud occasion, but a difficult one.
I was determined to do it though. I remember doing
the soundcheck on my own - no sign of the others
so not much had changed in that department! There
was a bit of fuss about Jason playing from some
quarters yet again. As for the acceptance speech,
well I did have that line ready. I just thought I
couldnt go up without doing something. It was
funny because Roberts sniping at Hermans
Hermits didnt really get the required response
Herman had sold a lot of albums in the US. I
credited Peter Grant because it was pretty stupid he
wasnt there. After wed finished that jam, I saw Neil
Young prod Robert and shout "Dont forget his
phone number again! which was very funny,
looking back. There was an interview planned
afterwards but that was cancelled because I think
they felt I might have more to say.

DL: Then Jimmy teamed up with David

Coverdale.
JPJ: Well, I could see where Jimmy was coming
from on that because he wanted to work and Robert
was stalling. Jimmy was playing well. Id seen him
in the Firm I think at Hammersmith and he was on
good form then. He wanted to play and he wanted
to play Zeppelin numbers live, so David Coverdale,
who is a good singer in that style, seemed be an
alternative.
DL: You were obviously very surprised when
Robert and Jimmy teamed up for the Unledded
project and subsequent world tour?

DL: And then you picked up the American Music

Award in LA.
JPJ: I just happened to be in LA on business so it
was good to be able to pick the award up in person.
I think the original plan had been for us all to have
been at their London rehearsal which I wasnt really
in to. It was good to see Tom Jones again and be
there in person for what was another great honour.

JPJ: The surprise was in not being told and

hearing it from other sources. There had been talk
of an Unplugged project after we had all attended
the Q Awards. It was being mooted that Robert had
been asked to do something. I was asked if Id be
interested and, well, I have plenty of acoustic
instruments, so obviously I was interested. I also
remember Robert coming down to my place when
he played Glastonbury. Hed just had a baby and
was showing us the pictures but nothing was said
then. Then there was that story in The Sunday
Times at the beginning of the year. The next thing I
know is that they are working together for the
Unledded MTV film. It would have been nice to
have been told about it. I first learned of it from our

DL: To bring the story up to date, you have been

working on a solo album. Is it nearing
completion?
JPJ: Im recording it at my home studio and its
coming along nicely and should be ready next
summer. Its an instrumental album and mainly
blues- and rock-based. It also incorporates

604

computerised processing over a live rhythm section.

Im really pleased with it. Im using ten-string and
four-string bass plus steel guitar thats something
that came out of working on the Diamanda Galas
project. I enjoy that sound very much.

DL: What about the various books?

JPJ: Well, the Richard Cole one and Hammer Of
The Gods just lack so much humour they come
over as so miserable, which wasnt the way it was
most of the time. I must say the amount of detail in
The Concert File is quite striking. It reminds me of
how hard we worked, particularly in the early years.

DL: Have you any plans to tour following its

release?
JPJ: Yes, very much so, probably as a three-piece.
Ill be using a drummer and stick bass player and
computerised effects. This obviously helps when Im
doing the steel guitar parts etc. Im really looking
forward to getting out there.

DL: Absolutely finally, why do you think

the appeal of Led Zeppelin has proved so
durable?
JPJ: Nobody has been able to touch what we did. It
still sounds fresh. It might be a bit dated by the
actual sound. We didnt have the benefit of the 90s
recording techniques but it all sounds so exciting
still. Theres a lot of conviction to it. We were very
committed, very professional and always wanted to
put on a good show. We came along at a time when
bands would just amble on and play. A Zeppelin
show was designed to hit hard from the start you
know, the first three numbers non stop... blam! We
thought about that presentation constantly. It was a
dynamic show. I have so many great memories
from our touring days. Playing at The Boston Tea
Party for four hours with a 45-minute set... The
Royal Albert Hall... Earls Court... and the LA Forum
which was fantastic every time we went back.
Zeppelin at its worst was still pretty better than most
bands could ever be... And at its best it was
stunning. Im immensely proud to have been part of
it.

DL: Would your set incorporate any Zeppelin

numbers?
JPJ: I might do one or two perhaps, as an encore
for a laugh. But it will be mainly new material. Id
like to take it all around Europe and Japan and the
US. Some of the Diamanda gigs were really good
and Ive really got the touring bug again. I thought
what we were doing with Diamanda was
exceptional. In a way it was an extension of what
Zeppelin did all that call and response stuff. In
fact, I must tell you something that happened in
Chicago on their tour: somebody shouted out "The
song remains the same", and typical of her she
shouted back "No it doesnt, motherfucker!".
DL: Do you listen to much new music?
JPJ: Well, one of my daughters is looking to open a
club and it would be drum and bass dominated
and that stuff I really like its one of the few things
that sounds really fresh. My daughter gets all these
great jungle tapes from DJs. Its not something Id
like to get involved in myself but I can certainly see
the appeal. Of the new bands I do think that
Radiohead are very good.

To see an illustrated version of this piece click here

Dave Lewis, 2003

All Loud On The Western Front: How Zep
Conquered The World

DL: A last few Zeppelin questions what are

your personal favourite Zeppelin tracks?

Barney Hoskyns, Rock's Backpages, May 2003

JPJ: Kashmir, The Ocean, Over The Hills And

Far Away, When The Levee Breaks, In My Time
Of Dying... it tends to be the ones where the
dynamics of the band were at full strength.

With the release of the sensational DVD and the

fearsome live How The West Was Won, LED
ZEPPELIN are back in our midst as purveyors of
the greatest, hardest rock'n'roll ever made.
Messrs. PAGE, PLANT and JONES look back
with RBP Editor Barney Hoskyns.

DL: And favourite Zeppelin albums?

JPJ: Definitely Physical Graffiti... and the fourth
album. Its funny that once they were done we
hardly ever listened to them much, so I sometimes
have a job remembering which songs were on
which album.

1: The Pontifications of Plantie

RBP: How does it feel to watch DVD and look at
yourself onstage at the Royal Albert Hall in January
1970?

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RP: Well, I was just so pleased to be there. I didn't

even know what to do with my arms. Now I
understand why Joe Cocker did that thing for a
while, because what are you going to do? There are
so many solos! But it was such an amazing time,
that, and things moved at such a rate of knots. And
now with this kind of world overview that I've got
coming back from Mali and Timbuktu, all those
years later down the line, ranting about Arthur Lee
being saved and all that sort of thing I see that
with those three guys together, on 80 per cent of
the nights, it was an absolute extravaganza for me
to be around it.

that began and ended cut-and-dried:

'Communication Breakdown', 'Good Times, Bad
Times'. But the thing about the group was the
extension of the instrumental parts, and that was in
full fling by the time we even made our first record.
And now, if you look at all the sort of bits and pieces
I used to throw in for my own enjoyment I mean,
it's a bit corny now, because it's referring to Eddie
Cochran or Elvis it was the previous generation of
rock'n'roll. It was what we feasted on to get riffs, to
get organised, to become a big band with big riffs.
So I was kind of visiting most of the time in Led
Zep. With 'Goin' To California', 'Friends', 'That's The
Way', I could get into those things more. But on that
aspect of the British rock-blues thing, the 'How
Many More Times'', the 'Dazed And Confused's,
those extensions had me... interestingly foxed for a
while!

Where were you at musically in 1970?

At the Albert Hall I was 21, I had feasted on the
music of my time, and that of earlier times, to such
an obsessive degree, and I really just wanted to get
to San Francisco and join up. I had so much
empathy with the commentary in America at the
time of Vietnam. I just wanted to be with Jack
Casady and with Janis Joplin, because I found the
projection of English rock to be built on a
proficiency and a skill factor which didn't exist in LA
and on the West Coast. There was some kind of
fable being created there, and a social change that
was taking place, and the music was a catalyst in
all of that. Neil Young, with things like 'Helpless' and
'On The Way Home' and 'Expecting To Fly', was
making music that was so spacey and yet had this
sort of ambiguity. Because I come from the Black
Country and I'm not a tormented Canadian Scorpio,
I didn't get any of that right.

Did you feel the urge to chill out after the heady
experience of touring and making Zeppelin II?
Well, the first album had been created in a very
crisp, business-like fashion. Nobody really knew
each other. Bonzo and I were the new kids around
the place. Zeppelin II, on the other hand, was
written and recorded mostly on the road.
What would someone like Sandy Denny who
sang on the fourth album's 'The Battle Of Evermore'
have thought of, say, 'You Shook Me'?
Well, yeah. Isn't it weird? It's funny, I went to see
Elvin Jones last year in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
He did two shows at 75, and he was monstrous,
fantastic. And I saw grey beards in the crowd
turning round and scowling at me, going 'Ah, we
know him, he's that cock-rock guy', as though
nobody should ever really have any appreciation of
anything outside the idiom in which they... doze. But
I mean, there was a great mutual appreciation
society between Fairport and Zeppelin. We even
played together once or twice at clubs. I mean, can
you say that the White Stripes might hang out with
the Hives? No, and yet it was far more of a divide
between Zeppelin and Fairport, or Zeppelin and the
String Band.

Dreamland suggested that you'd left a good bit of

your heart in '60s California.
Oh yeah, yeah. And it's great, because I got to talk
to Jesse Colin Young again. I'd played with the
Youngbloods and the Doors at the Seattle Rock
Festival years ago. And great guy, y'know? He's
travelling around with two of his boys in his band,
and he's got a coffee-bean plantation in Hawaii he
sent me some beans that I'm a bit frightened to use.
You never know!
It's refreshing to watch the Albert Hall footage and
compare you to a Mick Jagger, whose whole act
was so narcissistic.

There wasn't any kind of reaction to America

overkill in the decision to flirt with folk again and
hide away at Bron-yr-Aur?

Yeah, but Jagger and Richards by that time were

writing fantastic songs. But it was what it was, tunes
for tunes' sake, just as much as the Moby Grape
stuff was 'Naked If I Want To' and those songs.
They began and ended within three or four minutes
and that was it. Whereas Led Zeppelin was an
extravaganza a lot of the time. There were songs

No, it's a nice thing to say, but these kinds of

comments come with a studied overview. For us, I
was 22 and I was going, 'Fucking hell, I want some
of that, and then I want some of that, and then can
you get me some Charley Patton and some Troy
Shondell... and who's that girl over there and what's

606

that stuff in that packet?' There was no perception

of taste, no decorum. It was a sensory outing."

Well, the thing is that Nick Kent was a groupie. He

was with Keith or he was with Jimmy. And the
psyche of that condition and that platform from
where he made his assertions was based on the
chemicals and the humour. Nick went where he felt
the greatest affinity, comfort and stimulation, so
looking at Bonzo coming in growling, with a suit and
a fedora on and carrying a black stick with a silver
top... see, the social intrigue of a group of people on
the road was such that people who were with me
wanted to know what on earth was going on in
another area.

Why do you think you didn't have the problems that

a lot of musicians and most singers, one could
say have had? You once said to David Fricke:
"The singer went to bed not always alone, but he
went to bed."
Yeah, but it's bullshit. The thing is, I didn't go to bed,
but what the fuck was I gonna tell him? There's no
point in telling him about anything, because it's a
tired currency. And also, I need David Fricke to bat
for me in the 21st century, and I don't need to glorify
whatever happened then.

You've mentioned the White Stripes. What about

the Flaming Lips? When I first heard The Soft
Bulletin, I thought you were singing on it!

DVD climaxes with Knebworth in the summer of

1979. What state were Led Zeppelin in by then?

Well, when I appeared on the More Oar tribute to

Skip Spence, the Flaming Lips had sent me their
version of 'Little Hands' on a tape. The key was
wrong and it was too dirgey. I wanted to make it
more delicate and a little bit more fragile and pretty.
And then when they came over recently I was in
Mali, unfortunately.

It was just a mess, I thought. After the death of my

son Karac in 1977, I received a lot of support from
Bonzo, and I went through the mill because the
media turned on the whole thing and made it even
worse. I had to look after my family, and at that
time, as we regrouped, I applied to take a job at a
Rudolph Steiner training college in Sussex. I
wanted to just get out of it to go away and forget
it. So I was heading off on this sort of path where I
just couldn't hack it anymore, because I didn't know
where anybody was. But the great thing that
happened was that it did bring us back together.
And then we were going back again into it. Because
I'd got used in the down time from losing Karac to
going back into clubs, and I tried to form my own
label called Palomino Records Mo Ostin had
given me the rights to release all the Ral Donner
stuff on Reprise. So I'd got this whole rockabilly
thing going on, and I was leaning more and more
over there. So I was busy in there and then being
that other guy singing in the evening with Zep.

*
2: The Judgement of Jimmy
RBP: Nine years ago you talked about the Zep
footage in the vaults. Robert said he didn't want to
go back there, but you saw it as an important
project.
JP: At least I remain consistent, and I don't mind
that. I was very keen to do it because of this whole
testament of what Zeppelin was about in a live
capacity. There didn't seem to be any interest at
that time, but now the sheer fact that the technology
has moved to such a degree that you can have
surround-sound cinema in your own home made
the whole prospect very attractive and appealing.
The reality of it was that there was so little on either
video or celluloid of Led Zeppelin. Because we
didn't fit into the TV format, what was the point of
filming?

Were you dismayed that Jimmy and Bonzo weren't

apparently very committed to In Through The Out
Door?
It wasn't quite as clearcut as that. But when you
love somebody, you're prepared to take any amount
of excuses and any amount of reasons. When
there's an error, so long as it doesn't really do that
damage, you tend to put up with it. And Jonesy and
I, who'd never really gravitated towards each other
at all, did a lot of writing together.

Well, you see, now you get to the Royal Albert Hall,
and at that point apparently it was going to be for
TV. But then we saw the rough edits of it and they
hadn't captured certain bits, and we thought "Is it
worth it?" And by the time we got to see it, we were
beyond it anyway. And it came to the point where
we did it again, at Madison Square Garden, and
then we had an idea to make a film for the silver
screen. In between that, there's no footage, really.
And once we'd done The Song Remains The Same,
again there was no footage, because we didn't fit

Nick Kent once said to me, 'Oh, they all talk about
what a great guy Bonzo was, but the guy was an
animal , he was like something out of Straw Dogs'.
How would you respond to that?

607

into a format that was applicable to TV. So the best

vehicle for us was live, to do live concerts and for
the band to spread by word of mouth.

you've got a bond musically and everyone's got that

mutual respect for each other, it should work... at
least for a little while. He came down to my house
on the Thames, and I think he was tarmacing at the
time, and I had this quite sassy American girlfriend
at the time, and I had a boat under the house, and
he must have thought, 'This is alright!'

Finally we found the footage from the Albert Hall,

and I realized that now was the point, after getting
the band into a viewing room, to get them to identify
what they were doing on the footage. And once
we'd done that, it was clear that the best thing to do
was to go and find the original eight-track source.
And they weren't in the first place that I went to
look, which was slightly worrying. So I thought that,
in that case, I'd have to go into the main storage
area. And it was very fortunate that the chap who
was down there was a Zeppelin fan, and he said,
'I'm sure I've seen boxes of yours in such-and-such
a location'. So we combed this thing, and we found
that some of the celluloid was over in Burbank. And
bit by bit, everything was amassed, and I went to
the management and said, 'I really think that this is
the time to put this together'.

Did the Yardbirds ever approach the live power of

Led Zeppelin?
Well, I tell you, I took quite a few of the ideas I
developed in the Yardbirds with me. I remember
playing the Fillmore with the Yardbirds and on
'Glimpses' I was doing the bowed guitar thing and
had tapes panning across the stage on this highfidelity stereo sampler, and it was quite avant-garde
stuff for the time. It never had the power of the
rhythm section, but as far as the subtleties and the
ideas went, sure we had those areas within the
Yardbirds. And the Yardbirds was quite powerful
within its own right, but Mickie Most was really just
interested in singles and we were interested in
albums, and I know Jim [McCarty] and Keith [Relf]
just lost the enthusiasm and didn't even want to be
in a band called the Yardbirds anymore.

How do you look back on the first two years of the

band's life?
From the release of the first album, and our first
tour in the States when we supported Vanilla
Fudge, all of a sudden the name of the band
travelled like wildfire. We were supporting bands
and they weren't turning up, because we were really
quite an intimidating force. When you look at the
Danish TV performance on the DVD, you can see
they're really quite intimidated by what's going on
they've never anything like that sort of thing, the
way it was all put together, with the rock and the
blues roots and even the folk roots.

What did you make of the bands like AC/DC,

Aerosmith et al who took over the ground Zep
had occupied for so long?
Well, the whole secret of it is that all you need to do
is something that's got a solid, substantial riff
underneath it. We were still doing that, but putting
interesting, quirky melodies on top of it. As far as
AC/DC and Aerosmith and the others are
concerned, if Led Zeppelin was an inspiration to
other people, to other musicians, then my job's
done.

We toured on the strength of the first album, and we

just toured and toured and toured. In between
times, we fitted in a small amount of recording at
Olympic, where we did part of 'Ramble On' and
'Whole Lotta Love' and a couple of others, and the
rest of the album was recorded at various times,
and finally I mixed it with Eddie Kramer in New
York. And then we were touring on the strength of
the second album. And it wasn't until we had a real
break, and that break was probably only a couple of
months, but to us it seemed an eternity.

How do you recall Knebworth?

I remember one weekend being better than the
other. I didn't feel very happy at all. I wasn't very
well on the second weekend. I know for me it was
all that thing of getting families positioned. My
parents had split up and they both had different
families, so one was coming one weekend and one
was coming the next, and were they all alright? As
for the outfits, it's a bit scary, really. It looks like
we're moving into the '80s, and we all know what
happened in the '80s absolutely horrendous!
Hopefully we would have come to our senses
sooner or later and we'd have been back where we
belonged.

How close were and Robert before you hung out

together at Bron-yr-Aur?
When I first got Robert down to my house in 1968
and started going through material with him, I tried
to get to know him, and I tried to size him up,
because he had had a career, and I thought, 'Let's
see what he's about'. The whole personality aspect
does come into it, but initially the whole thing is, if

Were you moved by the response, when the crowd

started singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone'?

608

Oh yes. With the DVD, I'd already envisaged this

thing whereby we had a shot of us backstage going
on to the stage at the Royal Albert Hall. And I
thought, that's how it's got to be. It's got to be us
going up on to the stage, and the whole thing
envelops the person who's watching it so they can
become really involved in it. And it had to end with
'You'll Never Walk Alone'. I've met loads of people
who were there they didn't remember anything
about it, but they thought it was great!

the whole way through the track there's no need

to show off or throw in superfluous rolls.
I immediately recognised the musicality of the man.
He kept a really straight groove on those slow
numbers, mainly because he could. And there aren't
many that can really. To play slow and groove is
one of the hardest things in the world. And we could
both do it, and we both recognised that in each
other. And it was a joy to just sit back on a beat like
that and just ride it. We always had a choice of how
we would play a rhythm, and we could do that as
part of a musical dynamic within the same song.
And that's what makes it musically interesting, and
musically exciting. To the listener who doesn't know
what you're doing, it just sounds as if it's got texture
and colour and movement and life."

*
3: Jawing With Jonesy
RBP: After you'd joined Led Zeppelin, did you ever
wish you'd stuck to the somewhat less taxing world
of sessions and arranging?

Does anyone really listen to Cream anymore? Even

when it comes to Hendrix, Mitch Mitchell was no
Bonzo and Noel Redding was certainly no JPJ.

JPJ: Originally I think I went into the band thinking,

'Give it a couple of years'. But I'm not sure it was
less tiring anyway at the rate I was working it was
pretty exhausting, even without the travel, which
was hard. The real thing was that the music I was
doing on the session scene was dire. I was dying
creatively, and Zeppelin was total release as far as
that was concerned.

It was a very strong lineup. I'm not that modest

about it. From the first rehearsal onwards, there
was no dead weight in the group. It wasn't like, 'Oh,
the drummer's dad owns the van so we'll have to
put up with him'.
I guess the point is that even at its most intense
and powerful, Zeppelin's music has a lyricism and a
funk in it that simply wasn't there in Black Sabbath.

Presumably you hadn't actually played live in years.

I left live work in about 1963, with Jet Harris and
Tony Meehan. That's when I decided, at the age of
18, never to go on the road again! But having said
that, I had played two/three thousand seat halls with
Jet and Tony, so I knew what I was going into with
Zeppelin. And in any case, the first Zeppelin gigs
were in small clubs. The first rehearsal was pure
magic. I'd worked with a lot of really good
drummers, but I was younger than all of them.
There were only two young guys on the London
session scene at that time, and that was me and
Jimmy. So to find a drummer like Bonzo, in my age
group, at that professional level, was just revelatory.
I just knew immediately: This is what I want to do,
this is fantastic. And then the power of Robert's
voice. I'd worked with Jimmy, of course, but never in
that kind of situation.

Yes, you could dance to Led Zeppelin. Blues wasn't

our only experience of black music. Bonzo and I
were both into soul and R&B, and I was into jazz as
well. As a session musician, I was the one who did
all the Motown and Stax covers, because I was the
only one who knew how to play in that style.
Did you feel that Robert and Jimmy had bonded at
a deeper level at Bron-Yr-Aur?
Yes, although there were really no camps in Led
Zeppelin. People think it was, like, Jimmy and
Robert were always together, so that left the rhythm
section. But there was always the southerners and
the midlanders. Jimmy and I would take the piss out
of Robert and Bonzo, and they'd call us poncey
southern so-and-sos. But the four of us were very
protective of Led Zeppelin. Any member attacked
by the press, we would all rally round and
probably still do. There's still that defensiveness.

In a way it was something organic that came out of

something inorganic, wasn't it?
Well, yes. And in fact, although I'd played with Jet
and Tony, I'd never actually been in a band in that
way before, where I felt it was my music. With
Zeppelin the music came from all four of us.

Was there a concern that the fans might struggle

with the amount of acoustic/folk material on
Zeppelin III?

I was listening to 'You Shook Me' last night, and I

was so struck by how Bonzo plays straight virtually

609

No, we just kind of followed where it led us. It was

only when we put it out that it became an issue.
There's always a slight resistance to any new
material anyway. When we first played 'Stairway', it
was like, "Why aren't they playing 'Whole Lotta
Love'?" Audiences like what they know.

but they had no say whatsoever in we did. Peter

never let anybody near us. Even he didn't say, 'I
think you should do this or do that'. You knew when
he was really pleased, which was most of the time,
and I don't ever remember him saying that we'd
done something he didn't like artistically, and if he
did feel that he would never show it, because it
wasn't his place.

Did you feel like you were becoming more

entertainers as the years rolled by?

How was it for you towards the end?

No, I guess we'd done the stripped-down thing
when we started, and it got bigger and there were
more lights and you had to wear more than just Tshirt and jeans. It was part of Led Zeppelin tradition
never to discuss what you were wearing before you
got onstage, so you'd have three blokes in T-shirts
and one in a white suit. No, you know, it was just
that sparkly clothes became available. I got that silly
jacket with the tassles because the people who
made Pagey's dragon suit came by with a van-load
of clothes.

There were good times, and there were frustrating

times. The band was splitting between people who
could turn up at recording sessions on time and
people who couldn't. I mean, we all got together
and made the album in the end, but it wasn't quite
as open as it was in the early days what band
could be after all that time? At the time of Bonzo's
death everybody was trying hard to get it back on
course again. Bonzo drank for reasons he hated
being away from home, he really did. And between
gigs he found it hard to cope. And he hated flying
sometimes he'd drink before getting on a plane and
ask the driver to turn round and take him home.

Do you remember Robert Plant suffering from

stage fright?

Does it surprise you that Led Zeppelin are still so

influential on bands like the White Stripes and the
Black Keys and even on Radiohead [check out
'Go To Sleep' on the new Hail To The Thief]?

Not per se, no. It's not inconceivable when you walk
out on some of those stages. But usually once the
gig started you'd forget it because you had other
things to think about. There certainly wasn't
anybody in the band throwing up in the dressing
room. But remember it wasn't suddenly 70,000
people the growth was gradual. But it's funny, I
remember that after playing to 70,000 people, going
back to Madison Square Garden was like a small
club again. It was like, 'Ah, this is cosy!'

Listening to Zeppelin music now, it only dates

because of the recording techniques, like the
amount of bass drum there is. The music itself is
timeless.
Barney Hoskyns, 2003

Hand on heart, are you ashamed of anything you

did at the fabled Continental "Riot" House in 1970?

the Faces

I'm probably more ashamed of the reputation than

of anything we actually did. Plus it seems to me
they've forgotten every other band that was there,
and it seemed to me that everybody was behaving
in a similar way. People have put this really evil
slant on it, but it was really more just high spirits. I
read these things and think, 'Are they really talking
about us?' I mean, we used to follow The Who
places and they were still redecorating after them.
We took the heat for everybody. With LA, the
problem was it was so boring most of the time that
as soon as any life arrived, suddenly you ruled the
town!

The Faces
uncredited writer, Beat Instrumental, April 1970
EXACTLY one year ago Beat Instrumental reported
the Small Faces' last gig with Steve Marriot. After
the show Ian 'Mac' McLagen said: 'We're going to
start again. There'll be a new name, a new style,
and a new face.'
That was a pretty accurate prediction of what would
arise in the future, considering all the hassles
involved in forming a new group out of an old
established one. And the Faces no longer the
Small Faces are a new group with a new style
and two new faces.

Did Peter Grant really insulate you from outside

pressures as much as you've said?
Well, record companies in those days didn't have as
much say as they do now in what their artists do,

610

In addition to the famous Small Faces rhythm

section of Mac on keyboard, 'Plonk' Lane on bass
and Kenny Jones on drums, the Faces now include
the excellent Rod Stewart on vocals with Ron Wood
playing guitar.

an album that bears (and deserves) repeated

listening. It creeps up on you the more you play it,
and you realise what great potential the group has.
On gigs the Faces are realising that potential
already, and their second album should be
outstanding. I would imagine that having found
themselves through playing live, they'll stretch
themselves much more on the next LP. 'First Step is
our album,' said Ron. 'We sat down and planned it
beforehand, and then produced it ourselves. A few
tracks were got together in the studio, and there are
no extra instruments used. It's just the band as it is.'

Twenty-five year old Rod Stewart has built up a fine

reputation as a singer, singing his heart out with
such bands as John Baldry's Hoochie Coochie Men
and the Steam Packet before gaining the
recognition he deserved through working with the
Jeff Beck Band.
Now Rod has teamed up with the Faces, as has exJeff Beck bassist Ron Wood, who has now switched
to lead, although he was in fact playing guitar
alongside Beck before taking up bass.

First Step also includes the group's debut single

Flying. 'We released Flying to bridge the gap until
the album came out,' said Mac. 'It's a bigger thing
now to get into the charts than it was a year ago.
There's so much rubbish around at the moment.'

'I've always had a return to guitar in mind,' says

Ron. 'I left bass when I left Jeff Beck, and it took me
a time to catch up where I'd left off, working out the
things inside me.

Other tracks that stand out include the folk-bluesy

Stone featuring banjo with a fine harmonica filling
out the sound, the beaty blues Three Button Hand
Me Down and Devotion, where Rod sounds
strangely like Joe Cocker.

'I'm glad I came off guitar for a while because I was

getting stale and I really enjoyed playing bass.'

The Faces are soon off to America for a two-months

coast to coast tour, where they'll be kept more than
busy. 'We get a bigger buzz playing to ragged
audiences rather than those big American concerts,'
remarked Ron. 'America is getting really flooded
with English bands. We're thinking of Australia.
Japan and other places to play. There are so many
other good places.'

The Faces have to be admired, for despite their

many trials and troubles over the years, they have
always enjoyed playing, have always been chatty to
audiences and interviewers alike. They are all very
happy with the new band, which knocked out a
critical audience at London's Lyceum last month.
But like all good things, it has taken time to build.
'It's been a while getting this group together,' said
Mac. 'We were winding up contracts and stuff with
the old group, and we had contract trouble since
Rod had signed for Mercury before he knew what
he was doing.

And so, a year after the death of the Small Faces,

we have what is in fact a completely new-styled
group, the Faces, who have already laid the
foundations of success through their first album and
their live shows.

'But we've been together rehearsing for the last six

months, and the band is a long shot off the Small
Faces and off Beck.'

And it wouldn't surprise me in the least if the Faces

find themselves with a Led Zeppelin-sized
reputation a year from now.

Listening to their Warner Brothers album First Step

that last statement is certainly true, but it's hard to
describe what they are up to. Nine of the ten tracks
are composed by various combinations of the five
Faces except for the album's opening track, a
heavy rendition of Dylan's Wicked Messenger. 'We
didn't really change it,' said Mac. 'We picked up that
phrase that runs through Dylan's version with
bottleneck and organ. It was a one-off recording.'

uncredited writer, 1970

The Small Faces: First Step
Joel Selvin, Rolling Stone, 28 May 1970
THE SMALL FACES are now into a more
sophisticated and mature commerciality. The
addition of Rod Stewart as vocalist and Ron Wood
on lead guitar has altered the substance of their
music noticeably.

That track, like much of First Step, takes a few

plays to get into. But once you know the album,
particular tracks start emerging and you conclude
that it is in fact a very promising album. First Step is

611

The three remaining Faces Ian McLagen, organ;

Ronnie Lane, bass; Kenny Jones, drums all are
very good instrumentalists and coupled with
Stewart and Wood they make a fine rock band. The
basic weakness with the album is that although the
music is original, it is also highly derivative. The
final effect leaves one considerably less excited
than the lineup promises.

the five Faces, their manager, and three roadies

were spending the weekend recently.
With all the fervor of Mets fans, guitarist Ron Wood
and his roommate Ian McLagan (keyboards)
sweated out the match on TV. When their team,
Chelsea, scored the late goal to tie it up, Ron and
Ian roared in appreciation. It was strikingly
incongruous to see Ron, a spiky-haired, razor-thin
Londoner it laced alligator granny boots, so enrapt
in an athletic combat. Ron, as an adolescent, had
played basketball with U.S. servicemen at a base
near his home back in England. It's easy to forget
that today's musical heroes from both sides of the
Atlantic once led typical lives, often complete with
flat tops and penny loafers, or their English
equivalent.

They are slick, playing tight changes and neat licks

all the way through the record. McLagen's organ
work is competent, more so than many betterknown rock organists, and Ron Wood's guitar
playing is economical and fluid. Though he played
with Jeff Beck on bass, Wood has done sessions
with Donovan (among others) as a guitarist and has
recorded with a group called Santa Barbara
Machine Head. He is far more proficient than he is
thrilling; nowhere on the album does he play with
any abandon.

The Small Faces had first formed in the mid-60s

with leader Steve Marriott setting the musical
course. Marriott was a teen idol, tops of the pops,
cute, adorable, and essentially held down the
evolution of the Small Faces as an important group
with his monkee-type ap-proach. The Faces won a
strong following in England with their fey pop
sound, but in America ("That's where the money is;
English gigs don't pay much") their only claim to
fame was an album, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake
(Immediate), enclosed in a round cover. The cover
was clever, but the album didn't sell, so Marriott
split, leaving Ian, Kenny Jones (drums), and Ronnie
Lane (bass) to fend for themselves. The group's
name had been chosen because of the slightness
of all four members. Strangely, though they had few
gigs as a trio, the three tiny musicians decided to
stick together, waiting for an opportunity. It came in
the form of Rod Stewart and his cohort Ron Wood.

Rod Stewart, on the other hand, sings his butt off.

His raspy, sore throat voice lends itself well to the
Faces' music. But Stewart's value lies in his
unpredictability. His phrasing and delivery are filled
with the unexpected.
The songs on the album are varied and come from
all kinds of places. They do Dylan's 'Wicked
Messenger' with a bland but precise arrangement.
Lane wrote and sang a funky traditional-type folk
song ('Stone') featuring Stewart on banjo, Wood on
harp and himself playing guitar. 'Around the Plynth'
is a fine bottleneck workout for Ron Wood.
Unfortunately, stereo "effects" on this number
almost ruin it. 'Pineapple and the Monkey', a Ron
Wood instrumental composition, would sound
exactly like Booker T. if it weren't for the tone of the
guitar.

"We got together with Rod and Ron at the Stones'

rehearsal studio one afternoon and played a bit",
said Ian pulling himself away from the TV screen,
"then we just saw more and more of each other. So
the five of us decided to stay together. As soon as
Steve left, it was a breath of fresh air for me.
Particularly for me because Steve and I used to
have a lot of arguments; he was a great guy but
there was a lot of rancor between the two of us. And
now it's a gas, because this is freedom."

The Small Faces play with more control than soul.

They know exactly what they are doing and they do
it well, as good musicians should, but the precision
and purity of their sound seems a little sterile, and
they lack the drive and power to make their music
work without subtleties.
Joel Selvin, 1970

Rod and Ron have already had their share of fame.

The Jeff Beck Group's appeal, in which they were
members, was caused by the premium that was put
on guitar virtuosity ( la HendrixClapton) in 1968.
Beck, a self-acknowledged flash, wanted
accompaniment rather than a real group, recalls
Ron Wood. Wood was the bassist, and Beck found
a Sam Cooke freak named Rod Stewart to handle
the vocals. Beck was in the habit of firing musicians
who got in his way Ron was one who was

The Faces: From Pop to Euphoria

Bud Scoppa, Circus, July 1970
CROWD SOUNDS from the English Soccer
Championship [actually the FA Cup Final replay
RBP Ed. and Chelsea fan!] flooded the fourteenth
floor of New York's Loew's Midtown Hotel, where

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canned and he was less than a favor-ite among

the musicians who played with him.

The Faces have soaked up these ele-ments and

added their own on The First Step (Warner
Brothers), the first LP as a new group. The three
original members blend their smoothness and
subtlety with Rod's ideas. Ian's versatile organ work
colors the sound, and the backing vocals
underscore Stewart's one-of-a-kind vocal quality.
The music on the album is overtly American in tone,
with traditional references in abundance. "The kind
of instruments we use," Ron explained, "electric
guitar, electric bass, organ, and drums there's
nothing in England like that that you could turn to
for roots. You can only turn to America for roots.
Isn't it true that the English can take American
music, give it back to them, and show them what's
really there?" The Faces are doing just that with a
high degree of sophistication in their blends.

Peering down his long, ski-slope nose, Rod Stewart

incisively summed tip the situation: "Beck needed a
singer and I was his singer; that was it. Everything
was geared to his own playing. He used all of us.
That's why he's had so much trouble keeping a
group together."
Ron mentioned that the much-heralded teaming of
Beck with bassist Tim Bogert and drummer
Carmine Apice of the Vanilla Fudge had fallen apart
right at the beginning. "They just couldn't stand it, I
guess. They made the first steps toward getting
together with him, but of course Beck did his normal
thing like staying in bed too long and making them
late and that kind of thing. I guess they just got
disgusted with him. He also tried a spade drummer,
but he quit, too. Now he's got nobody, as far as I
know."

The group reveres Bob Dylan, whose rustic classic,

John Wesley Harding, is a strong influence in The
First Step as well as Rod's own album and the
Stones' Beggars' Banquet. The new Faces' album
opens with 'Wicked Messenger' from JWH, on
which Stewart does to Dylan what he did to Mick
Jagger on 'Street Fightin' Man'. Combining his
Cooke-like timbre with Dylanesque inflection, Rod
swoops into the song like a roller coaster rounding
the top of its run. The effect is trans-cendent, rather
than satirical in terms of the original. McLagan's
organ parallels the vocal, and the song virtually
explodes. On this LP, the polished instrumental
work of the Faces shares the spotlight with Stewart;
he sings less, so it's more effective when he does.
Like a Dickens novel, all the diverse elements are
eventually tied together in a paradoxical but
satisfying unity.

With Beck unable to put anything together and

Steve Marriott attempting unsuccessfully to make
music of quality with his Humble Pie, the five
current Faces are almost smug about the relative
ease with which they're making it. There's less of
the kinky scene that the Beck Group generated and
none of the candy-coated 'Itchycoo Park' stuff that
Marriott brought out. Although Ronnie Lane insists
that Stewart is becoming a bad influence on him
rather than the other way around ("What about that
party last night, Rod?"), there's a genuine and
mutual warmth flowing among all five.
The event which marked the direction in which the
Faces are now moving was Rod's solo album The
Rod Stewart Album (Mercury). Having freed himself
from Beck but without a new group to work with,
Rod summoned Ron Wood and ex-Beck drummer
Mickey Waller to help him forge a new sound. With
Martin Quittenton's acoustic guitar softening the
lower ends of the tracks, Ron played a smooth slide
guitar as well as bass, and the richly-textured
instrumental tracks were the most tasteful and
the most American sounding to come from
England in many months. Above the guitars soared
Rod's unique voice, echoes of Sam Cooke's sweet
funk merging with his own natural gravelly delivery.
It was a different voice from the one heard on
Beck's two albums, sharper, subtler, more out front.
The combination, especially on the rendition of the
Stones' 'Street Fightin' Man' and Mike D'Abo's
'Handbags and Glad Rags', was incredibly effective.
Rod's album had a tightness that Beck's recorded
work lacked, and its haunting touches of Delta
blues and other forms of American traditional music
combined with an early Memphis R'n'R soulfulness
to form a unique hybrid.

Rod has another LP in the can, which the Mercury

people say is better than his first. But despite
Stewart's proven ability to make it alone, he seems
to hold his group uppermost in his mind. The others
feel the same. The current trend of free-lancing
musicians and temporary alliances isn't for them,
"That kind of thing is bullshit," Ian said. "The kind of
thing that's coming out of those so called
supergroups like Air Force just isn't music. Good
music comes from people working closely with each
other over a period of time, having hassles, having
fun, getting something together. You can't do that
instantly; it just doesn't happen."
The three small originals, who are incredibly close
to each other, have formed a strong bond with
Stewart and Wood as well. Ian, Kenny, and Ronnie
all feel extremely positive about. the changes their
group and their music have undergone. Now, they
say, they're finally playing the music they want to
play. The distance between cotton-candy British

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pop and polished funk may be great, but the Faces

have made it in a single leap.

Have you ever performed as a solo act?

For money? No, not for money, I've done it for free,
on the streets and stuff. That was in my old
nomadic days, when I was about 17 or 18. I'm 25
now. Then I was wandering around, mostly Spain
and Italy, trying to get myself together. I think that's
something everybody should get out of them; when
my kids grow up, I'm going to say, "Out, you
bastards, get out on the road and live."

Bud Scoppa, 1970

Rod Stewart: In Conversation
John Morthland, Rolling Stone, 24 December
1970
"I was very pleased with it when we finished, and I
still am," Rod Stewart said of his first solo LP. With
good reason.

I did that for two years, mostly in Spain. Spain is

easier to play in than anywhere else for some
reason; I don't know. It was a banjo; I learned how
to play banjo before guitar. I was with Wiz Jones
he's a folk legend in England I played with him.
Mostly American folk music, like Jack Elliott. We
weren't really aware of any English folk music then.
I got sent back from Spain, we got kicked out for
being vagrants. Flown back on BOAC, and I still
owe BOAC the money for that flight. We'd started
out in Belgium, lived in Paris, the South Bank, for
about eight months, then got to Spain, Barcelona.

Released in the fall of a year marked by one

musical disappointment after another, The Rod
Stewart Album is a magnificent achievement.
Whether a hard rocker, a soft ballad, or an old
folkblues reincarnated, Rod handles each of the
eight bittersweet songs with a grace and finesse
few singers ever capture. And his backing,
especially Ron Wood on bass and bottleneck guitar,
is superb; the musicians sound like they have been
playing together for years, not days.

What'd you do then, after being kicked out and sent

home?

Just as The Rolling Stones, Now marked the apex

of one stage in the development of the British soul
movement, The Rod Stewart Album marks the peak
of another stage. "There could have been a few
improvements. The second one obviously will be
better," he said.

I was in England, making picture frames. Did a bit

of grave-digging that was all right, we only had to
work two days a week, and you didn't spend the
whole day digging holes; we did a lot of other things
there.

Rod was talking about Gasoline Alley, his second

solo album. Stewart has pulled something of a Neil
Young, though, and has also joined the Small Faces
minus Steve Marriott. He plans to pursue his solo
career in the studio only, and will tour as the vocalist
in the Faces, as well as record with them for Warner
Bros.

Were you singing professionally then?

The first band I ever sang in professionally was
Jimmy Powell and His Five Dimensions. This was
when I was 19 or 20; it was part-time, between
making the picture frames, and we didn't get paid
much, we used to play in the Stones' intervals in
London. I used to play the harmonica; I never used
to sing. They backed Chuck Berry in England after I
left; by then I had joined Long John Baldry and the
Steampacket with Julie Driscoll, Brian Auger and
Baldry himself. We were doing our soul routine, like
'Midnight Hour' and 'Mr. Pitiful' and all the early Otis
Redding hits.

Stewart is a very warm, personable chap who

smiles a lot when he talks. Nothing like the man of
constant sorrow he sings about so well on his
album. His eyes sparkle beneath the neat shoots of
hair, and when he leans forward to speak, his
hands start flying and the words literally bubble out.
When we talked earlier this year, you said you'd
never go out as a solo performer. Do you still feel
the same way, after the success of Gasoline Alley?

Were Otis and Sam Cooke, who you mentioned last

night, the singers you liked the most?

I'll stay solo as far as records, yes; as far as live

performances, no. I'm just not responsible enough
to put a band together and keep it together. I have
enough of a time keeping myself together, let alone
a band. And even if I chose a band, I'd choose the
same guys I got in the band now anyway.

Cooke was the only one in fact that influenced me,

but I listened to everybody and probably picked up
a bit from them all. Sam Cooke was the only one
that really influenced me, over a period of about two
years, that's all I listened to. This was about three
years ago, just before I joined Beck. I'm really
openminded though; I'll listen to anybody. It had to

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do with the way I sounded; I didn't sound at all like

anybody, Ray Charles or anybody, but I knew I
sounded a bit like Sam Cooke, so I listened to Sam
Cooke.

How do you think you've improved?

My voice has become more sandpapery, as you call
it, that's an improvement in itself. And I learned a lot
from Beck, that really helped a lot. I learned how to
fit in with a guitar fit in, you know what I mean?
how to be a lead vocalist, and fit in with the
guitar. I think I learned that, which now comes out
so I can phrase well. I think I phrase very well.

Where does your voice come from?

Last night it was coming from there [strokes neck]
too much. I was straining it a bit. Usually it comes
from way down [patting stomach]. When I first
started playing the guitar, I had a sort of very bad
mid-Atlantic cowboy voice, really a bad one. And it
just developed from there, partly by listening to Sam
Cooke.

What do you think when you hear your voice on

record? It's a very distinct voice; no one else has
anything like it.
Everyone tell me that; I can't believe that at all. I
wouldn't call it a distinct voice. I sometimes think,
Oh, Christ, I sound too much like Sam Cooke, or
Arthur Conley, or someone like that. What
happened with Gasoline Alley was I picked the right
songs, that suit my voice. So on that album,
probably it sounds distinct.

Were you consciously trying to emulate Sam

Cooke?
No, I don't think so, not really. If I'd sung one of his
numbers, I might have, but I've never sung one his
numbers, probably never will. I wouldn't touch one
of his numbers after he's sung them himself. It was
just the tone of his voice, not the phrasing or
whatever, just the tone.

You didn't do that on the first one, you don't think,

The Rod Stewart Album?

Well, how did you get your voice so hoarse?

No, not really, because I was out to try to prove

myself as a singer more than anything. On
Gasoline Alley, I thought I picked the right numbers
to suit the voice, and that's a start. Like 'It's All Over
Now', which I thought was a good choice.

I don't know, just belting my ass off for five years.

But it's stronger now than it's ever been, which is
weird. Like I can work hard, two hours a night, and
it doesn't give out like it used to, three or four years
ago.

Let me think of someone who picks the wrong

songs to fit his voice to show you what I mean
David Ruffin, the old Tempts' singer. I'd love to
produce that guy, and pick the songs he should
sing, because he doesn't know, you know? Tim
Hardin sometimes falls down on that. He writes
most of his own songs for himself, but listen to the
Tim Hardin II album, where he does something like
'I'm a Smuggling Man'. It spoils the album. There's
an ideal example of someone picking a song they
can't sing.

When did it start to get that way?

I think probably after the first record I made. Let me
see, what was the first record I made? I made a
tape of 'Good morning, Little Schoolgirl', about four
years ago, with studio men; John Paul Jones was
on bass, I remember that. I was singing with Jimmy
Powell's band by then, and I got called out to make
one record. It was a dismal failure. It was a good
record, it was like a white attempt five years ago,
before its time, but I thought it was good.

I'm sure if you looked into it you'd find loads of

people who don't know how to pick the material for
their own voice. Someone who does is Van
Morrison. Not the world's best singer, but he doesn't
write his songs so he can't conquer them.

How do you describe your own voice; do you listen

to yourself sing much?
Obviously, the only way to improve on anything is to
listen to what you've already done, and probably
after I did the first Beck album, which is the first
album I ever did, then I had a collection of songs I
could really listen to. I seemed to have improved far
more over the last two years than I did the three
years previous. It's pretty much down to that Truth
album really; I could take it home and listen to it,
and I've improved since then.

How much of your songs are autobiographical?

Two songs on Gasoline Alley are very true: 'Jo's
Lament' and 'Lady Day'. Old loves.
What's Gasoline Alley? I get the impression from
listening to it that it's English slang for a working
class neighborhood, or something like that.

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Oh, no, Gasoline Alley is somewhere in San

Francisco, right?

Can any of the others in the Faces sing very much

at all?

Not to my knowledge.

I don't think so, really. Ronnie Lane and Ronnie

Wood when they sing together are powerful enough
that they come across. Ronnie Lane could probably
sing a slow song, but we haven't tried it as yet. He
sings the introduction to 'Baby I'm Amazed', and he
does it very well. He's pretty paranoid about that,
because he thinks he sounds like Paul McCartney,
and he does. They look on singing the way I look on
playing guitar on stage. I gotta concentrate on
singing, whereas they gotta concentrate on what
they're playing. Really, one has to suffer. Something
has to give, you know, there's not many people that
can carry off the two. B. B. King can, but it's nearly
impossible to sing and play something well at the
same time. You can strum and yodel a bit, but
nothing great. Hendrix was the only one who could
carry off both at once.

I got the idea from a girl at the Fillmore, last time we

were here. We were talking and she said something
like, "I must get home, because my mother will say,
'Where have you been, down Gasoline Alley?'" And
I said, "What?"
That doesn't sound too autobiographical.
Well, in a way it is, yes; it's just a return to a place
that you are very fond of, which must happen to
everybody I'm sure. Gasoline Alley is nowhere in
particular to me. It was about a feeling I had when I
was in Spain, and I couldn't get back to England. I
wanted to get back to England, but I didn't have the
money to get back. So it's a song about going
home; I've experienced that. 'Jo's Lament' is a song
about a girl I fell in love with a long time ago and
she didn't want to know me.

You seem to anticipate a song, to really anticipate

going up on stage to sing
I'm afraid to get up and sing, usually. I was really
afraid last night. I always find out once I get on
stage that it's OK, I sorta rise to the occasion, we all
do, but we're all bloody nervous before we go on.
And we were last night, because this was our
second tour, and this is the first time I've I don't
know; I'm trying to find the right word "fronted" a
band as such. It was a big night for me last night, it
really was. I only started coming to America a year
and a half ago, with Beck. I never got scared with
Beck, and we played for really big audiences. Beck
was the man in that band. I feel more responsible
mentally with this band than I ever did with Beck. If
we died a death one night, I didn't used to care: "It's
not my band; it's Beck's band. Too bad." I tried, but I
didn't lose sleep over it if we did bad. With this
band, if we do a bad show, I lose sleep over it.

What are you looking for when you choose songs

for your own album, as opposed to a Faces album?
Two things, mainly. I look for a song that's probably
been forgotten, that no one's done for a time.
Something that can fit my voice so I can sing it
right, and something with a particularly strong
melody. Three things, actually.
You like melody especially?
Yeah, I do like melodies; I like singing melodies. I
don't like anything else particularly. I can't stand
jamming. I just find it a bore. I get asked, "Why don't
you come down and jam?" and I just say, "Forget
it." Probably because I don't play; I mean, it's much
easier for a guitar player to jam than a singer.

Do you see yourself as the leader of this band?

Do you do much improvising of lyrics when you're
singing?

No, very far from it, I'm not the "leader." It's probably
something I brought upon myself, because
Gasoline Alley was so big, and I feel like a lot of the
people are coming to hear the numbers off that
album. It's weird, really, I shouldn't worry about it,
but I do. And I want this band to be really
successful.

Oh, yeah, but you must have the set pattern there
to start with. I do it all the time; I never sing a song
the same way twice in a row, or I try not to.
Have you ever tried scat-singing?

Do you guys think it is? Are you pleased so far?

[Laughs] No. I'm really not into that at all. There's

only a very few people who can do it, Ella Fitzgerald
and Anita O'Day I can't think of anyone else who
can do it properly.

For two tours, we're doing bloody well. Gasoline

Alley had made a lot of the difference. What I'm
gonna try to do now is put an album together that's
better than Gasoline Alley.

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Do you mean Gasoline Alley made the difference

for you, or for the Faces? Do you set the feeling
people are coming to see Rod Stewart or are they
coming to see the Faces?

much more free. I've had my days of belting it out

over 2,000 watts of amplifiers, and doing the exact
same thing on records.
The Faces play pretty loud; you have to belt to get
over them.

This is one of the things that worries me; I hope

they're not just coming to see me. Because we're a
band, and I want people to realize it's a band up
there. The other guys in the band are strong, too, in
what they do. I wouldn't be in this band if I didn't
think they were equally strong. I think if the band
makes a really good album, better than Gasoline
Alley, then people will recognize that fact. On this
tour, it seems to be Gasoline Alley that we're living
off. Gasoline Alley was numbers I wanted to do. It
was my trip, really, but if the Faces make a really
good album, a team thing, well, that'll change the
whole thing. It'll bring the other four up a lot more.
What I'm gonna try to do is really separate the two,
by doing a solo album of really slow things, like a
nice midnight-type album.

Well, this is why I asked you when we came off last

night if we played a bit too loud toward the end. I
think we started off quiet, but we all got carried
away and a bit frantic toward the end. Compared to
the Beck group, we're really quiet. We play loud, but
we try to play there's a difference, let me think of
someone Grand Funk Railroad really do me in;
they've gotta be the all-time loud white noise,
haven't they?
Indisputably, but lots of people come to hear you
play really loud. If there's one thing a Fillmore
audience likes, it's volume.
Oh, I don't believe that; they're not dumb. They're
the hardest audiences I've ever gotten up and
played for. I was really scared last night, believe
me, nobody ever believes me when I say that. We
went on in Detroit and broke Cocker's record,
biggest crowd they've ever had, and I just had to
get up and say I'm shit-scared. They don't believe it!
They all say, "Nyah, come on," and I was really
scared!

Will you use the Faces, like on Gasoline Alley?

No, I won't use them at all I might use Ronnie
Wood a bit but we really gotta separate the two
issues. Put the band over there, and my albums
over here. And keep the music as far away from
each other as you can. So we can make nice heavy
albums with the band not heavy, that's such a
played-out word but nice rocker-type albums,
and I can do a bit of smooth stuff on the quiet.

Are you all happy with the first album?

Who will you use on your own album, then?

The First Step? It did well for a first album.

Everybody in the band thinks of it as a first album. It
really was, for this band. Something completely
new. Did you ever listen to the old Small Faces
album?

Oh, there's a wealth of musicians in England. I

wanna make an album like 'Only a Hobo' all the
way through, those kind of songs. If I can sell an
album like that, I'd be really happy, more pleased
than with Gasoline Alley.

Sure.

Do you prefer to sing the slower songs?

There you go, it's a completely different thing, isn't

it? It wasn't a good album, it was a bloody awful
album, it was a poor album. It was very tight, but we
played a lot of numbers off it last night, and it was
much looser. On the album, they're mechanical, you
know, clinical. Now how can music be clinical? But
I've got really high hopes for the next album.

Every time, yeah.

You don't do too many slower things with the
Faces.
Sure, we do enough, we do about four: 'Love in
Vain', 'Baby I'm Amazed', 'Devotion', 'Country
Comforts'. A bit of 12-bar blues, yeah. On records, I
prefer doing slower numbers.

The next Faces album is that being recorded

now?
Yeah, we're about halfway through. We're gonna
put 'Baby I'm Amazed' on it, and the one we
finished up with last night, 'Feel So Good', we're
gonna record them live at the Marquee in London.
The rest will be all originals by the band. There's

How come?
For a vocalist, a slower number lends itself better
than anything else. In opportunities for phrasing, it's

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three me-type songs, things I've done about my

own experience.

You seem to really prefer Gasoline Alley to The Rod

Stewart Album though they're both very good. Any
reasons besides the ones you've mentioned?

Do you find that's the best way to write songs,

rather than complete fantasy things?

There's a lot more variation on Gasoline Alley,

different styles of music, like the soul thing, sort of a
Memphis thing: 'You're My Girl'. A bit of folk music,
a bit of everything. I don't know if that's the hallmark
of a good album, but it is for me to put different
styles of music together, but still make the whole
album jell. I don't think my songs are good enough
on the first album. I tried out my own songwriting on
my first album, and I didn't think my songs were up
to much. I know my limitations now.

I get you. The songs people have dug that I've

written have always been about real things that
happened. Whereas, like on the first album, 'Blind
Prayer' was entirely imagination, and I think that's
where songs come from, they come either from
imagination or from experience. Can't think of any
other source.
Do you write much?

What are they?

Not a great deal, no. It takes me a long time to write

a song. I write lyrics best. Woody and I Ronnie
Wood and I have got a really good combination,
because he writes beautiful melodies, but can't
write words. I can't write melodies at all, but I can
words. He did the melody to 'Gasoline Alley'.

Basically, I can write slow songs around the chords

of G, C, and D, and E minor. All right, and I twist the
chords around. I don't pretend to be a songwriter,
really. I try really hard, but it takes me about three
weeks to write a song. [Laughs] It does! If I'm
pressurized, I can write lots of songs; people do
good things under pressure. You gotta do it, so it
gets done.

How about the songs on your first album?

That was a weird album. I was so naive when I
went into the studio, yet I knew exactly what I
wanted, whereas I don't really now, for a third
album. I know I wanna do all slow songs, but I'm not
really that sure about the idea. For the first album, I
had ideas of riffs. I said, go in, mates, play a riff,
make a progression and do this, and then I took the
track from it and wrote the words. Which is a great
way to do it, because the backing track always
conjures up something for you, and you can write
the words around it. I think that's the way it should
be done. The Faces will go in and play something,
have a jam, and then they'll give the thing to me
and say, all right, put the words around it. It doesn't
always work. I had a definite goal when I did my
first album for a song about something definite. I
had no idea what the words were going to be, but I
had an idea what the song would be about.
Whereas we sometimes don't with the Faces, and
this is one of the things we're trying to overcome.

What finally did happen with the Jeff Beck Group?

I think very much we would have stayed together
had we played Woodstock, but we passed it up
because we all wanted to go home. The trouble
started right about when we started doing the
second album. Beck-Ola. That was really out of the
blue for me, when Beck suddenly decided he
wanted to get rid of Ronnie and Micky. He told me
and I said that was a big mistake. Really, that was
the tightest rhythm section I ever heard, Micky
Waller on drums and Ronnie Wood on bass. But he
wanted to get rid of them and I couldn't change his
mind.
So he sacked Ronnie and Micky, then he got Tony
Newman on drums, and we got an incredibly bad
Australian bass player that rehearsed with us once,
the night before we went on stage. That was in
Washington, D.C., and we died the all-time death.
So the bass player got sent back to Australia, and
Jeff called back Ronnie Wood. So by that time,
Ronnie was really pissed off, as well he should
have been, because he'd been sacked and it hurts
the old pride. So he was looking for another band to
play with, and when the Faces opportunity came
up, he left. And I was really close to him, as I still
am, and I didn't want to be in the band if he wasn't
still around, so I split.

You mean for the next Faces album?

Yeah, most of the songs are originals.
What are the originals like besides your own?
Ronnie Lane writes a lot. Ronnie writes very
personal songs, which is why I'm trying to get him to
sing them. But I don't know what's going to become
of that. I think there's one track on the album he's
going to sing.

This was all of course after the Vanilla Fudge shit,

where Beck and I were supposed to be forming with

618

Timmy and Carmine. So anyway, the band broke

up, Ronnie went to the Faces, Jeff didn't phone me
up or anything, let me know what was going on, so I
said "fuck it," and I split. And he is now looking for a
bass player and a singer. A year and a half later.
That says something, doesn't it?

not a backing group; Ronnie Wood is about the best

guitar player I know.
That was a lot of the trouble with Beck; neither
Ronnie or I got enough attention. It wasn't all Beck's
fault, either; it was the management, the record
company too. Nobody at Epic even knew Jeff Beck;
they didn't even know they had us under contract
when we made our first American tour. They'd come
around to see a concert once, and somebody from
Epic actually came up to me and said, "Hey, Jeff,
you sang great, fucking good guitar player you got
in the band, too." Really! The management was the
same; they fucking brainwashed Jeff into thinking
nobody had come for any reason except to see him.
It was true, I admit it, but he really believed it. He
really lived the life of a pop star right down to the
last. Shit, it seems like I'm always running Jeff
down; I do feel bitter about it in so many ways, but I
still admire the guy.

Well then how did you end up in the Faces?

Funny enough, the only one I knew was Stevie
Marriott, who had already split from them. Stevie
married a girl that I went out with for three years.
The first gig we ever did with the Beck group, we
were second on the bill to the Small Faces in
London. The road manager for the Small Faces
pulled the plug out on us in the middle of a song,
Beck stormed off stage, and we blew the tour.
But how did you come to join the Faces?
Ronnie Wood asked me to go down and see them
rehearse, which is what I did. I wasn't too
impressed at the time. I thought they were putting
together some nice things, but that there was no
direction to what they were doing. Then Kenny
asked me to join, and I took the plunge the
plunge it was definitely a blind plunge, because I
didn't know what I was getting myself into. I was
more impressed with them as people I said,
"What a nice bunch of guys I'll join that band!"
Literally, that's what I said, and that's exactly what I
did. We're good drinking partners. [Laughs] We do
drink a bit too much.

How do you feel bitter, and how do you admire

him?
I admire him as a guitar player, which is what he
does; socially, we never really got on. Like I said
earlier, I probably learned more from being with
Beck and in the band than I did the three years
previous. I learned a lot from him; I hope he learned
something from me. The Beck band was the first
band I took seriously; I can't take music too
seriously, but that Truth album was really a
landmark.
Why can't you take music seriously?

Really, no, we'd be the first to tell you we're not the
world's greatest musicians, but as a group we've
got something going for us. Last night proved that,
and we really were nervous about going up there
and getting the audience on our side. I think for a
band together a year, we're doing really good. This
is our second tour, and we're headliners. We're
really being pushed a lot by some people; like, I
don't think we're headliners yet, but I think we're a
good band and we'll be together a good while.

It's not a question of why I can't take music

seriously. I refuse to take it seriously, I don't want to
take it seriously. When you come to see us, and
we're up there on the stage having a ball, it's not
put on, we do mean it. We mean to have a ball
when we play, and we do. Like somebody said to
me the other day, "Boy, I was listening to Gasoline
Alley the other day, and I was tripping, and, boy, it
was unbelievable." And I said, "That's funny, I made
the album on a bottle of brandy."

You have to give and take. I don't get a great deal

of pleasure from singing 'Plynth'. I don't like singing
'Wicked Messenger'. They love playing that one
they really get into it. I'm just singing the words. But
I do like singing 'Love In Vain' or 'Devotion', which I
suppose isn't a good number for them to play.
That's why it's so good to be in a band with five
blokes instead of alone: so much give and take.
Whereas as a solo I'd just say, "Oh, OK." I want the
band to give as much to me as I can give to them.
It's a psychological thing. If they feel they're a
backing group, that's when trouble starts. They're

If people are trying to find something in music that's

not there this happens a lot in America; they look
too deep into the music. Like 'Street Fighting Man'
it was like I was trying to lead the revolution over
here or something, because I recorded 'Street
Fighting Man'. Really, now! That had nothing to do
with it at all. I recorded it because it was a funky old
number, and because somebody had to hear those
incredible lyrics. So now do you see what I mean
about not taking it seriously? I don't try to find
anything that's not there. There's a definite lacking

619

of fun in music at the moment. We play our best,

you know, we really do, but we like a big grin on our
faces when we're playing.

chance to make our first public appearance. If the

Stones hadn't moved out, that wouldn't have
happened, and, of course, once they moved out,
they didn't look back. They didn't come back to the
club.

You talked before about a tight "circle" of people in

England who were sort of emulating the American
beat scene in Greenwich Village. Could you
describe that a little better?

So that's how they helped us. But they cleared the

way for a lot of other bands, too, just making it
possible for that kind of music to be played. If you
moved out of London and gave them a bit of 12-bar
blues, they'd boo you off the stage. As they did the
Stones sometimes. But thanks to the Stones, that's
not true any more.

After Dylan brought out that first album, we had

thousands of Bob Dylans running about in their Bob
Dylan caps, as you probably did over here.
Everybody was doing a Dylan it was a big scene
in London, Soho. This was about 1962, and it was a
close circle of folkie-types. Donovan was in that
routine, limping about on one leg, probably no one
else that you would have heard of over here. The
Stones were playing down the road, just getting it
together. You could either go see somebody with an
acoustic guitar at a folk club, or you could go see
some blues types like the Stones it was very
close.

Is that the kind of music the Five Dimensions

played?
Well, we had two guys who wanted to do all the
Beatles hits, there was me, and I wanted to do the
blues dee blooze and the other guy wanted to
imitate Ray Charles, so the combination never quite
hit it off. The guys who wanted to do the Beatle
things went back to being brick-layers, I got Jimmy
Powell to start playing dee blooze [laughs] because
I was a blooze singer, and that's what we started
doing, playing the 12-bars, Jimmy Reed... we had
three chords and we used all of them. Jimmy Reed
I used to love.

I remember seeing the early Stones: I remember

Jagger's old lady taking me over to see them
Chrissie Shrimpton, Jean Shrimpton's sister, the
model. She took me over to see them, saying it was
this "unbelievable" band, and there were about 15
people there. They were incredible, and they've still
got it all together. They used to have stools
they'd sit there on these stools and play, and that
was their big thing.

There don't seem to be too many artists any more

that are everybody's favorites, like the Beatles or
Stones used to be; tastes seem to be getting more
diffuse, and one person spends a lot of time
listening to a few albums in particular, and the next
person is doing the same, but with different albums.

The Stones? You mean they sat there on Stools

and played their raucous electric music, the Chuck
Berry and stuff?

Well, the whole thing is like split up now; I learned

this with Beck, actually. We had a certain audience
that would come and see us, and every time we'd
go to the Fillmore for a sound balance, there'd be
people queuing up, and the audience was getting
younger and younger every time we played there.

[Laughs] Yeah, it was really weird. Till they started

getting really popular. Then they got out their first
album. I was really naive then I thought they
were playing the blues. Chuck Berry's not blues.
Is this when your band was playing during their
break?

I think that's happening all over, now.

No, that was later. At this time, I was doing the

whole bit with the banjo and harmonica and hat,
washed-out denims. It's embarrassing, really,
talking about it, because it was so weird everybody
going through that whole bit.

That's the same thing that happened to Led

Zeppelin. They draw all the 14-year-olds out now,
don't they.
Did you notice you had a lot of screamers last
night?

What got you out of that bit, then, and into the next
thing?

Oh, yeah, I didn't know what that was all about. I

didn't know what to do about that [laughs]. We got a
few in Detroit, but I didn't know fucking what was
going on here. The ones in Detroit were like nice
screaming, not silly screaming like those birds on
the left hand side of the stage at the Fillmore. I was

If the Stones hadn't been successful, I'd probably

never have gotten the chance. They moved out of
this little club to go on a tour with Bo Diddley, and
that gave our little band, the Dimensions, the

620

afraid to go over on that side of the stage. But we

had a good time; that's what counts, really.

older, unless it's something really special, so it's

really hard to judge. Going by our tour, I would say
it's exactly the same way it was when I first came
over with Beck.

Girly-type screams are silly. When you get a guy

that screams, an appreciative-type yell,
encouragement, that can kind of turn you on when
you're performing I don't know quite how to
describe it. But I wouldn't go anywhere near that
side of the stage; I was getting like five yards from
the side and walking back again. Don't know what
that was about, didn't know how to cope with it. The
old Small Faces probably used to get it, but this
band never had. That's probably what threw the
Stones off when they came here; not playing for
three years, and then nobody screamed.

It seems though like the music isn't as good, like

we've hit a low point on the cycle for a while.
I think it's as good I just think there's too much of
it. There's a lot of good bands around now; there
really is. The competition over here is incredible.
But there's a lot of bad stuff being put out too, under
the "underground" tag. I think what it will always
come down to is tunes nice, little tunes, lots of
tunes. Free are knocking me out now, actually
what a tight band!

That's true; Jagger really had to work to get people

up and about this time.

We have a lot more solo stars now than we do

groups.

Well, it's about time he had to work and he does

it he does it bloody well. He's a great performer;
he learned a lot of it from James Brown, I hope he
admits that, and I hope James Brown watches
Jagger. See, they were complaining about four
years ago "I wish all those screamers would be
quiet so we could hear ourselves play" and now
everybody is quiet and they don't dig it.

I don't think it's a trend toward solo stars; I think it's

a trend toward singers. It's leading away from guitar
player now. Three years ago it seemed there was
only guitar players. I think the lyrics count a lot more
now than they ever did. People are prepared now to
like lyrics like "the red train went up the hill," or "I
am a pot of bricks, mate," deep, stupid lyrics. So
with the lyrics, you really have to try to hit people
right between the eyes; the lyric has to do that. So
there's definitely a trend toward, not necessarily
solo stars, but singer-songwriters.

How is it for the Faces in England, as opposed to

America?
In England now it's very different than about two
and a half years ago, because England is very
influenced by America now. It's just like playing in
America now, in England, really. The audiences all
sit down on the floor the whole bit; no one dances
any more. Whereas two and a half years ago, it was
completely the other way around. Yet there's still not
that many American bands doing well in England.
As far as albums go, they do bloody well, but when
they go over for live concerts, they seem to bomb
out Three Dog Night played miserable, but I dig
them, did when they first started a couple years
ago. The best concert I ever saw was Joplin's at
Royal Albert Hall unbelievable, really, I never
thought I'd see an English audience like that.

John Morthland, 1970

Faces: Long Player (Warner Bros.)
John Mendelssohn, Rolling Stone, 18 March 1971
BEING ONE OF the few English bands left willing
(nay, all too happy) to flaunt their Englishness, and
moreover ranking no lower than third on the current
fave-rave list of such heavy critics as John
Mendelssohn, Faces should be just a shout away
from becoming very enormous indeed, and, in the
opinion of such heavy critics as John Mendelssohn,
perhaps saving rock and roll from taking itself
seriously to death in the process.

Do you get the feeling rock is stagnating now?

In view of which we all have reason to be a trifle

disappointed with Faces new Long Player, for,
consistently good casual fun and occasionally
splendid though it may be, its by no stretch of the
imagination going to save anybodys soul (as an
album by someone very enormous indeed ought) or
even rescue the FM airwaves from the clutches of
such increasingly cloying items as Elton John.

I don't know. It's difficult for me to say, because I'm

on the stage, and it's difficult for you to say,
because you're no longer part of the regular
audience. We don't go and follow a band, we don't
have that thing of "Oh, I must see them, I've really
got to go and see that band." I used to have that
with the Stones when I was about 18; I used to
want to go and see them everywhere. And we don't
get that way any more, because we've gotten a bit

621

Simply, Faces seem to lack a clearly-defined sense

of direction. Since the departure of the incredible
Steve Marriott, they have been unable (or
indisposed) to create more of the magic and
wonderful R&B-derived English fantasy-rock like
that on Ogdens Nut Gone Flake; consequently,
they are obliged (or disposed) to look, aside from
infrequent contributions in the grand old style by
bassist Ronnie Lane, to late additions Ron Wood
and that chap with the haystack haircut for
direction. Wood, most frequently fancying pleasant,
if dispensable, bottleneck-laden variations on De
Blooze, is not the Face to provide that direction.
And his friend with the haystack haircut doesnt
seem nearly so intent on so providing as deferring
to the other chaps tastes for purposes of saving the
group from becoming Rod Stewart (with Faces). But
so intimidating is Stewarts presence apparently (in
what should, of course, but hasnt thus far, been a
mutually beneficial way) that the other chaps are all
too eager to defer to Stewarts tastes. The present
result being that, instead of getting both Faces
albums and Stewart albums, Long Player being
nothing more than a grab-bag of tidbits good
enough only to tide us over until Stewarts third
"solo" album.

But for the horrendous production, Lanes 'On The

Beach', a delightful tale about a young fellow who
succeeds in hustling a beach honey in spite of his
emaciation, would be worthy successor to The First
Steps 'Three Button Hand-Me-Down' as a great
Faces drinking song. On his other entry,
'Richmond', the tiny bass-thumper delivers an
unutterably charming shy vocal, but the track has
an unfinished feel about it owing to an insufficiently
developed arrangement.
'Bad N Ruin' and 'Had Me A Real Good Time' both
rely a little too heavily on Larry Williams-ish riffs and
Stax-ish rhythmic insistence and as a consequence
wear poorly, impressing as rather tedious and
perhaps even a trifle leaden by about tenth hearing.
I personally am of the mind that both are
insufficiently frenzied both give the impression of
intending to blow the roof off, but if so why do Faces
jog when they should be sprinting in terms of
tempo? Marriott, superman that he is, could have
pulled it off at these relatively sedate speeds (the
dubious are encouraged to examine many of the
tracks on the last Small Faces album, The Autumn
Stone, which just might be the definitive English
rock and roll album). Stewart, whose voice (and
range of expression) become increasingly thin
when he pushes too hard, cannot.

Thus, the undisputed star cut on Player is that one

on which Rod and the band work most distinctly in
the same relation to one another as on his solo
albums, with his voice and words commanding
most of the attention. Leaving the matter of Faces
current inability to be more than Stewarts back-up
band aside for a moment, what a cut it is!, it
comprising an immediately attractive Wood tune,
lovely Garth Hudson-ish organ by Ian McLagan, a
beautiful pedal steel guitar solo, and magnificent
Stewart singing and lyrics about becoming resigned
to irreconcilability with a former lover:

The two live cuts, 'Maybe Im Amazed' and 'Feel So

Good', both compare less than terrifically well with
the unspeakably dynamite live stuff on Autumn
Stone (not to worry the point to death, but to
emphasize that the work of Faces when they were
The Small richly deserves your attention). On the
former the group is content to faithfully recite the
original arrangement, which act, in these dark days
of Blood, Sweat & Tears, Keith Emerson, and every
last punk teenage garage band having its Own
Original Approach, is awfully refreshing. Here a
monstro climax seems to be forewarned by the
groups stopping three-quarters of the way through
only to pick up again, but it thankfully never
materializes.

Her Spanish habits are so hard to forget

The lady lied with every breath, I accept
It was a matter of time before
My face did not fit
I knew all along Id have to quit
Anyway Id better not waste any more of your time
Ill just steal away

As for 'Feel So Good', its presence on the album

indicates either that Faces are having trouble
finding material or that theyve got a wide selfindulgent streak, cause this here is almost nine
minutes of stupefying bellowed De Blooze which,
however good it made the live audience that had
the pleasure of watching them swagger all over the
stage and embracing one another like longseparated lovers in their characteristic way as they
were playing it feel, it makes the listener feel bored
and annoyed after about 30 seconds of appreciative
amusement. Not only does Rod scream the ultimate
wrong on-stage question, "Are you with me?" not
once, but four times, but its also a shabby

Dig here and elsewhere his use of images from

American geography, like: "I think Ill go back home
and start all over again/Where the Gulf-stream
waters tend to ease the pain."
In the same vein but somehow lacking 'Sweet Lady
Mary's charisma is 'Tell Everyone', a gospel-style
ballad with occasionally superb Stewart words (that
deal with what for him is an infrequent theme, a
two-sided working love affair) and very nice guitar
ornamentation from Wood.

622

recording, with mostly only the crash cymbal

audible from Kenny Jones drumkit.

seemed less present and all that, but it was en

enjoyable concert.

OK, a couple of incidental comments that will

hopefully put my feelings about this album and
Faces Small and otherwise into some vague
semblance of perspective: Magnificent musically
(extra-musically hes always magnificent) as he is
most of the time, Stewart is not quite a match for
the memory of Steve Marriott in the context of this
particular band it was definitely a major tragedy
in the rock and roll cosmos when Marriott left Lane,
Jones, and McLagan to join Humble Pie, who are
notable only in their amazing ability to remain
deathly horrid even with him in the group. Buy
yourself Long Player for 'Sweet Lady Mary' if you
simply cant wait for the forthcoming Rod Stewart
album, but doncha dare go calling yourself a Faces
fan on the strength of LP if you havent first
experienced the unsurpassable ecstasy of The
Autumn Stone.

Their second album, Long Player, had some

surefire knockout cuts on it, but was weighted down
by much filler material ('On The Beach'), and the
extended live instrumental jam didn't do a heck of a
lot for me. However, on this third return to the
United States, the band was much tighter, friendlier,
drunker, raunchier, and just plain better. I saw them
twice on this tour, and they seemed to be a lot
closer as friends, which naturally made them a
better band. They did all kinds of neato stunts like
pass out bottles of Mateus to the audience, which is
certainly a good thing for a band to do. They were
also the top name on the bill.
A lot of things have happened since then, most
notably the making of Rod Stewart into a superstar
with his hit singles of enormous popularity and all.
Rod doesn't have to worry about monopolizing
things anymore with his solo album ventures, so he
can lay back a bit and let the two Ron's (Lane &
Wood) take over.

John Mendelssohn, 1971

The Faces: A Nod Is As Good As A Wink To A
Blind Horse (Reprise)

And that's why the new album is so stupendous.

Ronnie Lane has always been a favorite of mine,
but his rock 'n' roll ventures have never appeared
on record (His tunes've always been quiet and
beautiful ballads with pretty words.) Not this time,
my friends. Good old Plonk has given us a few
rockers, and they're tops in my book. In fact, 'You're
So Rude' ranks with the top English bawdy
numbers, including all those great ones that our
friend Steve Marriott (an ex-Face himself) wrote for
Humble Pie.

Jon Tiven, Phonograph Record, 1 January 1972

The original Small Faces were quite a band in their
day, and although before this album I had my
doubts, I have now answered the question of
whether or not the new band can equal the old. The
Small Faces, good as they were, are in every way
matched or surpassed by Rod, Ron and company,
who feel disposed to rock out a lot more than they
used to.

'Memphis' features some knockout vocal delivery by

Rod the Mod, not to mention a cooking guitarthrough-Leslie intro by Woody. 'Stay With Me' and
'It's All You Need' are my favorites on the album, I
guess, with the latter's fine, fine bottleneck guitar.

I mean, First Step was excellent in spots ('Nobody

Knows', 'Three Button Hand Me Down') but a weak
album on the whole. Those instrumentals were
often pisspoor, things that you just skipped over
when you played the album. Shortly after this
album's release, I was fortunate enough to see the
band perform (twice), and was knocked flat by the
sheer energy and raunch release of Messrs.
Stewart, Wood, McLagan, Lane, and Jones, but
tightness was noticeably absent. At one point in the
'Plynth' jam, Ian went into 'Wicked Messenger' quite
unexpectedly and although I thought it a bit clever,
Roddy Stewart was not at all pleased. In fact,
backstage there were some heated squabbles, with
Rod doing most of the yelling.

The Faces have finally reached a level where not

only are they capable of writing and performing
good material, they know which tunes not to do.
The band has waited until they got a full album's
worth of great songs, so there's no need for filler. I
wholeheartedly recommend this album to anyone
with ears not yet shattered by Grand Funk...the
Faces have proved to me that they can save rock
'n' roll with their music, and not act as merely a
backup band for an exceptional vocalist. Hot
diggety doggie!

The next time I saw the band (a few months later),

they seemed to be wearing a bit more polish (and
alcohol), but performed basically the same set of
songs. I was slightly ticked at this; the spontaneity

Jon Tiven, 1972

The Faces

623

Jonh Ingham, Phonograph Record, 1 January

1972

alcohol consumed. Kenny flails at his kit as though

nothing else matters. It isn't unusual for him to take
two or three solos a night. One of them might be a
bit off, but the others are so bitingly good the
pandemonium they produce is justified. The overall
feeling is some of the lads are out for a good bash.
But not just any lads. High class lads.

AS FAR AS AMERICA is concerned, the Small

Faces were notable for one single, 'Itchycoo Park',
and one album, Ogden's Nut Gone Flake; the
former for its funny lyrics about getting high in the
park, the latter for its round cover. To the rest of the
world the Small Faces were an institution.

This tour, the Faces were staying at the Beverly

Hills Hotel, a rambling stucco affair, with beautiful
grounds, situated firmly in Beverly Hills, a home
away from home for lawyers, uppercrust
executives, starlets, and the nouveau riche, whose
hospitality does not customarily extend to longhairs.
The group booked in to utilize the grounds for a
photo session which never happened, so for two
days they withstood cold stares and gossipy
dowagers. "Are you in a rock group? I thought so.
My son-in-law is in Steppenwolf. Do you know him?
They have five gold records."

They released their first single, 'What 'Cha Gonna

Do About It', in 1965, with Jimmy Winston on
keyboards, who left shortly after ("None of us could
really play our instruments at that time, but he was
really bad"), to be replaced by Ian McLagen. Hit
after hit followed, with hordes of screaming girls
idolizing the group, especially lead guitarist-singer
Steve Mariott. Although they did many tours, it was
in the studio they felt at home. With Glyn Johns at
the knobs, they turned out a multitude of tracks,
much of it unreleased until the English album
Autumn Stone, last year. In 1969 Steve left to form
Humble Pie, and the group seemed to have run its
course. Enter Rod Stewart and Ron Wood.

The interview took place in one of the hotel's semiplush rooms, with Ronnie Lane and Ron Wood
doing most of the talking. Friends and other
members of the group wandered in and out,
including a flashy entrance by Rod, displaying his
new black high-heeled shoes with red ribbons for
laces (matching his red velvet suit), and a fifth of
scotch for each member of the band. High class
lads out for a good bash.

Rod first played professionally in the early 60s with

Jimmy Powell and the Five Dimensions, graduated
to Long John Baldry's Hoochie Coochie Men and
Steampacket, spent some time as Rod the Mod ("I
used to be more worried about what I looked like
than the music."), joined Shotgun Express with
Peter Green and Mick Fleetwood, and finally was
vocalist for Jeff Beck. Ron started out in 1964 as
guitarist in the Birds, one of the multitudinous
groups brought to American attention by the British
Invasion, next showing up as a bassist for Jeff
Beck. With their addition to the group, the name
changed to Faces.

Who started the Small Faces?

Ronnie: It was me and Kenny really. You can't say
who formed it, because no-one specifically formed
it, but me and Kenny was looking.
What year was this?

The current Faces have even more vitality and

power than the Small Faces. The tightness which
was a trademark of the old group has gone, but
instead there is a complexity and subtlety that was
previously missing. Listen to the Small Faces'
version of 'My Way of Giving' and the rendition on
Gasoline Alley to see the evolution.

Ronnie: '62...'63.
As the Small Faces?
Ronnie: No, it was all sorts of names. And after a
short period of time we got a contract. It was thrust
upon us when we'd only been together about two
months. We was taken into the studio and made a
record and it was hyped it was bought into the
charts, because of the pirate radio stations. You'd
pay a hundred quid and you'd have a hit record.

Most important, the power and vitality is present in

their stage act, which is firmly rooted in vaudeville,
Ron controls the music, high stepping around the
stage as he urges his mates on, crouching over his
guitar whenever he executes a particularly florid
run. Rod, nattily attired in a leopard skin suit and
lace blouse ("It'll make me look tarty"), throws his
mike stand like a baton, runs drunkenly all over the
stage, dances a soft shoe or two with Ronnie and
Mac, and sings his soul out. Ronnie spends most of
the time drinking, his excellence of bass playing
increasing in direct proportion to the amount of

This was on Decca?

Ronnie: Yeah...'Orrible company.
How did you sign with Immediate?

624

Ronnie: We was trying to get away from Decca...it's

such a complicated story. I mean, we got rooked all
the way through.

Why didn't you come to America?

Ronnie: I dunno...There was a lot of carve-ups.
Steve didn't want to come, so that blew it a couple
of times. And other times it just fell through. No-one
ever walked through the door and said, "Bang!
'Ere's a contract, you're going to America," It was
always just sort of talked about. I'm glad we didn't
come now. It made it a lot easier for this band to
come together, seeing as no-one had seen us as
we was.

With Immediate or with Decca?

Ronnie: With everybody. Since the Faces has been
formed it's the first time in five years that we've
been working in the business that we've been
getting what we earned. It's amazing.
Your first records sound a lot like the Who. Was
that conscious?

Was 'Itchycoo Park' aimed at making it in America?

Ronnie: 'Itchychoo Park' was a hit here without any
sort of promotion...It was a send up. Andrew
Oldham was a great person for a bit of a grin on the
side, and we used to turn out these songs with
stupid lyrics just to see him laugh. Ogdens was a bit
of a send up too. People take it seriously.

Ronnie: I suppose it was slightly conscious we

dug the Who. In actual fact we had our roots in a lot
of the same things, like Booker T. and
Tamla/Motown, which was all the rage then. There
was a big Mod era, with all the Mods taking pills
down at the Marquee, and Tamla/Motown and Otis
Redding was what was going down then. It's still
our roots now. With this band it's still very much in
there in the foundation.

How did 'Happiness Stan' come about?

Kenny: It was my idea originally. I told the rest of the
group and we wrote the story in one day.

Any particular reason for calling yourself Small

Faces?

Did you write it with the nonsense dialog?

Ronnie: We were all very small...a face then meant
one of the lads. It was a Mod term.

Kenny: No, we told the story to a comedian, Stan

Unwin a really nice old man who translated it
into his own dialect right in the studio.

Were you any sort of musical spokesmen for the

Mods?

Ronnie: A lot of the songs came from sayings of the

group. Like "Happydaystoytown" was something we
used to say. If you walked in and everyone was
larking about you'd say, "Well, it looks a bit happy
days toy town." The album was a good idea at the
time; doing a story tying all the songs together. It
was one of the reasons the group broke up. Well,
the Who have just come through the same thing.
You donate all your time and energy to a unified
project and it's like the pinnacle of the group's
career. Then you have to look around for a new
direction, and that takes a tremendous effort. We
didn't make it.

Ronnie: Oh yeah. When we started out it used to be

all boys that would come and see us, and then as
we had hit records the boys petered off because all
these girls were turning up and screaming and
wetting their knickers.
On The Autumn Stone, on the live cuts is any of the
screaming dubbed in?
Ronnie: No, that's real. We never heard ourselves
for about two and a half three years. And then one
day the screaming died down and we heard
ourselves it was fucking 'orrible. One of the
reasons why the band fell apart was that it wasn't
too good; I can tell you.

How did the cover come about?

Ronnie: We knew the title was going to be Ogden's
Nut Gone Flake, so, we wanted the cover to look
like a tobacco tin. We were working on it when
someone suggested a round cover. It seemed a
good idea, so we did it.

You were mostly a studio band?

Ronnie: Yeah...Well, if you couldn't hear anything,
and no-one was particularly listening, the incentive
went off the stage shows. We didn't work like this
band does. We're all the time thinking about how it
sounds on stage, but we didn't have to worry about
that because no-one heard a fucking thing anyway.

When did you start using horns?

625

Ronnie: The live recording on Autumn Stone was

the first time we took horns with us on the road. We
got into using horns about '67, because the Beatles
starting using horns, didn't they? I mean you hear
something that sounds good, and you think, "Oh, I'll
try that."

carried a bit away, and do a song in a way that you

wouldn't really see it. But that works both ways.
Sometimes it's good, and sometimes it's bad.

What do you think of Nik Cohn saying that you

pursued every fad, but never quite got the point?

Ronnie: Yeah. Rod's much better at writing about

imaginative and fictitious things than I am. I can't do
that sort of thing at all.

Are most of your songs based on personal

experiences?

Ronnie: I've read a few things of Nik Cohn's, and I

tend to think he's one of these geezers who puts
too much on the music. It's probably very true in the
way he sees it. It's not the way I see it, and I was in
the band,, and I know what was going on. It was
just sort of very pleasant really. We were just
fucking about and earning our money. We did
aspire to do well, of course, and we never really did.
But there you go, I don't think you ever do, do you?
Really pull it off? I wonder.

On. Long Player the writing chores are much more

evenly divided than First Step. Is that becoming
more common?
Ronnie: Well what usually happens is that me and
Ron will find a melody, or he'll find one piece and I'll
have another bit and we'll stick it together. That's
how 'Had Me A Real Good Time' and 'Flying' come
together. And then we'll sort of look at each other,
and can't think of anything to write about, so we'll
give it to Rod.

Some people have come awfully close...Who's idea

was it to use horns?

Ron: And he's always bound to come with a lyric.

He regards every track that you give him as a
challenge, "All right, I'll put some word to this."

Ronnie: I can't really remember...Steve I think. He

was very much into Ray Charles... and we was
getting a bit bored too, so we thought that if we had
a brass section it would pep us up a bit. Like the
Stones are doing now.

Does he take a long time?

Did it pep you up?

Sometimes he takes a couple of weeks, but other

times he'll have it finished in a day.

Ronnie: Yeah. Fucking great! The trouble is we'd

never have any money. By the time we'd pay the
band we'd have nothing. You couldn't afford to do it.

Ronnie: They're very entertaining, his lyrics. They're

great.
In the Small Faces, how would you decide which
songs you were going to sing?

Ron Wood: That's what the Stones are going

through now. Carting a great team around with
them.
Did you do your own horn arrangements?

Ronnie: Steve would tell me. He used to moan at

me every now and then to sing a song, because I
never really wanted to sing.

Ronnie: On some of the songs.

Do you now?

When you were writing songs with Steve, did one of

you write melody and one lyrics?

Ronnie: I wouldn't mind, but I think it's a bit stupid

while Rod's around. I should think people would far
rather listen to him.

Ronnie: We worked both ways...Things used to

bounce off. It's the same as we do now. I never
considered writing a song before the Faces formed.

How long have you known the Faces?

Ron: I've known them for years and years. Funny
enough, I used to know Steve best. I'd knock
around with Steve quite a lot, and meet Ronnie on
the odd occasion. Kenny was a very rare thing to
me, and the same with Mac.

Do you find it very different writing with Ron and

Rod?
Ronnie: Yeah, it's easier in a way. If it's basically
your idea at least you can keep a bit more control
on how it ends up. Sometimes Steve would get

626

How did you come to join the group?

Ronnie: There was some great publicity though.

Ron: It was a natural progression for me; it wasn't

for them. Things were getting really stale with Beck.
He'd decided on a new rhythm section, and he'd
gotten rid of me and Mickey (Waller), and then he
rang up from the States in a desperate sort of thing
to get me back, and I went back on my own terms.
That really finished it off with the Beck band. During
the time I'd been back in England I'd called up
Ronnie, and said, "Let's have a blow." That's how
the Beck band got started. I called him up and said,
"Hi Jeff, I hear you've left the Yardbirds. Why don't
you come on over and have a blow?" It turned out
so well, the band got together. Anyway, Kenny
gradually came down, and Mac, and Rod used to
pop down on the odd occasion and sit upstairs in a
little office and listen to us play. And he wouldn't
dare come down, because he was so embarrassed.

Ron: We'll leave that out...Just because I took my

trousers down on stage.
I heard around that time that you were sued by the
Byrds because of the name. Is that right?
Ron: No, we sued them. That's what Ronnie was
trying to bring up. It looked like we sued them, but
we were only a young bunch of guys, and we didn't
want to sue the Byrds, because we used to like
them. It was our manager it was a big trick. A big
publicity thing.
You started after them?
Ron: No, before them. We did have the name, it's
just that we had no claim to say, "Why are they
using it?" They had a stronger thing going.

About what?

Ronnie: We were a bit nave and gullible in those

days.

Ron: Just about sort of appearing to muscle in.

Did he want to join?

Is there much smack among English musicians?

Ron: Yeah! But he didn't quite know it himself. He

wanted to know what I thought as well. Eventually,
all it took was for one of us to come out and ask
him, and Kenny actually said it. And he just said
yeah. He was only waiting to be asked. But as far
as I was concerned, I had to prove myself, as they
had to prove themselves to me and Rod. It was a
mutual sort of thing.

Ron: No. It's pretty remote.

American musicians are getting into it quite a bit.
Ron: There's a few lessons going to be learned out
of that. It's a matter of knowing when to draw the
line. There's so many lessons to be learned from
Hendrix and Morrison...Janis Mind you, Janis
worries me a bit, because we drink more than she
did.

How did you meet Rod?

Ron: It was at a rehearsal for the Beck band. He
just walked in and said, "Hi face," and I said, "Hi
Rod." And ever since then hey, he said, "Hi face!"

How long have you been playing pedal steel guitar?

Ron: Well I've actually owned one about six or eight
months, but I've played on it about five hours. I just
don't get any time.

Were you in any groups between the Birds and Jeff

Beck?

Are you after a particular sound?

Ron: A little European group called Creation. The

rest of the time was sessions.

Ron: Yeah, I want to get a very basic approach to it.

I can listen to Buddy Emmonds or that and they just
blow my mind, but I just want to get a very melodic
tuneful thing out of it.

How about before the Birds?

Ron: It was the same bunch of guys with a different
name. They were called the Thunderbirds.

Do you want a countryish sound out of it?

Were they very big in England?

Ron: Yeah, but not old country. Sort of country-rock

and roll-new era type of thing...

Ron: We had a little following. It was a sort of

underground following.

Do you plan to play it on stage?

627

Ron: Yeah, I've done about five gigs with it. The
thing is, it's so difficult to tie in. If you want a smooth
running show...I use three guitars as it is, and if
you're going to keep swapping around and getting
sounds it's going to be a hell of a wait for the
audience. It's a bit of a hang up with 'Sweet Lady
Mary', because I used it in that...I think I'll have to
reach a compromise and play normal guitar and just
bring that in at the end.

Ronnie: He should have got co-producer's credit,

actually. We should have realized that. We didn't
even think of it for awhile. He's definitely a good
man.

Do you prefer playing guitar to bass?

Do you record all the concerts you do now?

Ron: Yeah! Definitely. But, while I was on bass I

never had such a good time. It's a great instrument.

Ron: We should, but we don't. It's a hell of a lot of

expense.

What kind of musical directions are you heading

towards now?

Ronnie: If I had the mobile together it wouldn't cost

us anything, because we'd just cart it 'round.

Are you going to do a completely live album?

Ron: The album after next or the album after that
one. We want to prove ourselves in the studio first.

Ron: We're working on a progression of what we've

done before. We see it through different eyes now,
because we've got a lot looser. And it gives us a
much looser view on things. If we see a number in
our heads and start to play it, we're getting the
direction in which to play it now, rather than
messing around with it and throwing in different
beats. We very rarely have problems with numbers
now.

You're building a mobile studio?

Ronnie: Yeah. I've got a mini-van and a Sony
cassette.
Sounds adequate.
Ronnie: It's one of Rod's lines in the British
newspapers last week.

Do you go into the studio knowing what you're

going to do or work it out in the studio?

Ron: Yes. Ronnie's really trying with his thing, and

Rod went and blew it on him.

Ronnie: 50-50 in a way.

How long were the Faces together before First Step
was recorded?

Ron: We're going to know what we're going to do on

the next album.

Ronnie: About eight months. Because we had so

many business problems to overcome. Rod was
signed to Mercury, and that was one thing. We were
still signed to Immediate, and no-one would come
hear us.

Ronnie: To an extent. We still want to maintain a bit

of spontaneity
Ron: Oh yeah! It's the whole key.
Ronnie: It's still nice to discover a few things in the
studio. I think we'll probably go in with the general
idea this time. We don't really write too much in the
studio anymore it's too expensive. The old Faces
used to do that. Phenomenal bills we used to have
then.

Immediate was still in business?

Ron: We're using Glyn Johns on the next album,

and we stand a lot better chance of going in and
getting a spontaneous thing. We won't have to
worry about the sound.

Ron: We had so many contractual ornaments.

Ronnie: Oh yeah. They were still going strong

they had Humble Pie and all that, and were building
a big building. They were throwing money left, right
and center. It was their last fling.

Ronnie: It's quite true what the young man just said
there. It took about eight months to sort it all
out...eventually Warners came and took it all over.
They really saved our bacon.

Did Glyn Johns produce any of the Small Faces

records?

How long did the album take to record?

628

Ronnie: About two weeks. One of the things that

was wrong with that album was that we'd all been
playing those numbers for quite some time.

things together around their houses. I've even got a

mixer, and am setting up a remote.
Is it very expensive to build your own studio?

From what I've seen, most people don't seem to

like the English cover of Long Player.

Ronnie: It's fucking expensive.

Ronnie: Yeah, but I really like it.

Ron: I soundproofed it myself, and bough the mixer,

which cost nearly 3,000 pounds.

Ron: Oh, it's great. It would have been on the

American cover but it was ballsed up somewhere.

Ronnie: My gear cost me so much money I can't

buy a house to put it in.

Ronnie: I hate that American cover I can't take it.

When I was about 13 in Art lesson I was given a
chocolate box to design, and it was something very
similar to that. And it was really 'orrible then.

Friend: Warner Brothers can get you a lot of the

stuff really cheap probably.

Ron: It won the Gruesome Award of the year.

Ronnie: No, I tried that. A lot of the stuff's built, and

you can't do it.

What about the lack of information on the American

cover?

Friend: Neil Young just did it through Warners. He

got a 16 track machine.

Ronnie: Yeah, there's been a lack of information all

round, as far as our albums have gone. We really
ought to try and give the people a little more
information about our albums. It's just that it always
seems to be a rushed thing at the end, and you
can't keep hold of the rate, and all of a sudden
you're told that the thing's been printed, and they
can't possibly chuck it into the sewer.

Ronnie: Flash bastard. (Laughs)

Ron: But my house is only a little house what
would I do with a 16 track?
Ronnie: Have a good time.
Ron: I suppose so...

Do you give them ideas for covers?

Ronnie: The nice thing about having your own

studio is that it's great to be able to do things at
your own leisure. If things are taking a lot of time it
won't cost you a lot of money. Which is a drag. It
does tend to lay on your mind sometimes about
how much a thing is beginning to cost. For the first
couple of weeks you don't give a fuck, you just do it.
But after that you begin to realize what the bill is
and you're still nowhere near finished.

Ronnie: That last one was our idea. It was

supposed to look like an old '40s record cover with
a hole in it and really dodgy printing. I don't know
who designed our American one they ought to put
him to sleep.
Ron: Oh, Stan Cornyn wouldn't like you to speak
like that.

How much did Long Player cost?

Ronnie: They didn't even put credits on it!

Ron: 10,000 12,000

Friend: Yeah, you oughta put credits on

Ronnie: But there's a lot of stuff that we never used.

And never will be.

Are most of your studio recordings taped live?

Ron: It's as live as possible. We try and do it all in
one, and then maybe I'll put a slide over it.

Ron: Of course that was spread over recording on

our own, in England, the Fillmore...There's 'The
Mariner', which we never used.

Do you think spontaneity is coming back into studio

recording now, rather than perfection?

How much does the Stones Mobile cost?

Ron: Things are really drifting away from the big

studios; in England anyway. People are getting

Ron: That's what I call expensive, may I use that

word.

629

How much was it?

the back of the stage, because they were all

running forward. He really got frightened.

Ronnie: 200 quid a day. But that's a whole day.

Ron: ooh yeah, it's really frightening, those little
girls. They're really hard. They're like 16 year old
boys. You get eight of them on you and it's the end
of the line.

You were in Mick's house?

Ronnie: Yeah, but I don't think you can do that
anymore. Some neighbour complained to the
Council about all these rock groups driving across
the fields at all times of the day and night.

What about the rumours that you wreck all the

hotels you stay at?
Ron: It's a bit of an exaggeration. That's what used
to go on, now it's just a reputation. They all expect
it, and get security guards turning out. We've only
wrecked about four on this tour...The biggest
gathering this time was in Toledo, Ohio, where we
were staying at Howard Johnson's. The police
came as soon as we arrived and said, "Look, we
haven't come to talk. The next time we come it'll be
to beat someone's head in." Everyone was passive,
looking around, sitting in the corner. People were
sleeping on the lawn in the morning

Do you see the studio as an environment to be

used for all its capabilities, or just a place to record
what you do live?
Ronnie: Now, we use it just to record what we do
live.
With the Small Faces it was to get whatever you
could out of it?
Ronnie: Yeah...it was a bit gimmicky...it was
interesting. We'd never done it and there we were.
We had a really great studio and we just got carried
away with it. Unfortunately, we could never
reproduce anything on the fucking stage. And
seeing how everyone was screaming anyway, we
never tried.

Ronnie: There were about 400 people there, and

they were all quiet. As soon as anyone made any
noise, everyone would go, "Shh, you want to get
your head beaten in?" They were for real those
police; they nearly dragged me off. I was trying to
explain to them that it was all going to be all right
and they grabbed me and said, "Oh, he'll do."

How do you find girls screaming at your concerts

now?

How do you find it in the Midwest?

Ronnie: Now?

Ron: It hurts when you see the police reaction on

audiences. Last night even, in Houston, some little
guy came on to pat Rod on the back, and Rod was
sort of, "Yeah, great." The guy turned around, and
the police got hold of him and smashed him off the
stage. Rod turned 'round and oooh. He's had a go
at the police about five times this tour.

Ron: Screaming?
Yeah. When I saw you there were all these girls
screaming. "I love you, Rod," taking pictures like
mad. It was just like Beatlesmania.
Ronnie: I know what you mean, but it's not like the
old days. It's not like "yaaah!" It's more, "Hey, you
bastards!"

Ronnie: He'll come unstuck one night.

It's more than you see for any other group.

Ron: He knows exactly what he wants. He suddenly

goes into a shell, and you can't talk to him, and you
think, "What's wrong with Rod?" And he comes out
a couple of weeks later and the whole album's
planned, and he's back on the booze again. You go
to his house for a couple of nights and get a few
things together and then bang into the studio and
you get the spontaneity.

Does Rod plan his albums out much in advance?

Ron: That's good old rock and roll for you, isn't
it?...We played a little gig in England just before we
left. It's called the Fillmore North, in Newcastle, and
Rod got frightened. He's never had any screaming
before. It's always been blues and a bit of this, that
and the other generally mature audiences. And
now we're getting popular in England, and he's
going through the same bit of the lead singer, Rod
Stewart, and all that, and we got on stage and all
these little girls are going, "Rod!!!," and he's up at

Is he still going to produce David Ruffin?

Ron: No, there's too many legal ties. It's a shame.

630

Do you relish the thought of becoming

"superstars"?

play). So they do, of course, only to await the

inevitable bounch back to the far reaches of the
amphitheatre at the hands of the goons, some of
whom have taken to wearing leather gloves on their
punching hands. So then Rod calls everybody back
down again, and again the forward rush is belted
back into the stratosphere.

Ron: No, it frightens me. You tend to lose your

communication with an audience and people in
general when you start getting too big. When we
first came over here we had some lovely time, and
you could talk to some really nice chicks. But now
you get so many little groupies...it's terrible.

It seemed to go on forever, like a bad dream that

you're in ten times at once. Eventually Rod seemed
to realize that he wasn't getting anywhere and told
everyone to take it easy. It was all pretty sad and
unnecessary. He should have known that there's no
way to have a party in the Hollywood Bowl.

Jonh Ingham, 1972

The Faces: Hollywood Bowl, CA
Richard Cromelin, Phonograph Record, November
1972

Otherwise, the band played well but without a lot of

real spark and carried on in the fashion, but without
the substance we have come to expect Rod
careening and sliding like a besotted ice skater,
Ronnie Lane chugging about like a cigarette
smoke-puffing locomotive, Ron Wood running in
huge circles while shooting an arc of sparkling wine
from his mouth, like a crazy caricature of a
fountain's spouting figurine.

DOES THE FACT that Faces were able to elicit a

thunderous response from their Hollywood Bowl
audience with what was definitely a sub-par
performance say more about the band's ability to
come across even when not up to snuff or about the
massive credulity of the crowd? I don't know.
I suspect that much of it is just another depressing
manifestation of the self-delusion syndrome that
makes it a certainty that any rock group on which
the Mantle of Stardom has been placed could stand
up there picking only their noses and still get
nothing short of a standing ovation.

And they ran through a solid, if uneventful repertoire

of rockers and ballads, all of which were delivered
competently but without much passion or urgency.
From all available reports, the concert two nights
later at the Palladium, a much more suitable venue
for the lads, was infinitely better. Wish I'd been
there.

Then again, there is something to be said for the

former alternative, in that despite the show's halfassed nature, undeniable and irresistible flashes of
gen-yoo-wine entertainment kept shooting through
the dreck. Rod Stewart's really got it, no question,
and he's to be congratulated for surviving and even
thriving in the rarified air which the A-Number One
Pop-star must habitate.

Ballinjack opened the Bowl show with a blatant

example of just how bad a horn-rock boogie band
can be.
(To get back to Faces for a moment, you might be
interested to know that a couple of days ago a
friend gave me a page that cut out of a 1967 British
fan magazine called Fab-208. On one side is a
piece by Neil Aspinall describing how the Beatles
handle pesky photographers and a Christmas
greeting from a group called the Koobas. But the
other side! It's the Small Faces, full-page, full color.
Steve Marriott, Ronnie Lane and Kenny Jones are
all in bed under an orange blanket Steve and
Ronnie sport bare torsos, Kenny wears a blue
turtleneck receiving Christmas packages from Ian
McLagen, who's dressed up in a white beard and
Santa Claus suit with a Rizla Rolling Papers label
stuck on the right sleeve. And listen girls, that Steve
Marriott is a dream!)

The biggest problem in the Bowl, as a matter of

fact, was a direct consequence of Rod's magnetism
(supplemented by a heavy dose of bad judgment).
He instigated a monster-scale paddleball game with
the audience as the red rubber ball and himself as
the rubber band, with the part of the board off which
the ball bounces played by the bloodthirsty
lumberjacks whose function it is to animate the
pattern that makes the structure of rock concerts so
paradoxical given that rock concerts are
designed, ideally, to release inhibitions, to loosen
you up; but don't get too loose or excited, or you
know what happens, right?

Richard Cromelin, 1972

So anyway, Rod implores, in his most convincing

manner, the audience to come closer (a perfectly
understandable sentiment m the Bowl, probably the
very worst place in L.A. for a band like Faces to

The Faces: The Rock'n'Roll Circus

631

Dave Marsh, Creem, April 1973

Gaff is bubbling over. He raves about the quality of

the food. Then, with a swoop of his fork, he begins
to describe his plans for upping ticket sales tonight.

THE LAST WEEK of April 1973 the American

Retreaders Association shared the Executive Inn,
Louisville, Kentucky, with a collection of dwarves,
freaks, dealers, high-wire acts, aerial motorcyclists,
a few journalists, a mother-and-son balancing act, a
Chinese woman who dangles from arena ceilings
"suspended only by the hair of her head," and a
couple of rock 'n' roll bands.

"I don't understand it. Tickets just aren't moving. Did

you see the plane I hired? Had a streamer behind it,
to advertise the show. And we did two spots."
Enter the Rock 'n' Roll Rooster. He's bedecked in a
white suit which epitomizes British funque. He is
sunburned, angular, looking very tall, very lean.

This is the Rock 'n' Roll Circus... side show. The

Main Event takes place only once each evening,
and that is what we are here for. Step right this way,
friends, and have a look inside:

"I've just been to the Bahamas," Rod Stewart says,

and bends, the way he sways like a sapling on
stage, to speak for a moment to Gaff.

"In the center ring, for your enjoyment, Ladies,

gentle- men, and children of all ages, we present
an act beyond mortal belief. This evening only,
flown DIRECT from London, England. The Rock 'n'
Roll Rooster and his famous friends, the nimble,
amazing Briton-chimpanzees! See them walk and
strut and kick out the very jams you've come to
witness! Watch as they tread a path 'cross stages
braver men have feared to tread.

Rod leaves quickly; Gaff and Lane follow

momentarily. The arena is huge. It is so large that if
the show is not a big success there will be
problems, severe problems. Like about 300 percent
too much natural echo.
But the place begins to fill up nicely as the recently
reformed Free open the show. By the end of their
brief but monotonous set, the house is about half
full and the crowd is still coming in.

"Please direct your attention to the center ring,

ladies and gentlemen, and welcome:

Free don't sound poor, but they don't do anything to

assert the brilliance of either Paul Rodgers, their
lead vocalist or Paul Kossof, their lead guitarist.
Rodgers, for instance, might have a technically
"better" voice than Stewart's, but he could sure take
lessons from Rod in stage presence.

"Rod Stewart and the Faces!"

In the cavernous hallways of the Inn, it is cool and
dark. The Faces have not yet arrived to threaten it,
add specific tension to its Duro-plush-plastic
comforts. The rooms are filled with much veneer,
carpets with a design, immaculate baths. No ring in
the tub.

During the set, the Circus Proper sets up. Behind

the stage and to its side, high wires go up. The
trapeze act, a crew of Chileans (who escaped
Allende, the way Cubans escaped Castro?) is to go
on first, but it isn't much. One of the connections is
missed and the trouper falls but he is back up in a
second, and one has the feeling that it is set up.

When the band arrives, around four o'clock, the

soap operas of the day aren't quite over. At five
o'clock, it is time to eat dinner, in the Colonial Bar
and Grill. The Colonial is a spacious room, filled
with a sense of middlebrow aristocracy that fits only
in the late lamented Confederacy. Chintz royalty.

This is the first night that the circus has been

presented in its entirety. The problem, according to
Faces, is that most of the arenas on tour have
restrictive fire laws, or inadequate facilities, for the
whole show. Louisville is the fourth night of the tour,
but it is the first night for the entire circus.

At a back table sit Billy Gaff, the Faces manager,

Ronnie Lane, their bass player-songwriter-singer,
publicist Pat Costello, photographer Peter Hujar,
and the Creem team. Costello is verbose. Hujar is
reserved, the way only a New Yorker can be
reserved. Gaff is hyper, the paragon of British rock
management. Tonight the pressure's on for him:
Tickets for the show haven't sold well in advance,
and he's worried that they'll be playing to a halfempty house. Lane is quiet, the way only a
professional British rock star can be reserved.

As it turns out, the most interesting thing about the

Circus is its announcer, a red-blazered midget,
looking like a five-year-old dressed for church by his
mother. He is charming, but not particularly funny,
and that is an indication of what a low level this
show works at.

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The crowd likes it. The Louisville papers will like it

the next day. But it is not what anyone came for,
and like so many things connected with rock these
days, the kids know and accept that it is bogus
but... entertaining.

pours the tea and there is never a moment's

hesitation, none of the cheap near-miss/false-start
theatrics of the trapeze act, or the save-the-hit-forlast jive of Free. In her own way, La Chinoise is as
talented, as professional, and as engrossing as the
Faces.

There's the dull-o mother and child balancing act.

The most interesting thing about it is the eight-track
tape which plays as reinforcement: It is soft-rock,
running to CSN&Y, with 'Layla' thrown in for grit. If
there were a set-up to make the Faces look more
powerful, it couldn't have been more perfect.

And that was that.

If you had been standing in front of the stage when
Rod Stewart came out that night, you'd have been
best advised to move.

But most of all, the circus is depressing because it

is the Rock 'n' Roll Circus only by proximity with the
real thing. There isn't anything rock 'n' rolly about it
nothing. There are certain show biz things about
it, but there is nothing that rocks. This is nuclear
family entertainment for audiences used to nuclear
explosion performances.

The Faces came out, as they always do, and simply

plugged in and started to blow. Rod leaned over,
touched the mike and the entire situation
immediately exploded. In less than fifteen seconds,
the center of the arena powered its way past the
guards into the ten-foot deep shell in front of the
stage, where the circus acts had been performing
only a few moments earlier. The cops didn't bother
to make a move.

The motorcycle high-wire act over it was just as

adequate as the rest, and nothing more out walks
Princess Fong. She looks 30ish, as tall as Yoko, but
more interestingly proportioned. She is awash in
Kimono, or whatever her particular Oriental ethnicity
terms what she is wearing.

The Faces had never played Louisville (or most of

the South) before, but it didn't seem to matter. Their
audience reacted as if they had been waiting for
this show for years. If that isn't true, it's at least an
indication.

Suddenly, yet with great dignity and ceremony, she

is yanked aloft by her two-foot pigtail. As La
Chinoise is suspended from the ceiling, one has
time to ponder the veracity of her hair. But, on the
other hand, if it isn't her hair, then what's the wig
attached to?

lan McLagan: It's strange. If you get to town the day

before a gig, people who would recognize you the
day of a gig, or the day after a gig, don't even know
who you are for some reason... I get taken for a
redneck everywhere, anyhow.

It's that sense of inscrutability that makes La

Chinoise such a wonderfully sexy, mysterious
performer. There is no way to tell if she is truly as
beautiful as she seems.

The band was full on from the beginning. No

shucking and jiving, no stops to tune, no delays.
This is not just great rock 'n' roll and it is that, for
the Faces have one of the two or three best rock
shows of the seventies it is professional rock 'n'
roll, with all the concomitant drawbacks and
advantages.

There is awe on the crowd as she is pulled up, up,

up, while a spotlight dazzles her in its glow. Ten,
twenty, thirty feet, maybe even higher.

The sound was almost perfect: Each instrument

could be heard clearly, McLagan's organ and Jones'
powerful drumming coming through especially well
in light of the way they have been buried in the
past. The Faces work perfectly with Rod. It is not a
mistake to say that they couldn't make it without
him, I suppose, but it is also not a mistake to think
that Rod couldn't make it without the band.

La Chinoise does a kick up, then "skins the cat" and

drops down so that she is again suspended "only by
the hair on her head," and the real attraction begins.
One by one, she drops a couple dozen vari-colored
kimonos which plummet to the arms of a stagehand
waiting below.
And, then, twenty kimonos later, she is fully
revealed to us in a two piece outfit that yet leaves
much to the imagination.

Ron Wood: At the beginning it's (husky whisper)

"C'mon Rod." But by the end (he chirps), "Hey they
all got it on."

She is lowered back down to thunderous applause,

then goes back up for a cup of tea, which is not yet
in the cup. La Chinoise balances the silver tray, and

In the middle of the set, just as they are beginning

to settle into the groove that could carry the show to

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only a middle-height, the band breaks into the

crusher. Stewart steps to the mike with one of the
rare grins he allows himself, and begins to sing, as
Wood plays the absolutely heartrending guitar leadin:

The show is so finely tuned that it even works

where once it was weakest: when Stewart hands
the vocal mike to Ron Lane.
Lane is a good singer, but he's not Rod and always
before it has seemed like he was merely giving Rod
a break. No more. His songs are good, and his
ideas about how to present them are fine. He
mocks himself so well you're never sure how
serious he is.

Wake up Maggie, I think I... Before the rest of the

line is out, the stage begins to be covered with
bodies. Perhaps two hundred actually make it to the
apron of the stage, so that the musicians have less
room, forcing Rod to diminish his Grouch walk with
the mike. The uninitiated experience an intuitive
fear.

Lane: Are they true? Yeah! They're all true stones.

Rod: I'm not a natural songwriter... like Ronnie
Lane. (Brief snicker.) Well, he is. Songs flow out of
him. It's a struggle for me. I'm lucky to get one a
month.

"Aren't you scared?"

Wood: Naw man. They came, but they just stayed
there.

Wood (a little earlier): The nice thing about Rod was

that Rod was there all the time. Even when Ron
was doing his vocals. Rod was there.

McLagan: They probably would get really silly, but

they don't want to hurt you, they just want to be
close and be part of the party.
Wood: I did feel a few fingers on the knee last
night...

Lane: Generally, to the laymen in the street, we're

always going to be Rod's back-up band. But to
anyone who takes a little more interest, the truth will
be obvious.

Incredibly, the music is even better live. 'Maggie

May', at least that evening, was one of the premiere
experiences of rock. It ranks with few others. Dylan,
the Stones on a rare evening, the Who. Perhaps
the Band when they're on, or the Beatles, if they got
back together.

They are into 'Losin' You' now. It is thundering just

as nicely as 'Maggie May', powering the kids into
crawling farther and farther onto the stage, pushing
more and more of them up there.
The strain is on Rod's face. When he takes a break
for a moment, turns his back to the audience and
gets a drink, you can see it. It is not a pretty sight. It
isn't surliness or anger just weariness and
tension.

Stewart's singing was predictably fantastic, but it

was the Faces who held you in awe. Even knowing
how good 'Maggie May' is, the live arrangement is
textured so perfectly, arranged so beautifully, the
interplay and dynamics of the situation not just the
music are so right, that it is hard to believe.

Rod: There's too much work... It's draining on the

brain all the time. Writing songs and getting them
together... I don't know, maybe I'm just lazy, but it
seems like too much work.

Here is a dimension of interplay between "star" and

band that is altogether rare. The music is precise
and skillful, but not tight or constricted.

There wasn't the pressure there before 'Maggie

May' or Every Picture that there is now. If they
actually want a record by a certain day, I suppose
they must have it. That's the drawback if I could
finish the album when I wanted to, it'd be all right.

Finally, what makes the show so exciting and

impressive is that the Faces, and perhaps Rod
most of all, really do understand what theater is.
The circus is malarkey next to this.
Stewart bounds across the stage with his Groucho
walk, leaning into the mike and crooning like some
obscene parody of Bing Crosby; Wood has all the
perfectly timed and intuitively choreographed
moves of the best British guitarists; Lane tromps
about like a drunken sailor. McLagan and Jones
don't do much, but they provide the backbeat that's
a necessity as backdrop for the theater.

'Losin' You' is the pseudo-last number, but though

it goes on for the best part of ten minutes there is
never any question about whether it ends there.
The band couldn't get out of here with their necks at
the moment.
"Is it the public?"

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Rod: No, they don't ask me when I'm gonna bring

an album out. They just presume. But it's affecting
me health. And there isn't any break, because
we've got to start working on the group's album
when this one's done.

If you boys don't stop throwing food RIGHT NOW,

I'm going to make all of you clean it up yourselves.
As this is said in the most matronly Southern
middleclass manner imaginable, it is doubly
hilarious. But the laughter is restrained if not a few
smirks in order to see what goes down next.

The encore is 'Stay with Me', and it's amazing. It is

easily the best number they do: Wood is astounding
on slide guitar, better than anyone currently playing
it. The song rocks (as a warning for afterward,
maybe) and then Rod kicks out the twenty footballs
(which are actually what we call beachballs, but
football's a different matter in Britain). Then it's over,
and the crowd disperses about an hour later, and
the band can jam past what's left into a pair of
limousines and get back to the hotel.

"Oh, we'll stop, right away, mum," assures Stewart,

sticking one of those bony fingered, enormous
hands in front of his face and tossing a bit of food
straight into the back of McLagan's head.
The next day, we all get together to talk, while the
Faces prepare to get on a plane to go even farther
south.

It's only eleven o'clock and the evening has just

begun.

The band is jovial, even the abnormally reticent Ken

Jones climbing up to the ledge near the ceiling to
shoot some photos. ("Ken," the rest of the band
claim, "doesn't know what city he's in until the day
after we get there. He doesn't like to travel.")

Back at the hotel, everyone comes downstairs for

food. It's not so much a meal as a drama.
In the corner, crunched in but removed from
everyone, sits Rod Stewart. He is looking even
more dour than usual. The rest of the band haven't
arrived yet.

Everyone shows up but Rod. We go through all the

motions, coming out with most of the material in
here and a little more.
Wood and Lane are working on a film score for a
movie being shot in Canada, Mahoney's Estate. It is
the first time the two of them have collaborated, and
they are working with not just Jones and McLagan
on the project but also with Ric Grech. "Yeah, he's
playing violin. And even drums!"

As they come in, the coffee shop of the Executive

grows more and more boisterous. Orders are taken
with the usual confusion of a forty-year-old waitress
trying to cope with the desires of a pack of twentyfive-year-old hippies. Dozens of cups of coffee are
ordered, bunches of sandwiches, and a pair of fruit
salads because they have whole strawberries. Rod
settles for bacon and eggs.

Central to the discussion is Stewart, who is

conspicuously absent.

The rest of the Faces are acting like the chipped

monkies they are, bounding in one and two at a
time, surrounded by "fans and groupies" if there is a
distinction. Each of them bounds to a seat, in two
back to back booths, and the siege of the Executive
Inn is on.

"It could've been a problem," says Ron Lane, "if it

had gotten to Rod's head. It doesn't affect us... we
all work together anyway. There are lots of people
askin' us, 'What about...' But it doesn't apply
somehow."
Still, it was Rod and the group's management who
had made such a big deal of the group being
included in all the Stewart stories.

Someone (maybe Jeff Franklin, the group's booking

agent, and the guy whose idea the Rock 'n' Roll
Circus originally was) begins to toss certain items of
their meal they aren't particularly interested in
eating, at the other members of the Faces'
entourage.

Maybe because of his involvement with Jeff Beck,

maybe just instinctively, Stewart knows he needs
this group.

The adjoining booth is obviously constrained to

respond. On and on it goes, with much shouting
and gleeful bellows of outrage from either side
when a particularly excellent hit is scored. It's
beginning to get a bit messy, when the proprietress
steps in:

He is not equipped for stardom. We talked for a

while a little later, but he seemed more depressed
and moody than any other time I've ever seen him.
As an afterthought, I asked about his marriage. "I'm
not."

635

How'd the rumors get started? "Probably because I

got engaged... Don't know why I did that."

I never did find out if the Liberals were going to get

any free concert funds. I guess you could say I
chickened out. "Wasn't my idea" said she, falling
laughingly down the stairs.

The rest of the band are sympathetic. Lane offers,

"He probably feels more responsibility if the show's
going wrong than, say, I would."

Bur enough of this side tracking. Let's start at the

beginning.....

Rod Stewart isn't really capable of doing that. It's

that sort of drive that has made him the biggest rock
star of the moment, but it's also the kind of thing
that is nipping him out.

Poisoning
Wednesday 12.30 p.m.: The temperature on the Air
Ministry roof is probably about 85 degrees. But here
and now I know it's really 140 in the shade of
Wardour Street and no little man running around
with a high powered thermometer is going to tell me
different.

He's doing the vocals for the next album in Paris as

I write this. He's probably not enjoying it much, at
least not when he stops to think about it. But he's
not thinking about it while he's doing it. Rod Stewart
is one of the most completely professional
entertainers I've ever met, and everything good and
bad about that phrase applies.

The fact that Rod ("I had food poisoning yesterday

could you put that in so they know that's why we
cancelled the recording session?") Stewart is about
to be faced is not an unpleasant thought. After all
there's a lot to talk about Lane leaving, Tetsu
joining, Tetsu being banned, the whole
Faces/Stewart situation and when I'm on my
deathbed reminiscing about my favourite interviews,
Stewart will be on the list. But all that considered I
am still not quite ready for the sight that awaits me
at the top of the stairs.

He stared out the window of the limousine.

"Well, would you prefer that it just were... over?"
A long pause. He sucked in his breath, and then
almost exploded. "My God no."
I couldn't bring myself to believe it.

Here he is... a familiar 'medicinal' brandy in paw...

decked out in the offending green chiffon. This
floats about two inches clear of his navel. Two
inches below he sports pale green silk trousers. I'm
afraid my fashion notes never get as far as his feet.
On these I cannot report. Instead I am transfixed by
a black and white tartan wool scarf draped round
his neck. It is held together by an Authentic Scotch
Brooch from the Scotch House, Knightsbridge,
S.W.1.

Dave Marsh, 1973

Rod Stewart: Swashbuckler Rod
Penny Valentine, Sounds, 25 August 1973
"Something's bound to happen soon. I've been
a golden boy for too long"
ROD STEWART and I have been talking about the
Liberal party and their chances in the next election.
Now he's standing one long green chiffon clad
arm raised against the office wall, blocking Billy
Gaff's path along the corridor:

At this point I would like you to remember that the

temperature is rising ten degrees a second. It is,
should it be needed, conclusive proof that Mr.
Stewart's fierce nationalistic pride is beginning to
reach masochistic proportions. Even his hair has
collapsed today under the strain and he spends
the first few minutes of tape recorder setting up/light
a cigarette/sit back take a deep breath time running
his fingers through it frantically trying to make it pop
up again.

"Look I've just had this idea", he says to his

manager. "Why don't we do a concert for the poor
bloody Liberals?"
Mr. Gaff is not amused. "Good grief the Liberals!".
He raises his eyes heavenwards. "Nonsense. Now
if it was Ted Heath...", his words linger on the air.
"Anyway Rod people are talking. You've been in
that same drag", jutting an accusing finger at the
green chiffon, "for three weeks now".

Optimistic
Aside from all this he is in good form already
having waded through one interview after driving up
at an outlandish hour of the morning from Windsor.
He is particularly pleased on noting that the office

636

has acquired a new secretary a Scottish lady no

less called Annie Green.

looking for someone I must admit the image did

count at first. There were a couple of guys that were
very good bass players, but they just ummm well
didn't look too good.

After we establish this fact and the longing to

manage the Scottish football side I remark that all
in all this year must have been the most difficult so
far for Mr. Stewart and the band. Well yes, he
admits, it's not been exactly easy. But then they've
overcome it so far, and he reckons they'll go on
doing just that. He is as optimistic as ever...even
with the Tetsu mess hanging over his head:

"It's funny... me and Woody used to go down and

have a quick peek at their faces. I must say the first
time I looked at Tetsu I didn't think he'd fit in at all.
But then he turned up with a bottle of scotch
trying to impress us all and drunk it immediately in
one go. Mind you Simon Kirke told me he's always
been a really bad drinker...!

"Never crossed our minds", he says picking up a

copy of a paper with a large headline about the
Faces not being able to play in England again
unless Tetsu goes. "I mean all this fuss. The guy
had been playing with Free for two years so
naturally we thought someone had already taken
care of the problem.

"The great thing about him is that aside from being

a bloody great bass player he's a front man as well.
See we never thought we'd find someone like that.
We thought me and Woody would have to do it all
once Ronnie left, but Tets has never laid back. He's
a real front man too and that's where we're really
lucky.

"You know I really didn't know we wouldn't be able

to play here anymore, that Reading would be our
last gig here, for certain until last night. And there's
nothing we can do about it. I mean we could get a
new bass player but there's no way we're going to
do that. It isn't fair on Tets, and anyway there's
nobody around as good as he is.

Adoration
"And it was done really nicely, I mean we didn't
steal him from Free or anything. You know the
relationship between us and Free we adore each
other. I think Paul is still one of the best singers
around and it was a real ego thing for me to have
Tets in the band. But it was done nicely. I mean we
said to Tets 'go and talk to them and if they're upset
in any way you must stay'. Because we love Free. I
mean I sat up all night with Kossoff on the American
tour before they broke up and said Free was the
best thing he was ever going to have. But there
sometimes the music doesn't count..."

"Last night, when I was thinking about the problem I

had this brainwave about maybe playing concerts in
Jersey and flying people out there or getting boats
to go out. Or we could play at Dunkirk and have
boats going backwards and forwards oh that'd be
great wouldn't it? Yachts, dinghies, canoes..."
Change

We move on to Woody and how last time I met him

we were discussing the need for the Faces to really
start tightening up on stage, for the looning to stop.
Had the period of Lane leaving given them time to
sit and re-think the Faces from here on in?

These kind of problems, I muse, as Mr. Stewart

almost does an aerial ballet out of his chair at the
thought of reenacting World War II, really seem to
suit his temperament well. He's a man who likes
change, challenge and a spirit of adventure. To be
bored would be his most ghastly nightmare.

"Did he agree with you I mean about tightening

up?" Yes Rod. "Good, bloody good on Ronnie
Wood. Yeah the band was getting a bit flat. We
were videoing every show at one time and looking
at ourselves and thinking 'whose going to be the
group idiot tonight? Whose going to go out of tune
and play really useless?' It was getting slack. I
mean that's no reflection on Ronnie Lane. It was
never down to him. It just meant that when he left
we had to think about everything and take stock of
the whole band situation. Woody was right about
that, it needed to be done. Which reminds..."

"When Ronnie Lane left we went out to get the best

bass player we could find", he says regaining his
composure. "I mean we couldn't replace Ronnie
Lane because you couldn't replace the character of
Ronnie Lane no matter how hard you tried. The
best player we could find just happened to be
Japanese and right now I wish he was a
Scotsman!"
And does he fit in aside from his musical
qualifications of which there is no doubt?
"Fit in?" another spasm. "He outdrinks and outdoes
any of us. He does everything to extremes. I mean I
know where to stop, but he doesn't. When we were

A quick leap to the door is followed by a cry of

"Shirley!". Shirley materialises from thin air. "Send a
telegram to Woody will you? And phone too. Tell

637

him I'm having an affair with Dennis Law," gleeful

chuckle "He'll understand".

Pathetic face starts to get worked on. "I'll have time

to go out...and meet people...which is what I've
GOT TO DO".

Rumours
This outpouring of sorrow naturally in the
circumstances and after the 'tut tut poor Rodney' bit
involves us in Rod Stewart, artist and man, and
exactly why this change has come about in his
attitude to his life, times and career.

Where is Woody, I enquire? "With Mick Jacket at

the Castle". Of course. With Mick Jacket at the
castle...my God...the castle! What about all those
nasty rumours then about Woody and Jacket and
the Stones around the time Lane quit? What about
that then?

Over to you Rod..

"I didn't think twice about it. It takes a lot more than
that to upset me".

"It's just....well I want to look after number one. I

reckon I've done my fair share for the band. I don't
mean the band's breaking up. I just mean I want to
think a bit more for myself. I don't think I could ask
for more as far as my status as an artist goes. It's
simply that well here's an example I was asked to
do a TV programme, one of those chat shows, and I
didn't do it because I didn't want to upset the band
by looking like The Leader Of The Group type of
thing. Well now I'm not going to worry. The band
understand. It's not detremental to them. It's just
that there's a different feeling now and we all want
to come out as PEOPLE as well as musicians.

Thrives on it all you see. All the dramas, all the

news scandal, all the rock and roll press
headliners...thrives on it. All grist to the mill,
adrenalin to the man who is still the finest rock
singer we've got. Anyway there has been a definite
change in him since last time. He admits it himself.
Time to get the band together well he's done that.
Time now to get himself together? Ah....
"I've always been worried about the band but I've
got to the point now where I think it's time to start
thinking about myself a bit more. I've got to be
careful what I say here", thoughtful silence then a
shrug "Oh sod it, why should I? I mean the worse
thing was in an interview where I slated the band's
album. Well I was just being honest. I mean I was
trying to say we're capable of making a better
album and that wasn't our best. But it caused
upset."

"Look there were three things I started out to do

when the band formed. One was to make the band
successful because rarely do you get a second
chance to be at the top and I didn't think the Faces
were going to get it in this country but they have. I
also wanted to make Woody a star and I think I've
done that as well. He could be bigger, but he's well
known in his own right now as a guitar player. And
the third thing was to sell my own albums, which
I've done. So you can see I'm fairly complete as far
as that goes which is why I can start thinking of
other things".

Tangents
"The thing is that from now on in we must combine
albums. The band are suffering and I'm suffering
with the situation at the moment. We've been
channelling too much talent in the wrong direction.
Everything's gone at bloody tangents. We've got to
channel all our energy in one direction to make
really good albums. Look, if you took the best off
Ohh La La and the best off Never A Dull Moment
it'd make a great album.

Complete?
"Not complacent. I never have been and I don't
think I ever will. I love change, I need it. I change
everything my old ladies, cars, everything. See it's
because I'm never happy with what I've got. I
always want something better. It's like I always want
the music to be better, and the records to be better.
You've got to be honest with yourself and I'm being
honest when I say I always need something more
all the time".

"Right now I don't feel either my albums or the

Faces albums are as good as they could be. So the
next album is the last I'm going to make on my own
(heart attacks round the record company!) and next
year we start making them together. Rod
Stewart/Faces albums that's what we're going to
see.

Good Lord, where will it all end. Is there no

satisfying the lad?
"Oh come on I'll grow out of it. Look I suppose
people think I've got everything I want. In a way I
have. But I'm not that bad, I never forget the people
that put me there. Sing It Again Rod is for those
people and that's why I took time to re-mix and
design the cover myself. Of course I'm still a

"I mean honest I'm just getting thinner and thinner, I

don't half work hard. End of one album start of
another...I don't have any social life or anything."

638

materialist at heart. I haven't set myself a life style

I've got to have for the rest of my life because I
realise things can go wrong. I mean something's
bound to happen pretty soon. I've been too lucky.
I've been a golden boy for too long. I mean I've
been pretty lucky for the past eight years", he hunts
round for a piece of wooden furniture and grasps
onto the edge of a table, almost as though he might
be wishing himself ill.

"Look, Ive just had this idea", he says to his

manager. "Why dont we do a concert for the poor
bloody Liberals?"
Mr. Gaff is not amused. "Good grief the
Liberals!". He raises his eyes heavenwards.
"Nonsense. Now if it was Ted Heath..."; his words
linger on the air. "Anyway, Rod, people are talking.
Youve been in that same drag," jutting an accusing
finger at the green chiffon, "for three weeks now".

"I mean I think I was lucky that all this started to

happen when I was 24. When I knew the time to
say 'hold on, steady yourself' instead of going out
and getting drunk every night. Umm well come to
think of it I have been doing that a lot lately, but then
I love periods of decadence", wild grin. "Self-indulgent but not self-destructive, that's me. I know
how far I can push my body.

I never did find out if the Liberals were going to get

any free concert funds. I guess you could say I
chickened out. "Wasnt my idea," said she, falling
laughingly down the stairs.
Bur enough of this side tracking. Lets start at the
beginning.....

"I think the business of self-destruction, living up to

an image and kicking the bucket I don't think
that's around so much in music mow. Has anyone
kicked the bucket recently? No, well I think probably
everyone's learnt their lesson and they're a bit more
wary than they used to be. I suppose I'm, well, selfdestructive to a point. I mean I'll do it for a month
and then I always know when I'm getting ill and I
stop.

*
WEDNESDAY, 12.30 P.M.: The temperature on the
Air Ministry roof is probably about 85 degrees. But
here and now I know its really 140 in the shade of
Wardour Street and no little man running around
with a high powered thermometer is going to tell me
different.

"Seriously I know when I'm ill because my barnet

collapses, my hair just goes. It's my warning. Then I
stop. I am sensible, aren't I sensible? It's definitely
when the image takes over that musicians get like
that. With me? Well what is my image? I mean the
working class here doesn't suit me anymore. I don't
think it ever did that was always more Noddy
Holder. My image? Mmm a swashbuckler that's
better. Like Oliver Reed now there's a bloke!"

The fact that Rod ("I had food poisoning yesterday

could you put that in so they know thats why we
cancelled the recording session?") Stewart is about
to be faced is not an unpleasant thought. After all
theres a lot to talk about Lane leaving, Tetsu
joining, Tetsu being banned, the whole
Faces/Stewart situation and when Im on my
deathbed reminiscing about my favourite interviews,
Stewart will be on the list. But all that considered I
am still not quite ready for the sight that awaits me
at the top of the stairs.

I stagger back out into the brilliance of Wardour

Street. I remember that just before we got onto the
Liberals Rod Stewart was telling me he danced with
Joe Bugner the other night. Damn, now that was
something I forgot to ask him to elaborate on.

Here he is... a familiar medicinal brandy in paw...

decked out in the offending green chiffon. This
floats about two inches clear of his navel. Two
inches below he sports pale green silk trousers. Im
afraid my fashion notes never get as far as his feet.
On these I cannot report. Instead, I am transfixed
by a black and white tartan wool scarf draped round
his neck. It is held together by an Authentic Scotch
Brooch from the Scotch House, Knightsbridge,
S.W.I.

Penny Valentine, 1973

Rod Stewart: Swashbuckler Rod
Penny Valentine, Sounds, 29 August 1973
Rod Stewart and I have been talking about the
Liberal party and their chances in the next election.
Now hes standing one long green chiffon clad
arm raised against the office wall, blocking Billy
Gaffs path along the corridor.

At this point I would like you to remember that the

temperature is rising ten degrees a second. It is,
should it be needed, conclusive proof that Mr.
Stewarts fierce nationalistic pride is beginning to
reach masochistic proportions. Even his hair has
collapsed today under the strain and he

639

spends the first few minutes of tape recorder setting

up/light a cigarette/sit back take a deep breath time
running his fingers through it frantically, trying to
make it pop up again.

"When Ronnie Lane left we went out to get the best

bass player we could find," he says, regaining his
composure. "I mean, we couldnt replace Ronnie
Lane because you couldnt replace the character of
Ronnie Lane no matter how hard you tried. The
best player we could find just happened to be
Japanese and right now I wish he was a
Scotsman!"

*
ASIDE FROM ALL THIS he is in good form
already having waded through one interview after
driving up at an outlandish hour of the morning from
Windsor. He is particularly pleased on noting that
the office has acquired a new secretary a
Scottish lady, no less, called Annie Green.

And does he fit in aside from his musical

qualifications, of which there is no doubt?
"Fit in?" Another spasm. "He outdrinks and outdoes
any of us. He does everything to extremes. I mean,
I know where to stop, but he doesnt. When we
were looking for someone I must admit the image
did count at first. There were a couple of guys that
were very good bass players, but they just ummm
well, didnt look too good.

After we establish this fact and the longing to

manage the Scottish football side I remark that
all in all this year must have been the most difficult
so far for Mr. Stewart and the band. Well yes, he
admits, its not been exactly easy. But then theyve
overcome it so far, and he reckons theyll go on
doing just that. He is as optimistic as ever... even
with the Tetsu mess hanging over his head:

"It is funny... me and Woody used to go down and

have a quick peek at their faces. I must say the first
time I looked at Tetsu I didnt think hed fit in at all.
But then he turned up with a bottle of scotch
trying to impress us all and drunk it immediately
in one go. Mind you, Simon Kirke told me hes
always been a really bad drinker ...!

"Never crossed our minds," he says, picking up a

copy of a paper with a large headline about the
Faces not being able to play in England again
unless Tetsu goes. "I mean, all this fuss. The guy
had been playing with Free for two years so
naturally we thought someone had already taken
care of the problem.

"The great thing about him is that aside from being

a bloody great bass player hes a front man as well.
See, we never thought wed find someone like that.
We thought me and Woody would have to do it all
once Ronnie left, but Tets has never laid back. Hes
a real front man too, and thats where were really
lucky.

"You know, I really didnt know we wouldnt be able

to play here anymore, that Reading would be our
last gig here, for certain until last night. And theres
nothing we can do about it. I mean we could get a
new bass player, but theres no way were going to
do that. It isnt fair on Tets, and anyway theres
nobody around as good as he is.

"And it was done really nicely, I mean we didnt

steal him from Free we adore each other. I think
Paul is still one of the best singers around and it
was a real ego thing for me to have Tets in the
band. But it was done nicely. I mean, we said to
Tets go and talk to them and if theyre upset in any
way you must stay. Because we love Free. I mean,
I sat up all night with Kossoff on the American tour
before they broke up and said Free was the best
thing he was ever going to have. But there
sometimes the music doesnt count..."

"Last night, when I was thinking about the problem I

had this brainwave about maybe playing concerts in
Jersey and flying people out there or getting boats
to go out. Or we could play at Dunkirk and have
boats going backwards and forwards oh thatd
be great wouldnt it? Yachts, dinghies, canoes..."

We move on to Woody and how last time I met him

we were discussing the need for the Faces to really
start tightening up on stage, for the looning to stop.
Had the period of Lane leaving given them time to
sit and re-think the Faces from here on in?

THESE KIND OF PROBLEMS, I muse, as Mr.

Stewart almost does an aerial ballet out of his chair
at the thought of re-enacting World War II, really
seem to suit his temperament well. Hes a man who
likes change, challenge and a spirit of adventure. To
be bored would be his most ghastly nightmare.

"Did he agree with you I mean about tightening

up?" Yes, Rod. "Good, bloody good on Ronnie
Wood. Yeah, the band was getting a bit flat. We
were videoing every show at one time and looking

640

at ourselves and thinking whos going to be the

group idiot tonight? Whos going to go out of tune
and play really useless?. It was getting slack. I
mean, thats no reflection on Ronnie Lane. It was
never down to him. It was just meant that when he
left we had to think about everything and take stock
of the whole band situation. Woody was right about
that, it needed to be done. Which reminds..."

"Right now I dont feel either my albums or the

Faces albums are as good as they could be. So the
next album is the last Im going to make on my own"
heart attacks round the record company! "and
next year we start making them together. Rod
Stewart/Faces albums thats what were going to
see.
"I mean, honest Im just getting thinner, I dont half
work hard. End of one album, start of another... I
dont have any social life or anything." Pathetic face
starts to get worked on. "Ill have time to go out...
and meet people... which is what Ive GOT TO DO".

A quick leap to the door is followed by a cry of

"Shirley!" Shirley materialises from thin air. "Send a
telegram to Woody, will you? And phone too. Tell
him Im having an affair with Dennis Law." Gleeful
chuckle. "Hell understand".

This outpouring of sorrow naturally in the

circumstances and after the tut tut poor Rodney bit
involves us in Rod Stewart, artist and man, and
exactly why this change has come about in his
attitude to his life, times and career.

*
WHERE IS WOODY, I ENQUIRE. "With Mick
Jacket at the Castle". Of course. With Mick Jacket
at the castle... my God... the castle! What about all
those nasty rumours then about Woody and Jacket
and the Stones around the time Lane quit? What
about that then?

Over to you, Rod.

"Its just... well, I want to look after number one. I
reckon Ive done my fair share for the band. I dont
mean the bands breaking up. I just mean I want to
think a bit more for myself. I dont think I could ask
for more as far as my status as an artist goes. Its
simply that, well, heres an example I was asked
to do a TV programme, one of those chat shows,
and I didnt do it because I didnt want to upset the
band by looking like The Leader Of The Group type
of thing. Well, now Im not going to worry. The band
understand. Its not detrimental to them. Its just that
theres a different feeling now and we all want to
come out as PEOPLE as well as musicians.

"I didnt think twice about it. It takes a lot more than
that to upset me".
Thrives on it all, you see. All the dramas, all the
news scandal, all the rock and roll press
headliners... thrives on it. All grist to the mill,
adrenalin to the man who is still the finest rock
singer weve got. Anyway, there has been a definite
change in him since last time. He admits it himself.
Time to get the band together well, hes done
that. Time now to get himself together? Ah...

"Look, there were three things I started out to do

when the band formed. One was to make the band
successful because rarely do you get a second
chance to be at the top and I didnt think the Faces
were going to get it in this country but they have.
I also wanted to make Woody a star and I think Ive
done that as well. He could be bigger, but hes well
known in his own right now as a guitar player. And
the third thing was to sell my own albums, which
Ive done. So you can see Im fairly complete as far
as that goes which is why I can start thinking of
other things."

"Ive always been worried about the band but Ive

got to the point now where I think its time to start
thinking about myself a bit more. Ive got to be
careful what I say here..." Thoughtful silence, then a
shrug "Oh sod it, why should I? I mean, the worst
thing was in an interview where I slated the bands
album. Well, I was just being honest. I mean I was
trying to say were capable of making a better
album and that wasnt our best. But it caused upset.
"The thing is that from now on in we must combine
albums. The band are suffering and Im suffering
with the situation at the moment. Weve been
channelling too much talent in the wrong direction.
Everythings gone at bloody tangents. Weve got to
channel all our energy in one direction to make
really good albums. Look, if you took the best off
Ooh La La and the best off Never A Dull Moment
itd make a great album.

Complete?
"Not complacent. I never have been and I dont
think I ever will. I love change, I need it. I change
everything my old ladies, cars, everything. See,
its because Im never happy with what Ive got. I
always want something better. Its like I always want
the music to be better, and the records to be better.
Youve got to be honest with yourself and Im being

641

honest when I say I always need something more

all the time."

The Faces: Kilburn State, London

Chris Salewicz, NME, 4 January 1975

Good Lord, where will it all end? Is there no

satisfying the lad?

"YES, MY PEOPLE, you make me strong," sighed

the Golden Catarrh with a de rigeur flexing of the
neck muscles as The Faces knocked into 'You Can
Make Me Dance'.

"Oh, come on Ill grow out of it. Look, I suppose

people think Ive got everything I want. In a way I
have. But Im not that bad, I never forget the people
that put me there. Sing It Again Rod is for those
people and thats why I took time to re-mix and
design the cover myself. Of course, Im still a
materialist at heart. I havent set myself a life style
Ive got to have for the rest of my life because I
realise things can go wrong. I mean, somethings
bound to happen pretty soon. Ive been too lucky.
Ive been a golden boy for too long. I mean, Ive
been pretty lucky for the past eight years..." He
hunts round for a piece of wooden furniture and
grasps onto the edge of a table, almost as though
he might be wishing himself ill.

And in that one sentence Rod Stewart pinpointed

everything that was wrong with their Kilburn gig.
There was once a time, you know, when I quite
joyously delighted in the knowledge that The Faces
had become the proverbial Greatest Rock n Roll
Band In The World: when I went three years ago to
the Queen Elizabeth hall more from some
obscure sense of duty than for any other reason
really to see them present what was probably the
freshest, most invigorating rock show that Ive ever
witnessed.

"I mean, I think I was lucky that all this started to

happen when I was 24. When I knew the time to
say hold on, steady yourself instead of going out
and getting drunk every night. Umm, well, come to
think of it I have been doing that a lot lately, but then
I love periods of decadence." Wild grin. "Selfdestructive, thats me. I know how far I can push my
body.

Encore after encore after encore of shambling,

white and red satin suited flash rock was poured out
and even when the music had run over time by
more than an hour the audience was still genuinely
requesting, demanding, no, knowing that Ian
MacLagan, Kenny Jones, Ron Woods, Rod Stewart
and Ronnie Lane wanted to give them more as Rod
passed freshly opened bottles of Blue Nun to the
audience and even my own cynical self opened my
mouth and joined in the celebration which 'Had Me
A Real Good Time' became.

"I think the business of self destruction, living up to

an image and kicking the bucket I dont think
thats around so much in music now. Has anyone
kicked the bucket recently? No, well I think probably
everyones learnt their lesson and theyre a bit more
wary than they used to be. I suppose Im, well, selfdestructive to a point. I mean, Ill do it for a month
and then I always know when Im getting ill and I
stop.

And it wasnt just that I was personally ready and

willing and open to accept anything that would lift
me out of the then omnipresent singer/songwriter
miasma.
Virtually everyone came across who saw The Faces
during that period was in accordance with the view
that they would be able to wipe the floor with...well,
even with the Stones themselves.

"Seriously, I know when Im ill because my barnet

collapses, my hair just goes. Its my warning. Then I
stop. I am sensible, arent I sensible? Its definitely
when the image takes over that musicians get like
that. With me? Well, what is my image? I mean, the
working class hero doesnt suit me anymore. I dont
think it ever did that was always more Noddy
Holder. My image? Mmm a swashbuckler, thats
better. Like Oliver Reed now theres a bloke!"

And Id heard good reports, you know. Id heard

very, very good reports about The Faces on their
just-ended tour.
So I sit in the front circle admittedly not perhaps
the best position to assimilate the "vibe" of the
Kilburn State on the first of the three nights the
"lads" are playing and tolerate a relatively exciting
though rather unenterprising set of brown ale rock
from Strider.

I stagger back out into the brilliance of Wardour

Street. I remember that just before we got onto the
Liberals, Rod Stewart was telling me he danced
with Joe Bugner the other night. Damn, now that
was something I forgot to ask him to elaborate on.

Who will probably Do It, as people say of these

matters.

Penny Valentine, 1973

642

Strider finished at 9.07.

"shuffling, chunky rhythms" have learnt how to

mesh together and become pounding rock.

After a more than suitably lengthy wait (you could

have been forgiven for beginning to wonder if
Rodders wasnt still ensconced in Windsor waiting
for Match Of The Day) comedian Bill Barclay failed
to offer any reason for the current favorable buzz in
which he appears to be basking and, with a rather
forced vigour, introduced "the best rock n roll band
in the world".

A little too much top, perhaps, but an erudite usage

of the treble control has always been one of The
Faces fortes.
And apart from the nasty lapse of the drum solo,
Jones playing is more than adequate with what I
believe is known as economical style steering the
rhythm whilst Tetsu provides the occasional bellygut bass run.

And at 10.10 after a quintet of pink satin bikinied

boozy young ladies have worked out a Tiller Girls
routine (thereby helping to perpetuate The Faces as
working class heroes schmear) and after a drag
queen strip (thereby hinting that androgony is
perhaps not dead) Rod and the other four Faces
strut triumphantly down the white terraced steps,
carefully avoiding the palm fronds in their tubs at
the sides, and down on to the white carpet which
covers the stage.

Then the black evening-suited eight-piece string

section appeared stage right as if to test out this
very obvious Faces musical ability, though Rod lets
the massed chorus and choir of Kilburn State take
care of most of the vocals on 'Bring It On Home',
the first number with the added members.
Theres the taped intro of the dog barking to 'Sweet
Little Rock n Roller', and then before 'Id Rather Go
Blind' Rod for a moment begins to appear a lot
closer to former basics as he falls over into the
orchestra pit, an occurrence which seems to
warrant a certain loosening of the chemise, and
therefore, much screaming.

Yes, quite an impressive entrance.

Rod in rose pink satin pyjamas, Woody in his best
all black peacock feathers outfit, and Tetsu
Gatsbyed a little pass, you may think in white
suit and fedora.

And after the string section has departed following

'Angel' we get 'Stay With Me' with an admirable and
lengthy display of finesse from Ron Wood and his
grey mirrored custom built Zemaitis.

Mac seems a little less conscious of onstage

necessities in his standard Sunday lunchtime at the
boozer sleeveless sweater and innocuous shirt and
pants, and Kenny Jones looking perhaps a tad
unhappy set up as the token Scottish symbol in
Royal Stewart tartan. Even his drum-kit is coated in
the stuff.

Suspended from the stage a giant electronic star

flashes various colours giving the stage set a close
approximation of the Blackpool illuminations.

And then its straight into 'Its All Over Now' and
then 'Take A Look At The Guy' from Woodys very
own album and then, surprisingly early, 'Losing
You', which highlights a spectacularly wooden and
pedestrian drum solo from Jones.

At 11.20 Roderick speaks to his "people". "Were

gonna be here for another hour, he tells them.
At 11.35 'Twistin The Night Away' finishes the set
and shortly after The Faces split from the stage the
house lights are up letting "the people" know that
theres just no way theyre going to get an encore.

Which is actually quite useful in terms of presenting

an opportunity to pick up on the initial musical
impressions.

The "people" dont look too concerned as they walk

away.

First, Stewarts voice is beginning to become

noticeably harder it could just have been down to
the end of a lengthy tour and has replaced the
purring, gravel sensuousness with a more brittle
and harsh crackle.

In fact, most of them look rather bored.

The problem would seem to be nothing much more
than a quite classic example of a band losing sight
of its audience; that as The Faces have become
more able to act out the role they initially seem to
have set up for themselves, the more distant from
their audience they have become.

Secondly, The Faces are playing with a quite

remarkably obvious sense of ability, as if all the old
clichs about Woodys "jingling guitar breaks"
MacLagans "Steinway pounding" and The Faces

643

Stewart, whose onstage poncing and preening was

once delivered with the immaculate non-finesse and
raw raunch timing of a wet fish slap in the face,
appears to have become far too self-conscious
about his role and now presents a studied essay in
the aesthetics of show-biz sophistication.

Stewart released Smiler, guitarist Ron Wood did a

solo album, and drummer Kenny Jones recorded a
Jackson Browne tune for a British single.
"There wasn't much to grasp onto then," Wood said
of the band's last American outing. "We'd spent a lot
of time going in different directions, getting further
away from where we wanted to go. By the end of
that U.S. tour we began to feel like we were
supposed to be having a good time without it
coming naturally. But it certainly came naturally on
this last British tour."

The melodramatic collapse on to his knees in front

of the tartan drum pedestal during 'Id Rather Go
Blind' was closer to schmaltz rock than I hope Ill
ever see again from him.
And, of course, there was the ambivalence of the
bands initial entry down the steps.

During a five-week workout in their homeland, the

Faces played with renewed vitality and a newly
acquired onstage professionalism. Kenny Jones,
Tetsu, Ian McLagan and Wood ceased being
Stewart's straightmen for the singer's more
flamboyant antics; sloppy, good time atmospheres
were replaced by tighter musicianship.

Even a year ago Id have reckoned they had in

mind a stroll down the terraces. Now? Well, it
seemed a lot closer to the arrogance of desired
heroes making their grand entry.
The musics fine. Nothing wrong with it at all. But
even so it was only Woody who displayed any
noticeable enthusiasm about actually playing.

"What sums it up best," Stewart observed in

between bites, "is that the band is much raunchier
now but also more professional. Some nights I sit
back, more or less sober, and think it can't be that
good. The whole band has improved. We used to
think we could kid everybody as long as we had a
bottle in our hands. We used to be horrible, have to
be blind drunk to walk onstage. But now the
confidence is there. Now we drink afterwards.
Suddenly we've all grown up."

Even though its been two years now, the spirit of

Ronnie Lane is still sorely missed.
It should perhaps also be borne in mind that the
most successful numbers both in terms of musical
content and in terms of audience reaction were
those with the string section.

"We finally hit into that fluid thing that started to take
shape in the beginning," Wood continued. "But
nobody knew what to do with it then. Now the
balance is there. In a funny way, I think my album
the fact that I actually went off and did something
pulled us together." Suddenly people were talking
about Ron Wood, and when Mick Taylor left the
Rolling Stones just before Christmas, Woody was
the number one candidate on the replacement list.

And those werent Faces songs.

Chris Salewicz, 1975

Raunchy Faces Back on Tour
Barbara Charone, Rolling Stone, 27 February
1975

"I suppose," Wood stated cautiously, "that I would

join the Stones in another time and another era. I'd
join because a lot of my roots and influences are in
that band. But it could never happen when I'm with
the Faces. The Stones know that, 'cause, ya know,"
he said, grinning sheepishly, "they dig the Faces
too. It's just a very tempting little carrot to be
dangled."

LONDON "We're playing as one now like our life

depended on it," Rod Stewart announced, looking
down eagerly at his game pie in a posh London
restaurant. "This American tour is a turning point for
the Faces. If we can get that same rapport going
with our audience that we had four years ago, then
I'll say weve accomplished something. Then I'll say
we've become one of those bands that's respected.
And," he paused, cutting into the thick, rich feast,
"there's not many of those."

Keen to see Wood get the recognition he's

deserved since the days when both men played
with Jeff Beck, Stewart has been singing the
guitarist's praises onstage and off. Stewart has
repeatedly declared that Woody is the Faces in the
same way that Keith Richard is said to be the
Rolling Stones.

The Faces are heading stateside for their first tour

since the fall of 1973, a trip that resulted in the
uninspired Coast to Coast album. Between visits

644

"Everyone always talks to me about Beck, but to me

Woody is the best," Stewart proclaimed, flashing a
cocky smile. "As for his choice of staying with us,
well, it's admirable. Two years ago I was terribly
worried about Woody leaving to join the Stones, so
this time around it's a bit of an anticlimax. Lane was
still with us the first time we heard Woody was
leaving. We played a horrible set that night and
afterwards I told Woody, 'Well at least you could've
told me.' "

Woody. "I'd love to see a good Faces album; it's just

we're all a bit scared to jump in. The single was a
good teaser because it came together quickly and I
don't see why the album can't do the same. We've
got a load of material.
"There's just a whole lot more group involvement
musically and lyrically. The single started off as four
separate riffs that Rod had to sew together. In the
past, when everyone was involved, things would get
confusing, which results in something like Ooh La
La. But the new way of doing things results in
something like the single."

And if the guitarist did leave?

"If Woody was to go, there'd be no point in me
carrying on. He's a pillar to lean on; we share each
other's tears. But ever since then there's been no
doubt in my mind that Woody is here for the
duration."

Just before they left for the States, the Faces

booked studio time. Nobody knows what came out
of the sessions, but chances for a group album are
strong. And though by summer there should be
another Stewart solo to confuse matters more, the
record label remains a mystery. The opinionated
lead singer insists on changing his mind with the
wind, refusing to box himself into a corner he can't
escape from. Rod Stewart thrives on contradictions.

Stewart himself still struggles with his twin roles:

solo star and group member. The qualitative
differences between group and solo albums have
created a complex situation for the Faces. Stewart
is the man in charge of solo ventures, while group
decisions are split five ways. Yet, painful years
spent as Beck's boy have made the singer sensitive
to group morale.

"I am allowed to change my mind, aren't I?"

concluded the singer defensively, finishing up the
last of the game pie. "There will be a Faces album
soon. No, no, say there won't be Faces album.
That's my statement for today. Tomorrow will be
different."

"I know how the lads feel," Rod reported in a burst

of humility, "so I play down my name. I've never
dictated, I've suggested.
"Elton John is lucky. He's the dictator; he can play
anything he likes. In our band, if the boys don't think
they should play a certain song I have to go along
with it. The problem with us, though, is the big
difference between playing onstage and in the
studio. That's been our downfall. We've still to
accomplish in the studio what we've done onstage."

Barbara Charone, 1975

U.S. Tour Ends, Faces Open Up
Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, 24 April 1975
LOS ANGELES "I hate San Bernardino, why are
you playing there?" Tatum O'Neal, the 11-year-old
from Paper Moon, chugged from a bottle of Blue
Nun and cast a jaded glance toward Rod Stewart.
The Face was doing her father, Ryan, a favor by
babysitting for the day and they were in a limousine
on their way to Berdoo. "I can't stand the smell,"
Tatum said in anticipation. "It's just the lowest."

"The band should be due for a live album this year

to rectify Coast to Coast," Wood added, wincing at
a distasteful memory. "The cassettes from the last
British tour are infinitely better than the live album.
Like, some of the things we do in hotel rooms have
got a lot more feel than when you finally record
them in the studio. In the studio you have to recreate that same feel you got on the night that
everyone and everything jelled."

Stewart chuckled politely and turned to stare out the

window. He can't complain, really. Touring in the
midst of a slow concert season without a new
album, the Faces are all too grateful for having sold
out every date on their five-week-long American
tour.

Progress has been made, however, in the form of a

new single, You Can Make Me Dance, Sing, or
Anything. Just released in America, the tune scored
heavily on the British charts. Rod calls the vocal his
Bobby Womack imitation; his guitar is an imitation
of Barry White's guitarist.

Their audiences saw a show almost identical to the

one the Faces did last time around, in 1973. "Of
course we played it safe," said Stewart. "It's pretty
obvious we had our heads on the chopping block,
isn't it? We nearly didn't do the tour, we were so

"The single is a good step toward how we're feeling

now and it's a good direction to pursue," said

645

worried over our standing." Then he brightened.

"But it all came out in the wash. It's definitely the
most important tour we've ever done and to come
out with flying colors has given the Faces a new
lease on life."

Souther and Eagles Glenn Frey and Don Henley for

new material.
"I'm very proud of my solo albums," said Stewart,
"but I still haven't pleased myself with them. I'm
going to take gambles with my next one. I want to
be an historical figure in rock & roll. I want to be like
Janis Joplin, one of the greats. I don't think I am yet.
I don't know what it takes. More touring, I guess."
He shrugged. "Perhaps I should die, perhaps I
should OD." The smiler is not smiling.

While Stewart admits the Faces got "extremely

lazy" in the two years since their last studio album
(Ooh La La), he forgets to say that the boys have
spent most of their dead time waiting for Rod to
settle his legal battle with Mercury Records (and
parent company, Phonogram). Stewart, after his
stint as lead singer with Jeff Beck and before joining
the Faces, signed a solo contract with Mercury for
$2000, the price of a car he'd seen and wanted.
When his Mercury contract began to run out,
manager Billy Gaff got him signed to Warners. The
Mercury deal, Gaff insists was a bad one, but
Stewart is overjoyed even with the prospect of
leaving Phonogram.

Stewart's solo LP will be followed by another Faces

album maybe. In L.A. the group booked several
nights at the Record Plant, but the sessions turned
into all-night jams with guest musicians. "They tell
me the sessions are closed," said an exasperated
receptionist at the studios, "and then they show up
three hours late, with Jagger, Billy Preston and
every other player in town. They can't be getting
anything done."

"They've almost ruined my career," he groaned

during a commercial flight to a Phoenix concert.
"Fucking hell, they delayed the Smiler album over
six months!" (Phonogram claims the LP was legally
held up in court proceedings over its ownership.)

Stewart sees a similar problem. "Faces sessions

are still the bloody same. We go in at odd hours
drunk out of our minds and piss away money.
Everybody should face up to the fact that we
haven't made good albums as a band. Everybody
knows."

"The album was supposed to be out in the

summer," said Stewart. "It was a light summer
album. As it was, it came out in October.

Everybody except guitarist Ronnie Wood, who

doesn't appreciate the dig. "That's where Rod slips
up with his interviews. He often exaggerates things
to make the point or have an impact. When he says
the Faces albums are shitty, he just means we
didn't accomplish what we set out to do to capture
the spirit of our live shows. We've yet to do that.
The nearest thing was 'Stay with Me'. Our problem
is that we have to develop a solid studio
personality."

"I don't care if you're Bob Dylan people have to

know you made an album." Stewart's words took a
bitter turn. "I don't trust any of those guys at record
companies," he said. "If you didn't sell records, they
wouldn't give you the time of day. I was pleased to
hear that some big record company people couldn't
get into our party last night. I loved it." He stopped
to reconsider. "Mustn't get bitchy now; after all, I'm
in love," he said, and began to croon, "Falling in
love again..."

Yet Stewart is undaunted. "I made a New Year's

resolution several years ago," he said, "to change
my mind about every two months. You can only
trust about 40% of what I say." So, great, he's not
going to OD. But what about a
Faces album? "Believe a new group album when
you see it."

A reference to his budding romance with actress

Britt Ekland?
"You bet," he nodded. Since his arrival in L.A. he
and the actress have been a couple at parties and
sessions. "Pretty good, huh?" he asked.
Stewart, in fact, plans to settle in America for the
time being and he has rented a house in Beverly
Hills to use while he prepares for his next solo
album, to begin recording in April with producer Tom
Dowd. "It'll be an L.A. album with L.A. musicians,"
he said. "The emphasis will be on material no one
in the world would expect me to do" for example,
songs from the Twenties and Thirties. Stewart has
asked such L.A.-based musicians as John David

Cameron Crowe, 1975

Rod Stewart: Rod Jumps Teams
Barbara Charone, Creem, November 1975
CAN HE CUT IT IN THE AMERICAN LEAGUE?

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"IS HE A MOVIE star?" the newspaper

photographer wondered out loud, pointing to an 8 X
10 glossy of Rod Stewart and Britt Eklund, casually
positioned behind a scenic garden landscape, arms
intertwined, eyes locked tightly together by adoring
glances. "Oh well," he sighed, packing up his
camera cases because Rod Stewart, the singer, did
not want his picture taken. "I don't usually do this
kind of work anyways."

audiences through a Maggie May sing along, back

on tour with the Faces.
"Britt is great," Rod enthused, humming a little love
song as his true flame prepared herself for public
exposure in the room next door. "She got me out of
England, got me out of a rut. At the moment I like
living out of a suitcase. Four countries in one day
we did last week! You get into a rut in England with
your house in the country, going to party after party.
It's got nothing to do with music. I never got bored
with all of that I just felt like, well it's not as if I'm
paid to do this. I mean there was a nine month
period last year where I was being a jetsetter, a
casanova. It was a time for a change. All that stuff I
was doing in England had nothing to do with my
profession, with being a singer."

It was easy to understand the photographer's

confusion, for these days Rod Stewart is a changed
man. Sitting in his Chicago hotel suite listening to a
test pressing of his new album Atlantic Crossing,
Rod seemed incredibly subdued. That cocky rock 'n
roll flamboyance was now replaced by an eerie
smugness. Outrageous conceits no longer
decorated his conversation while passionate
conviction no longer held up his bold statements.
The only time he raised his voice was to put the
Faces down.

At the moment, the happy couple have no

permanent home. Rod says he wouldn't mind living
in Paris. "They've got the best shopping in the
world." But America has definitely been good for his
musical personality, hence the Atlantic Crossing on
vinyl.

"You're talking to a new man now," Rod proudly

announced, apparently pleased with the changes.
"The world is a lot bigger than Great Britain and the
Faces. A lot bigger."

"In America you're surrounded by great musicians.

You've got music drummed into you twenty-four
hours a day and you need that. I can't have the Bay
City Rollers drummed into me," he complained of
the British teen scene. "I'd like to think of myself as
a pretty dedicated musician and I'd like to think of
myself as always wanting to move forward. You
should never be predictable," he suggests.
"Predictable people are boring."

Reasons behind this revelation were twofold.

Recording the album in America under the wings of
producer Tom Dowd, aided by Muscle Shoals
musicians, Stewart realized he no longer needed
the usual well known Faces he'd used on previous
solo albums.
"I thought it was going to be strange making the
album without Woody but it wasn't," Rod inhaled the
next sentence quickly. "I must have had blinkers on
these last five years. I must have been mad using
the same musicians over and over again. I should
have branched out a long time ago."

For the first time in their five year history, Rod no

longer raves about good time camaraderie between
him and the Faces. These days he talks seriously of
if the Faces stay together, complaining about the
albums he made with them. Perhaps part of Rod's
metamorphisis has something to do with Ron
Wood's recent show of strength with the Rolling
Stones. Despite the fact that Rod often sang
Woody's praises, he easily had the band under his
thumb.

"All the fun has come back into recording for me at

last. I've never liked going into the studio and now I
can't wait to go back. I'd always used the Faces on
my albums so for that reason I've wanted to keep
the band together. But now I know I can stand on
my own two feet. This is the first album made
entirely in America. Ya know I don't live in England
anymore." He grinned like a mischievous bad boy.

Yet Stewart's behavior had been curious throughout

the summer. He never once saw his long time
cohort perform with the band. "I'm not interested in
seeing the Stones," Rod yawned. "Bad Company
are my favorite rock band." Sticking close to Britt,
Rod maintained an unusually low profile. The days
when he used to brag, "Mick Jagger is a better
showman than me but I can sing the pants off 'im,"
seem to be a thing of the past.

Encouraged by both Britt and the all-consuming

98% tax in Britain, Rod fled his native country
opting for the life of a world traveler. Daily scandal
sheets back home ran large headlines that
proclaimed, "BRITT TAMES THE TARTAN
TERROR." And Rod did indeed seem captive. It
was hard to believe that in just a few weeks time,
Stewart would be strutting the stage, leading the

"Everyone's a little worried now with Woody being

with the Stones and me working completely and

647

utterly on my own," Stewart summarized, asserting

his independence. "I don't know if things will work
out with the Faces but I'm not worried about it."
There was something behind this blase posture that
suggested that he was. "I would've been worried
before I made this album, but not now. I've got a
new lease on me confidence now."

"There's no egos involved or money. I just want it to

sound better. I just want to have a band that's like
the Band, a musician's band. The ideal situation is
Dylan and the Band. They've got their own
identities. They don't often record together but they
do tour together which is the ideal set-up.

The Faces have always depended on good time

spontaneity onstage, acting out the part of enjoying
a night out with the boys. Yet that infectious
atmosphere now seems tainted with bitterness and
bad feeling amongst a band once known for its
congenial, alcoholic personality.

"If it doesn't work out in rehearsal then we just won't

tour," Rod announced with authority, seemingly
unconcerned with what anybody else thought. "If it
doesn't sound how I want it to sound that's it. I want
it to sound like something now, like the record I've
made. You've got to be a lot more disciplined.
We've got to tighten up.

"I'm getting tired of a five piece band anyways,"

Stewart complained. They recently added guitarist
Jesse Ed Davis for their tour. "We'll probably
augment. We've got a fifteen piece orchestra on
every gig. I couldn't bear to do it as a five piece,"
Rod says with an oddly passive conviction. "I was
getting tired doing the same old thing. You've got to
change.

"We always looked at touring like it was party time

which it should be but it's time we proved ourselves.
It's time we took the blinkers off." Whenever Rod
said "blinkers" I imagined Ken Russell-type Tommy
contraptions rendering one deaf, dumb, and blind. "I
can understand why Mac, Kenny, and Tets are still
wearing blinkers living in England, it's like being
closed off in a room."

"This is the first time I've ever thought about going

on the road without the Faces. I want to reproduce
a lot of the music I've done over the last five years.
And reproduce it accurately. If it takes me six
months of rehearsals it will be worth it. My goal in
life is to play 'Mandolin Wind' onstage and make it
sound like the record.

Stewart himself was beginning to feel

claustrophobic within the Faces organization,
confined to the group. Traffic have already broken
up while the Who are presently ironing out their
problems. The Faces could easily be the next in a
long line of deceased bands to severe the umbilical
chord and die.

"I mean the best tracks I've ever done are never
played live," he complained, never saying we but
always I. "I know I'm probably a bit negative but so I
should be. I really don't know what's going to
happen to us. And I don't know what shape Woody
will be in after the Stones tour. We're not the easiest
two bands to tour with. Fuck," Rod sighs in
frustration, "is he still alive? I really don't know."

Britt suddenly appeared from the room next door,

looking just as perfect as that 8 X 10 glossy. Rod
smiled affectionately. If the Faces broke up, he
would simply organize those Muscle Shoals
musicians, get the old MG's Steve Cropper, Al
Jackson and Duck Dunn back on the road. After
playing on his record, they want to play onstage.
"Besides," Rod says, "they drink as much as the
Faces anyways."

Reassured that Woody is still alive, Rod displayed

little sympathy or relief. This tartan terror has been
most decidedly tamed. For the hundredth time in his
career, Stewart once again insisted that he would
never again record with the Faces. This time he
seemed serious.

The sun was shining outside, so Rod and Britt

wanted to stroll, hand in hand, along the lakeshore
beach. Before the summer jaunt, Rod played Three
Time Loser on his hotel stereo, one of his favorite
self-penned tracks from the new album, a song
about venereal disease. He's quite proud of it. This
uptempo rocker blasted out of the speakers with
unfamiliar clarity, missing the unmistakable sloppy
raunch of Faces rockers and sounding sterile.

"I must be honest," Rod said, trying hard not to

contradict himself. "I've got no intentions of making
any more albums with the Faces. It's too much hard
work. Some of the best things I've ever done on
their albums have never seen the light of day I
mean 'Silicone Grown', that one I wrote about
silicone tits. I was really proud of that cause it's a
difficult subject to write about and it just got lost.

Like other rock 'n roll mainstays, the Faces' future

looks bleak. Hopefully they'll pull together, forget
jealousies and personal squabbles and return with
their old vengeance. If they don't, we're left only
with a piece of celluloid from the Faces' '74 romp
through Britain, a concert film featuring crony Keith

648

Richard on several rockers. Maybe that

photographer who mistakenly assumed Rod was a
movie star will eventually be proved right

to the disparity between his own well-focused

output and the unevenness that has always marred
the Faces' recordings. The album, Atlantic
Crossing, his first to be recorded completely in
America and the first to be made without any
assistance from the other Faces, is selling briskly in
America and phenomenally well in England, where
the Gavin Sutherland-written single from it, Sailing,
is perched at Number One. Rod, during a fourmonth separation from the rest of the group
preceding this tour, was quoted as saying the
experience of working with the pros at Muscle
Shoals had made him realize he had been wearing
blinders for years, and that he had never been
closer than he was right then to taking leave of the
band.

"I'll tell ya what," Rod Stewart, the singer,

volunteered, getting ready to stroll the beaches. "If
we do bust up there's gonna be no bloody farewell
tour. It'll end up in a punch up. We'll have the fight
televised," he laughs, genuinely amused, "and that
will be our farewell tour, kicking the shit out of each
other."
Barbara Charone, 1975
Rod Stewart Faces the American Dream
Tom Nolan, Rolling Stone, 6 November 1975

Adding to the logic of a Faces rift is the

unprecedented situation of their guitarist Ron Wood
("Woody" to one and all), who is also co-rhythmlead with Keith Richards for the Rolling Stones.
Surely, pundits insist, Woody (who also works at a
solo career of modest proportions) must sooner or
later make a choice and who could refuse the
chance to be a Stone? Then there is the factor of
Rod Stewart's new girlfriend, movie actress Britt
Ekland, the former wife of Peter Sellers and former
companion of Lou Adler. Gossips posit this
relationship isolates Rod still more from the rest of
the group.

BY SUNDOWN the 55,000 people packed into the

Los Angeles Angels' Anaheim Stadium for this
"sunshine festival" have stolidly endured six hours
of a rather warm day, karmically dubious hot dogs
and runny Cokes.
According to opener Mick Fleetwood, the erratic
sound system at the stadium began to function
properly only at the end of his group's set and was
capable, during Loggins and Messina's marathon
performance, of creating the illusion in a listener of
being simultaneously in two separate moments. Yet
few leave the stadium. The thousands wait, restless
but secure in the knowledge that sooner or later
they will be treated to Rod Stewart and the Faces.

Little details of the way this Faces tour is being

handled do nothing to discourage the thought that
Warners would welcome Rod's cutting his group
ties; the in-house tour itineraries, for instance, are
titled not "Faces" but "Rod Stewart."

The 500 or so guests milling in the backstage

visitors' area are not so convinced of that
eventuality, as bits of information quickly spread
among them: The truck bearing Faces instruments
and sound equipment from Barstow has broken
down. A helicopter has been hired to airlift the
guitars and amps. The helicopter will not arrive in
time. The necessary equipment is hastily rented
from Studio Instruments; but will Ron Wood deign to
play a rented guitar? The 15-piece string section in
attendance backstage is told it will not be needed
this evening. The Tower of Power horns will go on
as scheduled. But will the Faces?

William Gaff, manager of both Stewart and the

Faces claims that there is no truth to the rumors. In
explanation for the itineraries he says, "Rod
Stewart's name might have been promoted more for
this tour but that's because he has a new album. If
the Faces had a new album, we would have
promoted them more."
Rod and Woody, from the sanctuary of their
dressing trailer backstage at Anaheim (which is
being combed for signs of tension, for portents of
the Faces' fate) make faces for photographers
through a window; Ron kisses the glass. Rod
emerges a few moments later in full makeup,
blinking his blue eyelids and swigging Courvoisier.
He stands for more pictures, surrounded by
admirers. Tetsu wanders through the crowd,
nodding and grinning, a girl on each arm. An
airplane traces ROD STEWART and FACES in
white exhaust against a darkening sky and the
multitude on the other side of the barriers shrieks
when the final letter appears.

The stage seems perfectly set for some sort of

resolution symbolic at least of the rumors,
suppositions and expectations swirling about this
group since its inception and coming to a head in
recent weeks. Rod Stewart, who has maintained a
solo career throughout his tenure with the band,
has just released his first solo album for Warner
Bros., the Faces' record company, ending the duallabel arrangement that had seen his own LPs
released by Mercury and that had drawn attention

649

When boredom has reached bursting point,

suddenly the band is striding toward the stage and
everything falls into place. The visitors all are
caught up in the momentum. Those who were ready
to give up and leave are running for positions: All
sorts of precarious but plausible perches become
apparent and groupies and stars alike scramble for
a look at the show.

realized the extent of the band's effort to overcome

conditions, it does now. As Rod and Woody, Mac,
Kenny, Jesse and Tetsu jolt through their final
songs, it all comes together in a jagged but
coherent whole. The horns reappear for Twisting
the Night Away, the last official selection, a rousing
finale that has the stadium crowd and the band
reeling and rocking as one. The Faces have
somehow managed to make this potential disaster
work for them. It's been a strange performance by a
headlining band but its final moments are powerful
enough to carry us jogging into the parking lot,
hearts singing, heads holding the memory of our
last glimpse of the group: pushing their amps over
in disgust on their way offstage.

From the first, the sound is terribly muddy, with the

guitar nearly inaudible. Indeed, Woody hardly plays
his borrowed axe for the first tunes, seeming simply
to hold it. The group is full of flash: Woody, cocky
with cigarette and oversize sunglasses, wearing a
white Japanese hapi over a blue Turkish blouse;
Rod, peeling off silk to reveal his deeply tanned
torso, darker than his madeup face. But the sound
makes any kind of pacing impossible. The
microphones of this hastily assembled system
some of it loaned by Fleetwood Mac keep giving
out, in a systematic fashion that Rod chooses for
most of the concert to interpret as humorous. As
soon as the band achieves a comfortable groove,
his voice mike blows. Rod, laughing, runs to
another at the side of the stage. It too goes out
midchorus. Gamely he rushes to a third which is
good only for another few bars. The sequence
repeats itself mercilessly.

Albuquerque, New Mexico; Saturday afternoon; five

o'clock. Ron Wood, Rod Stewart and Ian McLagan
sit on the beds in Ron's room in the Hilton Inn,
picking on guitars and singing snatches of what Ian
(Mac) jokingly calls "authentic blues" like the old
Bob Dylan favorite, Baby Let Me Follow You Down.
"Yeah, those are the real chords," Rod says. Rod is
wearing a red suit and he hunches over the
acoustic he holds, a beautiful black Gibson. "These
are the folk chords." He strums Dylan's voicing.
They do Smokestack Lightning. Rod asks, "How
did you used to do this, Mac?" He plays a thumbbuster run and marvels, "Ooh real John Baldry
lick there!" Woody's mobile face mugs outrageously,
forming in rapid succession expressions of
incredulity, absorption, glee. "That note is included
in this chord," he tells Rod, showing how to
combine two versions of Smokestack. This does
not look like a band that is on the verge of breaking
up.

The worse it gets, the more Stewart works to keep

the audience occupied and involved, to get them to
create the experience the erratic electronics are
denying them. "Come on, we really need you now,"
he urges. He has them clapping in time and, for two
numbers, singing the words with him. Between
tunes he apologizes for the atrocious conditions. He
bemoans the absence of the string section. He says
how nice they wanted it to be and his distress is
unfeigned. "How about Loggins and Messina,
weren't they great?" he asks, cuing applause and
covering a lull during which technicians strain to
patch up what can't be; and, "Let's hear it for the
Tower of Power horns!"

Mac leaves first, with a joke: "Love your hotel room

especially the dcor!" Rod departs a moment
later. The room is a comfortable mess, cluttered
with antique Fifties Fender practice amps,
equipment cases stamped RON WOOD/IF YOU
GIVE HIM A CHANCE, guitars, clothes and
assorted debris. The litter makes it practically
habitable. Woody phones down for tea. He's
dressed in a kind of tie-dyed shirt, tan leather pants,
matching tan ankle-top lace-up zipper boots, thin
bone bracelets and discreet tooth necklaces. He
admits to one night's sleep in every three, although
he caught up on rest a few days ago in Hawaii. For
three months he has played with the Stones, for six
years he has played with the Faces, and as far as
Ron Wood is concerned, he'll continue to play for
both groups as long as they both want him.

Rod begins to be more at ease. He sits down to rest

at two points, once during Kenny Jones's drum
solo. Now, reenergized, he dances forward in
locomotive fashion, hands pumping in front of him
like pistons; the audience roars. He turns a sitting
somersault. He pulls Woody over to him and they
make semihumping gestures at one another.
But the equipment, temporarily acquiescent,
crankily reasserts itself and at last Rod gives in to
his frustration. When the mike he is shouting into
goes dead, he picks it up by the stand, lifts it above
his head and hammers the stage with it, seven,
eight, nine, ten times. A decidedly non-Faces
moment, but cathartic. If the crowd has not yet

"They do talk to me about it, yeah," Woody says.

"Keith does. He'll say, 'Ball's in your court. Can't go
on with both groups forever you know.' With Mac,

650

it's like, 'Do what you want. But what we gonna do

when...' Making me think ahead, so if I was thinking
of leaving I'd be forced to say, 'Oh I won't be around
then.'

"I don't think this band will ever break up, not unless
everyone wants it to."
Does he feel their record company is pushing Rod
to be a solo artist? "We've always felt that, yeah.
Even Mercury, when they had him he was the
only thing, for them. Warners is doin' the same. We
just deal with it as if it isn't there. There's six guys,
you know. It really is on a cooperative basis. Once
we're all together.

"The thing is, both groups know I'm not leading 'em
on a merry journey. I'm just trying to fit in both
categories, as long as it remains comfortable. If it
ever gets uncomfortable in either one, I'll get out.
The Faces know that I'm with 'em, you know? And
the Stones know I'm always there when I've got that
time off. The Faces part, that's sort of taken for
granted. I've always thought of meself as a member
of the Faces for the duration.

"But Rod does allow it to go on, doesn't he?"

Woody muses, as if thinking of it for the first time. "I
mean, Mick could have that with the Stones, if he
wanted, but he doesn't allow it. Still, they're different
people, with different views."

"I don't want to make the choice, particularly. It's

just something that's brought up a lot, by people in
between, especially. It's only the people who talk
about it who make me think of it. Otherwise I
wouldn't.

But what of those trappings of the solo star, the

things Rod allows to go on?
"Well that's all part of the....It's a morale boost, isn't
it? If you're successful on your own, so to speak...If
my records skyrocketed to Number One I suppose
I'd feel the need to keep that up. Maintain my sales.
That's purely a harmless ego thing. And, you know,
an incredible amount of bread! The most of his
income must come from his solo efforts."

"I have to...defend the Faces, sort of thing, because

I could very easily say, ah well, fuck that, I'll just run
off with the Faces Stones rather, I mean. Getting
the groups muddled up now. But I feel a loyalty to
the Faces that's very strong. Mac and Kenny. Tetsu.
And now Jesse..."

Ron also has a solo career. Two Ron Wood albums

have been released, featuring fellow Faces and
Stones as well as well-known players from both
continents. Critics have been enthusiastic, while
sales have been less than phenomenal. How
important is that part of his work to Woody?

The telephone rings, with a request for penicillin.

"What's that 'Someone sucked my knob last
night'? Sounds like an Elton John song! Well, I don't
know. Try the manager." The tea arrives and Woody
clears a place for it on the cluttered bureau.
Someone else knocks at the door with a tin of
bourbon-flavored tobacco. Woody has taken to
smoking a pipe in an effort to cut down on
cigarettes. He has eliminated another vice as well,
he says, putting a finger to his nose and snorting
significantly. "Had to. You know? Can't carry on like
that for long. I mean, I really tore me ass out!" After
closing the door, he stretches out on one of the
beds, cup in hand.

"I'd just like it to be an outlet for me. When I get a

stack of songs that I want to express in my own
way, it's nice to be able to do it. And though I don't
want 'em to be soaring up the charts, I also don't
want 'em to skyrocket to obscurity. I gave more
thought to the vocals on this last one.
"I was just a bit annoyed at first because they didn't
seem to be being distributed properly. I feel like
Warners is trying to clamp down on me, same as
they're trying to promote Rod. Dunno why."

What about the rumors, then? Is the band breaking

up? What about Rod's quoted remarks?
"The tour is going well. It's picking up excitement.
By the end we should exceed the last one, which
was the best one. We've got a new permanent
member as well, in Jesse Ed Davis. Everything
augurs well for the future.

Yet the concern he betrays is fleeting. Touring with

the Stones (with whom he gained weight) and the
Faces (with whom he's lost it) would seem to leave
little time for fretting over such details.

"As far as what Rod said...about enjoying so much

working with the band he had on his album...that
needn't be a putdown. All he meant was, he didn't
realize he'd have so much fun with another bunch
of musicians as he does with us. That's all that
meant. And the other things....Maybe he said them
during a particularly depressed time in his life.

"Why do I do it to death?" muses Ron, whose name

draws the nearly unanimous response, "Oh, Woody
Woody's great." "Yeah, it's rock 'n' roll, combined
with...escapism. Escapism from what, I don't know.
If I have three days off I usually get really bored. I
like to fill up my time to the full." While touring he
works sporadically with Rod on a book of drawings

651

and poems they've made on the road over the past

six years. "Long as you get a bit of time off, for your
family.

Some people can get away with not doing that.

Obviously, Dylan it's in him. I have to keep in
touch. Whether it's just to boost my ego, to let me
know it's still there, I don't know. But I need to do it.
I enjoy it, anyway. I'm basically a showoff."

"I'm a great believer in fate. I just trust fate. I plan

my initial move do a tour, finish an album but it's
not very often I'll get into, say, planning an album's
release with a tour. No, I've got me own way of
thinking."

When the students leave, Britt is discussing

tomorrow's travel arrangements with Toon. She
wants her ten-year-old daughter, Victoria (Peter
Sellers's child), to be allowed on the private jet.
"The one time, Tony, the one time in her whole
entire little life that I take her on a little gig, she's got
to fly the Lear. Don't you think it's fair? And
besides...Her father will only take her on TWA."

Before getting ready for the gig, he shows his visitor

a volume entitled A Solution for Any Problem. It
opens to reveal not a book but a box filled with
pipes, papers and pens. On the inside cover is
inscribed a message which Woody reads aloud:
"'Let be with me until the end, a book, a bottle and a
friend'."

Someone laughs audibly and Rod mimics him,

unamused. "Let's go," he says, and as everyone
prepares to get out, he adds of Sellers: "He'll be
dead before the end of this tour, anyway." Everyone
laughs at that, including Britt. Rod says, "You see?
Don't mess with the Kid."

At midnight, Rod and Britt sit in a corner booth of

the Hilton's all-night coffee shop, eating Mexican
suppers and consuming two bottles of red wine with
Rod's publicist, Tony Toon. The Albuquerque
concert, at modest-sized Johnson's Gym (capacity
7400), has gone well perhaps the second- or
third-best date of the tour so far, Rod says. Rod is
in a good mood, thoughtful and open. Tonight he is
talking about Paul Nelson.

Britt and Rod's own interaction seems to involve

much petty sniping and elaborate making up.
"What's that?" he will ask in dismay as she applies
ointment to her mouth. "It's a cream," she counters
nastily. "My lips hurt." They are like fans at a
concert who treat the show as an elaborate setting
for their own personal fantasies and intrigues.

Nelson is a critic whose Sixties folk publication, The

Little Sandy Review, numbered Stewart among its
ardent readership.

A prolonged low-toned discussion takes place in

public view outside the hotel lounge; it ends with his
leading her off, her neck in the crook of his arm. A
noisy, giggly scuffle ensues around the hotel pool.
"Don't you dare I'm wearing my watch!" They go
through the archetypically familiar motions, making
them believable to anyone chancing by and making
them believable to themselves.

Rod has fond memories of Nelson. He says now, "I

admire Paul Nelson more than anyone. He's always
been the one who's best understood what I've been
trying to accomplish. He still does look at the
review he just did of my album in ROLLING
STONE. Yeah, I really love Paul. Let's all drink to
Paul Nelson tonight," he says, raising his wine
glass, and everyone at the table follows suit.

Rod and Britt descend to the Cabaret Lounge, a

lavender-lit cavern nearly empty of customers,
where a tuxedoed house band is playing Love
Train. They sit down at the deserted bar and order
a glass of white wine and a beer, in their mink and
satin, in the ghoulish light. A teenaged girl runs up
to him, runs her hands over his clothes. "Is it really
you, are you really Rod Stewart? God, you're so
beautiful!" She tells of missing his concert the
tickets she'd bought blew out the window of her
girlfriend's car.

Word of Rod's presence in the coffee shop has

attracted a group of fans, students from the
university who have attended the concert. They
cluster around the corner booth, asking questions,
basking. Rod treats them with good-natured
generosity. The music enthusiasts get a bit of chat
about players, songs, recordings. The flirts are
handled gently. The overly eager he pleasantly
deflects.

"Ah, yeah," he says, narrowing his eyes and

peering with a smile into the past. "How many times
I've missed soccer matches that way...." Whether or
not that's true needn't matter. It might be true. He
can imagine it. He can mingle his reality with
someone else's.

To see him interacting like this is to approach some

core of his talent as a performer: his ability, as writer
Bud Scoppa says, "to be Mae West and then be
Everyman. To pull off the paradox of being a
superstar who can still do 'Only a Hobo'." He needs
this contact. Later he says of it, "You gotta keep in
touch with the people you're making records for.

652

The girl leaves as Rod writes her a personal

message on a cocktail napkin. She returns with her
mother. "Mom, this is him, he's the one I'm always
talking about. Oh, you're so neat! You're the neatest
thing ever to come to this town."

wanted her to...just catch these two shows." It's an

odd thing Rod seems to be saying, for Britt has
been traveling almost constantly with the Faces
throughout this tour, missing by her own count only
three dates.

"Oh, Ah dunno," Rod mumbles, loving every

second. "Sliced bread...."

Rod and Britt live together in Los Angeles's Holmby

Hills, where Rod moved to avoid England's
personal income taxes, which can escalate to a
staggering 98%. The tax subject is one Rod is
eager to discuss. "You know, they don't seem to
understand. You only get one bite of the apple. I
can't be doing this for the rest of me life. I don't
want to do it for the rest of me life. You do an
apprenticeship for seven or eight years, like I've
done well, like everyone's done an' then you
earn a lot of money in one year and they want to
take 90% away. I mean, I'd stay. Just leave me a
little bit; just enough to get by on. But 98% Christ!

She leaves for good, replaced immediately by a

hearty guy who gives credentials of having partied
for two weeks with the Stones during their recent
American swing. "That Woody, he must be made
outa steel, he was up all night every night, him and
Keith both."
"They try and outdo each other."
"Well, Woody's about the greatest guy I've ever
met. So down to earth...Say, you know, Rod, 'I
wanna get lost in your rock & roll' you really did it
to me with that one, Rod."

"Inflation there is 35% now. The unemployment

figures are enormous. That's why I'm so proud that
I've sold...I think it's a quarter of a million albums in
three weeks. That's ridiculous for England. The
average sales for an album there is about 7000.
And 'Sailing' has been Number One for three, four
weeks now. It's done half a million copies. The last
time I sold that many singles was with 'Maggie'.
'Sailing' is like the national anthem over there. It's
the Number One single in Holland, in
Sweden....And they're gonna put it out here. I don't
think it's an American single, though. I think 'Three
Time Loser' should be the single. Of course I'd love
to be proved wrong....

"Mentor Williams he's the boy who did the lyrics,

and the lyrics are all of that song."
"Hey Rod, that 'Three Time Loser' You really
singin' 'jackin' off to Playboy'?" He had read this in
the ROLLING STONE review. Rod laughs. "Paul
Nelson didn't miss that one, did he?"
The man lingers for a brief discussion of Sam
Cooke's breathing technique ("You know as much
about it as I do, mate," says Rod) and then begins
to edge away. "Real nice talkin' to you, Rod." He is
preparing a parting remark. "You know, Rod "
Britt, staring straight ahead, knows what's coming.
"I tell you what, you couldn't get a better lookin'
woman."

"You've never seen one of our concerts in England,

have you? I want so badly to play there. It takes on
a completely different light there. It's absolute
bedlam. Very emotional crowds we play to.
Incredible. They know every word of every song.
When we do 'Angel' or something like that, they
sing it all the way through. I don't sing it. We let
them sing it. Woody just strums along. If I was to
stop them from singing, I'm sure they'd want their
money back." He mentions his huge hit record
again. "I just want to get back there and sing
'Sailing.' Let them sing it for us, you know?"

"Oh," Rod says softly, watching her face as the

fellow trots away, "Ah dunno...."
"Where did you and Britt meet?"
Rod is sitting in the back of a small Lear jet flying
between Albuquerque and Tucson. He glances at
where Britt sits a few feet away, near Victoria, and
lowers his voice. "Well. Coupla times. In London.
Coupla functions, just to say hello to. Then she
came to the Forum, last time we played L.A., last
March. Did you go? And I took her to the all-night
laundry. We watched her bra go 'round in the
machine." He laughs at his joke; then, with a
serious face, says in even softer tones: "Good
person. Knows music very well. She's only been
with us for a coupla gigs. She's going back
tomorrow. She won't get a chance to see us
anymore, unless we do the Forum. That's why I

Though Woody and Rod are the only ones faced

with the tax dilemma, Stewart thinks the entire band
should move to America. "I'd like to keep us all
together in L.A. The band's so good now. It's gettin'
better every night. You know, we're a lot better
together than we ever would be apart.
"It dawned on me last night," Rod says, "how good
everybody else in the group is. I can't think of a
drummer who can put as much strength into a solo
as what Kenny does; he's like Buddy Rich....And

653

Mac, Mac's an incredible pianist....Tetsu I mean,

Tetsu, some nights, I stand there in awe of him....So
I'll tell you what. I'll change me mind from what I
said a few nights ago. I'll be as bold as to say that
even if Woody does leave and he should make up
his mind sooner or later, though I think genuinely he
does want to tour with both bands even if he did
join them, I think I would stay with the band. Find
somebody else. Even if Woody does go. I'd miss
him. Christ. But I've realized how good the others
are...."

I've never...never heard that one yet." He laughs.

"You're the first. I don't know a thing about it."
Jones, diminutive and soft-spoken, has been with
the Faces some six years, since their earlier
configuration as the Small Faces, that swell little
group whose records he remembers with justifiable
pride. His self-esteem seems important to Kenny
and he takes his job seriously. Onstage he is ever
alert, attentive to the moves of every member of the
band: ready to accent some gesture of Rod's,
watching for one of Woody's telepathic signals to
extend a solo. The addition of Jesse Ed Davis on
rhythm guitar has altered that interplay, eliminating
the holes that formerly existed for Kenny (and
everyone else) to fill and, for the time being, making
the equilibrium of the set less flexible.

What of his own career, then, and the pressure to

become a soloist, sans Faces isn't that what
Warners wants?
"Yeah. Oh yeah. I think that's what they want. Well
they won't get it. As long as the band's there, I'll be
there....

"I don't give a shit where it is, as long as we do it.

"I mean, I'd be willing to have a go at a Faces
album. If I get another solo album done in
December and if we go to Australia and Japan...I
think we should record there. Australia. There's one
incredible studio in Sydney. If we did it nice an'
quiet, an' thought about it. I just don't want anyone
to be waitin' for it, so they can knock it, which is
what's always happened.

"The breakup talk," Jones offers, "is because Rod

said it in the paper. It was Rod's creation. Rod's
baby, that was. Rod says a lot of things. I mean, in
the national newspapers....I did an article myself,
actually, to be fair....In one paper he said, 'If the
Faces are gonna split up, it'll be now or never,
'cause this is the closest we've ever been to it.' But
he tells some other newspaper, 'I'll never leave the
Faces, they're a great band.' Came out the same
fuckin' day and everything.

"Well, I've got to get one more album out on my

own, soon as I can. I owe it to Warner Bros. I just
do. There's been so much fuckin' about over the
last year...I just want to keep them happy. They've
done a good job for me. I think so. I've got no
complaints against them whatsoever. I mean, I've
never really had a record company behind me.

"He just likes to confuse the press," Kenny says,

with some confusion of his own. "I think he does it
harmlessly...jokingly, not realizing that the other side
of the fence takes it seriously....I suppose it keeps
the interest going or something. I don't know. Who
knows?"

"As for the Faces...I think now we've had enough

time to think about it, to look back at what we've
done, we could create something really good. But
someone's got to take the helm....

The next scheduled Faces album, Kenny says, is a

"best of" package. It will include, for those who
missed it twice as a single, You Can Make Me
Dance, Sing or Anything.

"I'd give anything to produce it. Or even get Tom

Dowd or somebody in to produce it for us. I'd do it if
I was asked. I really would, and I think I could get
an album done in a month. But I gotta be asked.
Yeah. Like I said...it's not a dictatorship. I can't tell
them what to do. They all live their own lives. I'm
willing to try."

"The one thing I've really neglected the past three

months," Britt Ekland says, "is my own career." She
sits on a metal folding chair in the locker room of
Tucson's University of Arizona Stadium. In another
chamber, a lavatory away, the band is tuning for the
concert. Daughter Victoria is being interviewed
across the room by a college journalist who has
happily accepted her in lieu of a Face. At his feet is
Britt's camera case, covered with the backstage
passes she collects as souvenirs of her travels with
Rod; they have been together, she estimates,
nearly every hour of the past six and one-half
months. (Of her new hobby, Woody has said a bit
cattily, "We were all surprised to find out that Britt
was a photographer now. But...she can take

A formal invitation is necessary, then? Short of that,

would he himself consider making the proposal?
"Well...." He turns again to the security of the
window. "It's far from the time to do it now. I mean,
I'd love to do it in Sydney. When we get to
Australia...."
"Recording in Australia?" Drummer Kenny Jones's
eyes grow large. "He says things all the time, but

654

photographs, so...once again...nothing wrong with

that!") While still allotting time to Victoria and twoyear-old Nikolai ("That's, uh...Lou"), she has
devoted the rest of her energy during that period to
Stewart.

do it yourself." Those who have seen Britt

demanding small things be done for her a glass of
wine to be poured and brought, say, from a bottle a
few yards away may not hold the same image of
her as she does. She was heard to explain why she
couldn't fetch her own wine: "Because I'm a lady."

"It's really worth it. I wouldn't do it if it weren't. I

mean, I know how important I am. I am my own
product. I have two children and I have a career.
But he's, he's really worth it, he's...a unique person.
I don't think I would say that just because I love him.
If you stand out there every night and watch him
work....He just knocks me out. I think he's
incredible. Even when they're down and they can't
get anything going and they just go through it, he's
still good. He's very consistent. Very consistent
person. Very dedicated. He'll sit in that hotel room
before a gig, sour faced, thinking what a creepy
hole he's in; but once he's out there, it's the most
important thing in his life. I admire that."

Part of the appeal of traveling with Rod, though, is

in discarding some aspects of her familiar role. "I,
like...well, like, I do his makeup. I take care of
things. I like to see that he goes on looking his very
best and I worry when I'm not there. In Denver,
when I didn't go along, they had me on the phone
ten times before the gig, asking, 'How do you put
the mascara so you get it so?' They had the
makeup ladies from the hotel to do it but they didn't
know how. It's...kind of nice. Makes you
feel...needed." She giggles self-consciously. "I enjoy
that. I enjoy being this...person who belongs to
another person and not a...movie star. I can
just....be someone else. It's really nice...

Rod walks through the room in his preshow white

terrycloth robe, stopping to ask Britt, "You lying?"

"When we met, it was suggested that it was a

publicity stunt. I was very shocked. My God, how
could anyone think that? I mean, not from my side.
Whenever you see a picture of us in print, it's either
'lovely Britt Ekland and ex-gravedigger Rod
Stewart,' or...the other way around. I don't think
much about it. When we appear in public, that's
okay; but when we don't, I like us to be private.

"No, I never lie," she says, reaching out to touch

him. "What you got in your pocket?"
"It's a phone number," he answers, rolling his eyes
significantly.
"Oh, yeah?"

"We have had offers it's the obvious thing, isn't it

for us to do films together. Yeah, he's...he's...you
just know he could, I mean, he's really talented."
She clucks her tongue. "I'm so pro him it's ridiculous
but...If you know him, you have to be. He could do
it, but I think it would be a mistake right now. I think
he should stay out of the movie industry, he should
stay out of the talk-show circuit, he should just
really be what he is. Doing the records he wants to
and doing this. He should have a little mystery
about him. He shouldn't be that accessible to the
Beverly Hills circuit, like a lot of rock stars are today.
You know which ones I mean. I don't think that's
good.

"It's Paul Nelson's."

He shucks his robe in the next room and returns to
pose for local photographers in his stage suit.
Enjoying himself, he blows the whistle he wears
around his neck and waves at Britt. "Hi, cutie!" she
calls. "Look at you! Yards and yards of silk."
A moment later, she is saying of him, "He's very
spoiled. He really is. Like a spoiled kid. 'Cause
everybody loves him. They really do, let's face it.
He's like my son. My son, he's so pretty and cuddly
he'll throw his arms around you, he loves
everybody. It's easy to love somebody like that. Oh,
sometimes he's a bit moody, but very little. But he is
very demanding."

"I suppose we are a fairly interesting couple. I

guess we are, or people wouldn't want to write
about us or photograph us. That's okay. I don't
mind. I think my life is really exciting. As long as...as
long as you don't have to work hard for it, or...give
up anything that you really want to do. It is
necessary. It is part of the job one's doing. It is
important that people should know about you.
Obviously they think that your life is a little more
exciting than theirs, otherwise they wouldn't want to
read about you. And if it isn't you should make it a
little more exciting."

And you?
"I don't think you can be, once you have children. I
am when I'm working, I'm very egotistical; but no,
I'm not spoiled, I don't think. There's no time for it. If
I want something done, I'd better do it myself.
Rather than asking other people to do it, and asking
them, and asking them again. It's usually quicker to

655

In the rehearsal room, the Faces are having their

nightly preconcert jam. Kenny beats time with
aluminum sticks on a rubber practice pad fitted over
his snare. Mac plays a portable keyboard. They do
Tracks of My Tears, with Rod standing next to the
guitars, head thrown back, bent like a convex pole,
legs moving in a standing puppy trot. Motown gives
way to Muddy Waters, then a Chuck Berry riff
asserts itself. Woody takes the opportunity to run
over some tricky fingering with Jesse, who is still
learning subtleties in the arrangements. Charlie, the
road manager, keeps popping into the little room,
blowing a whistle and shouting, "Come on let's go!"
to little effect. Rod and his whistle duet with him. It's
taking Charlie longer each night to get them out of
the dressing room. The band is having too much
fun now, and besides, as Woody yells into Charlie's
ear, this is an important rehearsal. But the moment
inevitably comes and then the Faces troop in
darkness to the stage, where they're greeted by the
blare of David Rose's The Stripper.

Stewart and Ron Wood, were refugees from The

Jeff Beck Group with only moderate profiles in their
homeland. Signed to Warner Bros for 30,000, the
Faces were faced with a further obstacle in
Stewart's solo deal with Mercury in New York, who
wanted two albums a year from him. And so a tricky
balancing act began.
America was massively significant. When their
patchy debut album, First Step, flopped at home,
the Faces crossed the Atlantic in 1970 to see what
they could do. Talking in 1995, McLagan said he'd
like one day to see a Faces box set entitled Made
In Detroit, since that was where the Faces really
started to come alive. He and Rhino have settled
instead for a single disc, acknowledging perhaps
that four would be (a) pushing it and (b) less of a
'Best Of' and more of an 'All Of', since they made
only four studio albums.
The first six songs on Good Boys... When They're
Asleep show a band experimenting with different
shades and trying manfully to get a vibe the lost,
faraway feel of 'Flying'; the rocked-up Dylan of
'Wicked Messenger'; the last-orders raunch and
swagger of 'Three Button Hand Me Down' and 'Had
Me A Real Good Time'. The third of these styles
would become a Faces trademark, yet it has a
pejorative undertone even today: the Warmer Bros
notes for this compilation quote the All Music Guide
defining the Faces as "a rough, sloppy rock'n'roll
band". Interesting, then, to compare 'Three Button
Hand Me Down''s confident, rollicking shuffle to the
similarly paced 'Midnight Rambler' by the Stones.
The Faces were the more sure-footed players by a
nose the problem was, the songs they pieced
together in 1969-70 from Lane-Wood McLaganStewart rudiments lacked the momentousness of a
Stones or even the focus of a Humble Pie.

Tucson's show is a corker. The Faces are

presented at true worth and their worth is much
more than most groups. They have something to
say and are sure of themselves but never arrogant
or overconfident. They look so delighted when their
moves draw shouts as if pleased to see these
simple tricks still work. It's partly as if they've taken
the aggressive hedonism of the Stones and
tempered it with their own good humor, played with
it and presented it as a reflection of the audience.
Their "messages" are basic ones that need
restating from time to time: that it's all right to have
a good time, all right to move your body below the
waist, all right to look pretty and bat your eyes, all
right to hug your friends, all right to clench your fist,
all right to rock & roll. "All right," as the Stones said,
"all night long," and as the Faces say, "All right for
an hour."

In November 1971, the month they released third

album A Nod Is As Good As a Wink... To A Blind
Horse, Stewart had just topped the singles and
album charts in the UK and the US with 'Maggie
May' and Every Picture Tells A Story. While selfproduced and heavy on session men, his work was
demonstrably better, and more moving, than the
Faces' own. A Nod... was the album where the
Faces caught up.

Tom Nolan is currently working on a book about the

Allman Brothers. During his career as a child actor
he played in a movie starring Britt Ekland's first
husband, Peter Sellers.
Tom Nolan, 1975
The Faces: Good Boys....When They're Asleep

With a commercial makeover from co-producer

Glyn Johns that tightened up the loose screws, A
Nod... landed straight in the lap and contained
seven or eight of the band's most enduring tracks.
(This compilation features six of them.) Lane's
songs have always been central to a wider
appreciation of the Faces as an emotional group,
and his lyrics could be stunning. The lines in
'Debris' about Sunday morning markets and strikes

David Cavanagh, Mojo, September 1999

WHEN THE FACES got together in the summer of
1969, they were not expected to amount to much.
Three of them Ronnie Lane, Ian McLagan and
Kenny Jones had been abandoned by Steve
Marriott, who'd left The Small Faces to form Humble
Pie with Peter Frampton. The other two, Rod

656

at the depot still resound as a Proustian vignette of

a long-gone age.

Lane used to write, takes the band full circle. It's a

quite lovely song and it proves that, even in the
midst of death, the Faces were in life.

The Stewart-sung tracks on A Nod... by contrast,

won the Faces their reputation as a bunch of saloon
bar wits and rogues. Using much of the irony and
colloquialism of his title track on Every Picture Tells
A Story, Stewart managed to position the Faces
midway between Albert Finney in Tom Jones and
Bart Simpson's I-Didn't-Do-It Boy: randy puncturers
of upper-class pomposity (or even middle-class
Faces) and accident-prone gatecrashers at an
establishment soiree. A friendlier, less hung-up
Stones, in fact.

David Cavanagh, 1999

Last Orders: The Faces Five Guys Walk Into a
Bar (Rhino)
Barney Hoskyns, Uncut, August 2004
Ian McLagan-compiled 4-CD box of scattered
odds/sods from ultimate 70s boogienballads
lad-band fronted by Rod the (Ex-)Mod.
Dedicated to the late Ronnie Lane.

When A Nod... went to Number 2, Stewart's

concurrent solo career always a mild irritation to
the others became a serious threat to their future.
To their dismay, he nicked 'True Blue' from a Faces
session and stuck it on his 1972 album Never A
Dull Moment. Lane and McLagan were miffed when
he failed to turn up for the first two weeks of
recording for the fourth Faces album, Ooh La La.
Ron Wood song the title track himself as Stewart's
interest waned.

IT WAS ONLY rock and roll, but we liked it. More

than any Britrock band of the time more even than
the Stones the Faces embodied the swaggering,
satin-lapelled spirit of the early 70s.
Five guys who sauntered on to stages as if into
their local boozer, Mac and Kenney and Rod and
Ronnie (x 2) had themselves a real good time all of
the time. There was no shadow side to this hailfellow-well-met quintet: they were the strutting
rooster Ego to the Stones (let alone the Stooges)
dark druggy Id.

Seen as a disappointment in 1973, Ooh La La

improves with the years and no longer justifies
Stewart's complaint to Melody Maker that it was "a
bloody mess". Certainly, 'Borstal Boys' is a belter, a
click-track-free sprint through the easiest chords
known to man; and the delightful, old-campaignersback-together-again harmonies on 'Glad And Sorry'
belie the resentment of its making. Lane quit two
months after the album's release.

The Stones sans the menace and the socio-cultural

significance, the Faces were the perfect postmod/blues-boom gang of good-time charlies, deeply
steeped in American soul but also in English folkrock pastorale. America loved em and kept them
slogging round the Holiday Inns of the Midwest for
months on end.

The Japanese bassist Tetsu Yamauchi was on

board for the magnificent 'Pool Hall Richard'
which, as rock'n'roll singles go, deserves to be a lot
closer on the all-time lists to 'Brown Sugar' and
'Silver Machine' than the rather lowly placing history
has allocated it. With no tracks culled from the
stodgy, little-liked live album Coast To Coast
Overture And Beginners, there's a leap to the end
of 1974 (the era of Britt Ekland, satin suits and Ron
Wood denying rumours he was about to join the
Stones) for the valedictory 45 'You Can Make Me
Dance, Sing Or Anything'. By turns funky and
resplendent, it was the Faces on top of their game,
leaving the arena on top of their game, leaving the
arena with a musical grin.

Rod Stewart was all bogbrush barnet and hooter

pointed skywards. Woody was Rod if Rod had been
a Jungle Book crow with a Rothmans jammed in the
corner of its mouth. Add the three Small Faces
Runty Ronnie Lane on bass, modest tinkler
McLagan, blam-blam drummer Kenney Jones and
the all-for-one/one-for-all camaraderie was plain for
all to see and hear.
No doubt the Faces did as much snorting as any of
their contemporaries, but there was nothing wired
or snowblind about their sound. It was always close
to shambolic, loosened by beer and brandy. Alcohol
hadnt been cool in the late 60s, but by 71 it was
de rigeur on the UK rock circuit.

It would have been nice to see that single's B-side,

'As Long As You Tell Him', wrapping things up.
Instead, a song from an aborted 1975 session
presumably at AIR Studios ends proceedings on a
bittersweet note. With Stewart's new life in America
only a check-in desk away, 'Open To Ideas', a
gentle and immaculate ballad like the ones wot

If they never had Keith Richards riffs or Charlie

Watts unique feel, the Faces were the ultimate
exponents of barroom rivvumnboogie nuthin
fancy, to be sure, but oozing warm bonhomie. The

657

mix of sub-Keef guitar crunch, melodic bass,

unfussy electric piano, and what Rod in a rehearsal
spiel refers to as "Midnight Hour oomflap oomflap"
drums served Stewart well on such unsubtle 45 rpm
blasts as Stay With Me, Cindy Incidentally and
Pool Hall Richard.

via a Peel-session Maggie May), rehearsal rarities

(Evil, Shake, Shudder, Shiver, Lanes I Came
Looking For You) and bootlegged live outings (Too
Bad, I Can Feel the Fire, Take a Look at the Guy,
I Wish It Would Rain).
Never a dull moment? Well, hardly. The one-chord
4/4 grind of BadnRuin, Miss Judys Farm et al
occasionally makes one pine for something a tad
more reflective and multi-layered. On Around the
Plynth they flirt with mystic, Zep-style blues. On a
1973 BBC version of Frees The Stealer they
approach the saturnine intensity of that group. More
often they simply stick to the Faces formula: blunt
bar-band raunch with optional barrelhouse tinkling,
epitomised by Long Players Had Me a Real Good
Time, Ooh La Las Silicone Grown and at least a
dozen others.

The outstanding British rasper of the age, the largeconked one had a voice that was Sam Cooke via
the ragged sandpaper wound of Janis Joplin or O.V.
Wright. If Five Guys... does nothing else it makes
the case yet again for pre-LA Stewart as possessor
of the most powerful male rock tonsils ever.
Long before Loaded culture, the Faces were Jackthe-Laddists par excellence. For Rod and pals it
was all about beer, breasts and football. Even when
they covered such harrowing soul classics as Etta
James Id Rather Go Blind, the Temptations (I
Know) Im Losing You and Luther Ingrams twotiming anthem If Loving You Is Wrong (I Dont Want
To Be Right) all on this box set they seemed to
be having a sloshing good time of it.

Also included are a daft 1975 stab at the Beach

Boys Gettin Hungry, a creditable go at Lennons
Jealous Guy a Long Player outtake on which
Rod actually sounds pained and a live BBC
version of the Robert Johnson/Stones staple Love
in Vain. Also from 75 hails a medley of Tommy
Tuckers Hi Heel Sneakers and Solomon Burkes
Everybody Needs Somebody to Love that smokes.
Oh Lord Im Browned Off, the 1971 B-side of
Macca cover Maybe Im Amazed, is McLagan and
Woody battling it out on an instrumental thats
Booker T meets Duane Allman.

Most of the bands own songs were far from

harrowing. Usually they concerned dalliances
between footloose young bucks and blowzy country
broads called Rita or Cindy or Lady Mary or Miss
Judy or, of course, Maggie May the quintessential
earth lass of 1971. Rodney either broke these
dames hearts or licked his wounds, picked himself
up and dusted down the hay from his flared
trousers.

Liner-note writer David Fricke argues that the Faces

were "the greatest rocknroll band that ever
stumbled and strummed across the face of the
Earth" with the emphasis perhaps on the
stumbling. For this writer Wood and Stewart were
too cheerily laddish by half, averting their eyes from
pain of the world and thus only really operating in
one musical dimension.

Only when little Ronnie Lane made one of his

infrequent appearances in front of the mic did we
taste the more melancholy side of life. Long
Players Richmond and Ooh La Las Debris,
included here, played wistful George Harrison to
Stewart/Woods Lennon and McCartney. In
hindsight it was no great surprise that in 1973 Lane
departed the band to pursue his own Slim Chance
of a career.

The fact that Rod ended up with Britt in Bel Air

whilst Ronnie Lane contracted MS and died broke
just seems one more in an endless catalogue of
rock injustices. But well save that particular sad
story for closing time.

Overshadowed not only by the Stones but by

Stewarts own unstoppable solo ascent, the Faces
only made four long-players. And only one of them,
late 1971s A Nod Is As Good as A Wink... To a
Blind Horse, can be said to stand up as a platter of
consistent quality. Which makes Five Guys Walk
Into a Bar... all the more welcome as a bulging
scrapbook of outtakes, live recordings and
rehearsal snippets.

*
Ian McLagan talks about the five guys... and the
bar.

Dropped into a selection of standouts from 1970s

First Step, 1971s Long Player, 1971s Nod and
1973s Ooh La La is an assortment of numbers
from BBC appearances (from Flying to My Fault

UNCUT: America really took to the Faces, didnt

it?

658

"I think it was the fact that Rod and Woody had
toured with Jeff Beck, so they knew the appeal they
had there. And it was also the way we dressed. A lot
of the American bands at the time werent dressing
at all it was just T-shirts and jeans whereas we
put on a show. We went out there to deliver. The
girls liked it, the guys liked it, and the music was
great."

"Rods said that he really wants to do it, and Im

knocked out that he does. Were all very up for it."

Barney Hoskyns, 2004

Rod Stewart: Gasoline Alley

There was also the little matter of alcohol.

Bud Scoppa, Circus, July 1970

"Yeah, we were quite visibly drinking during shows.

Not that it got in the way or was ever the main part
of the show, but even Warner Brothers latched on to
that. Before the end of the first tour they would
deliver a bottle to each of our hotel rooms. Wed get
to a town and thered be a bottle of Jack Daniels in
the room. If the Faces ever get back together on
stage, well have to be seen to be drinking, but of
course Woodys not boozing anymore. Hes
excused booze!"

IT'S BECOMING increasingly obvious that Rod

Stewart is an unusually gifted singer and writer. His
new album, Gasoline Alley, even more than his first
solo effort and the reformed Small Faces LP, make
it clear that Stewart is an artist of originality and
sensitivity as well as power.
Stewart is moving thematically from the
predominantly Blues-r'n'b style of his first album
toward (basically white) American traditional music.
Gasoline Alley tries to be evocative rather than I
funky. Stewart's vocals on the majority of tracks are
low-keyed and mellow, and the instrumentation has
followed suit. The songs present the well-traveled
themes of American rural music: going home,
unrequited love, self-directed humor, the railroad
(and journeying in general), and death.

Were the Stones a prototype for the Faces?

"They were favourites of all of ours, it was just that
when we started playing it was different again. They
had very strong blues roots that we didnt really
have. With us it was R&B and always that little bit of
good-time vaudeville from the Small Faces. That
was what Woody and Rod loved about us when
they were touring with Jeff Beck and Ogdens was
out. Woody and Rod were very funny people, so we
were an amusing bunch to be around."

Like 'Man of Constant Sorrow' on his first album,

these songs have an old-timey quality, due in part to
the recording process it-self. Several tracks sound
as if they were done live in the studio (or a garage
for that matter) and miked acoustically like those
scratchy but haunting 78's of Woody Guthrie and
Robert Johnson. On 'Only a Hobo', perhaps the
most time-worn track in terms of its presentation, a
fiddle is used to highlight its dusty road aura. Fiddle
and/or barrelhouse piano are used, in fact, on five
of the albums nine cuts, and Ron Wood's slide
guitar blends with Martin Quittenton 's finger-picked
acoustic on several as well.

How did you set about gathering all this

material?
"Well, Id been collecting bootlegs for some years,
and I also had most of the BBC sessions that we
did. Bill Inglot and the Rhino team researched and
found some of the things that were on bootlegs, so
we got the original eight- or sixteen-track sources."
How did you wind up being the Faces curator?

While I missed the punchiness of Rod's first album

at first the low-keyed tone of Gasoline Alley causes
the three rock numbers to sound really driving by
contrast. Stewart's rendition of the Stones' 'It's All
Over Now' lacks the high energy of 'Street Fightin'
Man' from his previous LP, but it makes up for it with
a smiling urgency reminiscent of early rock'n'roll
recordings. 'You're My Girl,' which you may
remember from Rhinoceros' first LP, is done in more
dynamic fashion; it's the closest thing to Memphis
on the record. The only contemporary sounding
track is 'My Way of Giving', which features a
churchy organ intro and exit. The Small Faces are
credited with having backed Rod on 'It's All Over
Now' and 'You're My Girl', and it sounds as if at

"I tell you what, Id give it up and pass it on to

someone else now, but I dont think anyone else
cares enough! Having written my book, which took
about four or five years, I didnt realise this would
take that long. But its actually taken four years from
inception to conception. I have a website [] where
people constantly used to email me and tell me
what I should include if the Faces ever put out a
box set, so I just sort of became the unofficial
curator."
What about a Faces reunion?

659

least organist Ian McLagan is present on the last

mentioned cut as well.

have had their Rod Stewart pages recently and

even one of the underground newspapers was
bold enough to publish his revolutionary views.
Apparently the views he held were a bit too
revolutionary for most of our mind-expanded
freethinking generation. "Ive got this habit of putting
my foot in it," he explained. "I said that Enoch
Powell was a good thing and that student politics
and revolution was bullshit."

Considering the fact that Rod was not long ago the
lead singer of what Steve Miller described as "the
super stock of rock'n'roll", The Jeff Beck Group, it
seems odd that he has now become what could
best he described as a folk singer. Much like Dylan,
Rod has made up for the lack of a "good voice" with
masterful inflection and a unique way of reading a
song. And like Dylan, he seems equally at home
with folk ballads and hard rock.
Stewart's experience with Beck, as difficult as it was
for him, has given Rod the reknown, and
subsequent freedom to do what he wants to do
musically. Now he's reverting to the kinds of music
he grew up with, although Sam Cooke, once his
idol, seems to be a diminishing influence as he
develops on his own. Although he's English, Rod's
free-living attitude most closely parallels the
lifestyles of American journeyman folksingers. He
has more bread than they did, of course, but he
reflects their values in his stubborn refusal to follow
trends or lick record company boots. Rod is in the
unusual position of being under contract concurrently to two labels: Mercury as a solo artist, and
Warner Brothers as a member of the Faces. Rod
Stewart is his own man.

Yes, suddenly Rod Stewart is the sort of person

youd let your journalists write about but his
career is far from the suddenly sort. Born and bred
in Highgate, he was three weeks a footballer from
Brentford United before hitting the road in wellknown beatnik tradition. Bumming around in
Belgium, Spain, Italy and France, Rod was, in his
own words, a folk singer. He reminisces of a girl
who threw a rock through his 45 hire-purchased
guitar on Brighton beach and tells me that his hair
was "down to here" pointing vaguely in the direction
of the upper chest. On returning to England he
made picture frames for a hunch-backed owner of a
small firm in Ladbroke Grove. "He had no friends
and we were the only people whod talked to him,"
remembered Rod. Only in this sort of job could he
keep his down-to-here hair which was at that time
the ultimate in rebellion "a sort of club badge" he
says.

Bud Scoppa, 1970

Suck it!

Rod Stewart

James Powell and the Dimensions were the first

group to accommodate Rod as a harmonica
player. He remembers seeing Mick Jagger playing
with the Stones in Richmond and for the first time
realising that besides blowing into a harmonica it
was also possible to suck! Obviously the
Dimensions could have benefited tremendously
from this acquired knowledge, and I feel I can quite
honestly say that this move was indeed
progressive in the fullest sense of the word. Long
John Baldrys Hoochie Coochie Men were the next
to avail themselves of Stewarts talent, and he
stayed with them through their various name
changes and personnel changes... from Hoochie
Coochie Men to Steam Packet (Steam Parcel, says
Rod) to Shotgun Express. Besides Baldry himself,
the talents of Julie Driscoll and Brian Auger were
featured, and the Coochie-Packet Express saga
has proved to be one of the formative wombs of
British rock/jazz/blues along with the Graham
Bond Organisation, Stones and Mayall.

Steve Turner, Beat Instrumental, March 1971

Another Remarkable Englishman
Newsweek is a staid establishment American
magazine and would make a lovely twin brother or
sister for a equally staid and establishment Time.
However, the above phrase was the description
bestowed by them upon Rod Stewart in their
feature The Future of Rock (Newsweek, 4/1/70). I
was, in fact, privileged enough to be the first person
to inform Rod of this journalistic acknowledgement
of his work (even though it was some weeks after
its appearance) and also of the accompanying
photographic acknowledgement which showed him
in a typical dragged-out-of-a-haystack pose.
On the left hand side (politically speaking) of
America, an underground rock magazine recently
grilled Rod for eight hours while cassettes sat
eavesdropping to provide a five-page depth
interview. "You come out feeling youve been
brainwashed," he told me, "but you do get wined
and dined." Also each of the British music papers

Rods exposure to the Transatlantic public came

with the Jeff Beck group. Twelve Stateside visits
culminated in a decision which could have been the
biggest disappointment of them all. The group were
invited to play at a festival to be held in a rural area

660

named Bethel which lay outside of New York.

However they turned down the offer not knowing
the eventual success and far-reaching effect that
this festival would have. This was the festival to be
known as Woodstock. "I used to think of it as my
biggest disappointment, says Rod, "but now I look
at it in a different way. If wed have done Woodstock
we would have stayed together as the Jeff Beck
group and I wouldnt have been able to further my
solo interests. I would still have been a sideman to
Beck."

provide the music. It will be on his new LP

working title Amazing Grace which should see
the light of day and touch of stylus in late April or
early May. Other tracks should include Chicken
Shacks Id Rather Go Blind Chris Farlowes Out of
Time (what a great number for Rod!) and Pete
Townshends The Seeker. A very pleased Mr.
Stewart told me of another song to be included
which hed written to a melody lifted from a Scots
bagpipe tune. Before I could think What was Rod
Stewart doing listening to bagpipe music? He told
me that his father is a Scotsman and that he feels
some of the Scottishness has been inherited. He
also told me that his favourite listening falls
somewhere between Al Jolson and Neil Young!!

It was soon after their return from the States that

the Beck group disintegrated. It wasnt a clear-cut,
publicized split but more of a gentle falling apart.
Stewart was already getting material ready for his
first album An Old Raincoat Will Never Let You
Down while fellow Beck man Ronnie Wood was
becoming a Face. Jeff Beck himself had plans for
a group which would contain two ex-members of
the Vanilla Fudge but a hot-rod accident put him in
a hospital bed and the proposed group into an early
grave.

Steve Turner, 1971

Rod Stewart: Every Picture Tells A Story
John Mendelssohn, Rolling Stone, 8 July 1971
HE HAS IT IN him, has Rod Stewart, to save a lot of
souls, to rescue those of us who are too old for
Grand Funk, but not old enough for those adorable
McCartneys, from being nearly consummately
bored with the current rock and roll scene.

No solo dates
At this point Rod joined Ronnie Wood by becoming
the Faces lead vocalist. If his relationship with the
Faces is a marriage then his solo career is a
concurrent love affair and he seeks neither a
divorce nor an end to the affair. If he were to pick
his choice of musicians and go on the road as a
band then the individual members of Faces would
be that band, says Rod so for him there is no
need to go solo in the sense of live dates. Songs
from his solo LPs are played with the Faces and
everyone in the group is of equal importance.

It's not inconceivable that he could do it without

even opening his mouth: He's physically
sensational, the idol of perhaps three continents'
heavy trendies, the most profound influence on rock
and roll fashion since the Stones' Tour. He's the
single most glamorous rock figure rolling.
When he does open his mouth to sing, out comes
the most unique male voice in rock, a voice anyone
could recognize instantly at five hundred paces
through a Dixie cup. He's suggested to interviewers
that he sounds too much like Arthur Conley or
occasional other R&B luminaries, but it ain't so
he sounds only like a white kid with strep throat
fighting valiantly but in vain to reproduce Arthur
Conley's or some other occasional R&B luminary's
vocal tone. Consequently, he's got soul to spare.

The second solo LP established Rod as a

singer/songwriter if nothing else had done. With
his voice sounding like the guts of the East End
condensed and piped through stereo speakers
he grinds out his Gasoline Alley songs. Even the
title speaks of the earthy, urban quality we have
come to expect from Rod. In this area Rod is a
logical extension of the lesion that Bob Dylan first
taught us in the early Sixties... that is that you dont
have to be a singer in order to sing. In fact Rods
voice is not unlike Dylans at times especially
when hes translating a Dylan song as he was when
I visited the studio. He consciously strives for this
roughness in his voice and one criticism he leveled
at one of the take he made of the Dylan number
was that it sounded too much like a nice folk song.

His are just about the finest lyrics currently being

written, lyrics constructed solidly of strong,
straightforward images that convey intense
emotions, images that far more often reflect the
musics that their creator has loved than anyone' s
notion of rock lyrics-as-poetry:
I thing I'll go back home and start all over again
Where the gulf-stream waters tend to ease my
pain.

The particular song starts off Tomorrow is a distant

highway... and will probably end up with that as its
title. Acoustic guitarist Martin Quittington, violinist
Dick Powell and Ronnie Wood on steel guitar

661

He's eloquent, literate, and moving a superb

writer

Moreover, on at least once occasion he starts with

something quite splendid of his own and produces it
in such a way that, for one's first week or so with
the album, he can listen to only a portion of the
song at a time. So prominent in the mix of the title
track, in which Stewart attempts to reproduce the
tightly sloppy, all-hell-has-broken-loose sound of 'It's
All Over Now' and 'Cut Across Shorty' from his
previous album, are Waller's drums, that the track
originally comes off as obnoxious and heavyhanded. Which is not to mention that one really has
to struggle to pick out all the words.

Moreover, his taste in co-writers and accompanists

is impeccable.
All of which combines to imply that only deficiencies
of taste in the areas of material and occasionally
production may be held responsible for Every
Picture Tells A Story being the third Rod Stewart
album in succession that only occasionally sounds
like the work of a man who's got it in him to save a
lot of souls, a bashful step in the right direction
though it may be, in that it's equal parts magnificent
splendor and pleasant inconsequence rather than,
as were The Rod Stewart Album and Gasoline
Alley, equal parts magnificent splendor and
scarcely listenable heavy-handedness.

And will he never tire of endless endings?

But enough of sad matters, and on to the joyous
task of examining the man's work at its
incomparable best...

There is no better backing band in the biz at the

moment than the one Stewart assembles for his
solo sessions Ron Wood seems to save all his
most exquisite chops for these occasions, Martin
Quittenton's acoustic guitar, both when sharing the
lead with Wood's bottleneck or working as rhythmic
embellishment to Mick Waller's ride cymbal and
high-hat, is always stunning. Pete Sears plays a
quite pretty piano, Dick Powell's fiddle is
unremittingly delightful, and together these
gentlemen interact ingeniously, producing
accompaniments as rich in texture as those of the
Highway 61 and Blonde On Blonde bands.

Even while it originally almost drives you from the

room trying to convince you of the fact, Every
Picture does rock with ferocity via a simple but
effective seven-note ascension/five-note
descension riff that Waller cleverly punctuates with
a halved-time bass-drum-against-snare lick. In the
grand manner of 'Gasoline Alley' and 'Bad 'N' Ruin',
it kicks things off powerfully with the usual
Stewartian picaresque autobiographical tale with
the familiar theme of the down-and-out wanderer
confronting some basic moral truths during his
wanderings and returning home a wiser man.
Where he's momentarily intent on rhyme things get
a trifle forced here and there (as when he mates
"Rome" and "None"), but such objections evaporate
instantly in the face of such delightful lines as:
"Shanghai Lil never used the pill/She said, 'It just
ain't natural!'"

Sad to say, though, no amount of excellent, even

occasionally breathtaking playing by his band
behind quite satisfactory singing by Stewart himself
can transform such massively inconsequential, nay,
downright trivial, fare as 'Seems Like A Long Time'
or 'Tomorrow is Such A Long Time', an
understandable obscure bit of early Dylan schlock,
into anything very memorable. What on earth is
Rod Stewart doing listening to old Brewer & Shipley
and Hamilton Camp albums (where from these two
tidbits were procured) when he could be writing his
own stuff, his own stuff always being his best stuff?
And why also, as with 'That's All Right, Mama' and
'Reason To Believe', should he or we settle for his
paying pleasant but hardly captivating homage to
early inspirations when he's capable of saving
souls?

A careful listening or two will reveal that Stewart is

subtly brilliant on 'I'm Losing You', which enjoys
splendid hard-'n'-heavy backing from the Faces, as
when he swoops almost imperceptibly into and out
of falsetto during the title line. Note with pleasure
how, towards the end of his colossal (and
excellently produced) drum solo, Kenny Jones,
surely among the very best rock and roll drummers
drumming, refers back to the song's basic bass
rhythm as a lead instrumentalist will refer back to
the melody.
'Maggie May', purportedly about a schoolboy's illfated romance with a floozy, is debatably the
album's most wonderful selection, with an
irresistible tune and an overall sound that somehow
evokes a warm late-summer afternoon. Its got
charming words and is beautifully played by all
present, with a celeste chiming in ever so
charmingly here and there. Exhilarating is the only
way to describe the mandolin break at the end.

Simply, on about half the album he started with

nothing much and, to no one's surprise, came up
with something that can be respected or even
slightly enjoyed but scarcely gotten passionate
about.

662

'Mandolin Wind' (what a beautiful title!) is nearly as

good, with a beautiful Western instrumental texture
and Rod delivering some gorgeous cowboy images.
At the end, when, after a moment's silence,
everyone's come back rocking like mad, he even
gets off one of his soul-stirring falsetto whoops. A
knock-out.

'I'd Rather Go Blind', which through no real fault of

its own save a lesser natural quotient of intrinsic
excitement is the least compelling track on the
record.
A worthy quartet of interpretations, to be sure, but
the original tracks are even more rewarding.
Stewart has the rare knack of writing clever and/or
trenchant lyrics which can either amuse and delight
the listener or be safely ignored in favor of
concentrating on the music itself, as they in no way
obtrude or detract from the song's musical impact.
So in this album, after finally getting around to
listening to the words, we find entertaining vignettes
involving the problems of smuggling underage girls
south of the border; a liaison between a jeep-driving
soldier and a girl in a Maserati; an idol-indecisive
playboy and his money laden old man; and a humor
and poignant wit and sovoir fare, with music to
match. 'Italian Girls' unleashes a vicious initial
explosion and chugs merrily along throughout, as
does 'True Blue' (the latter also spotlighting a
perfectly lovely bridge); while 'Lost Paraguayos'
presents a delightfully lilting melody line until
ambushed by a party of rather ill-mannered but
basically innocuous horns. And 'You Wear It Well', a
superficially shameless 'Maggie May' cop, is yet
such an infectious and memorable bittersweet
number that it's the odds on favorite for the album's
top cut (currently it's the single from the album).

Boring as half of it may be, there's enough that is

unqualifiedly magnificent on the other half of Every
Picture Tells A Story to make it clearer than ever
before that if Rod Stewart ever allows himself the
time to write himself a whole album, it will be among
the best albums any of us has ever heard. Until
such time, a lot of souls will have no choice but to
truck about half-saved.
John Mendelssohn, 1971
Rod Stewart: Never A Dull Moment
Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, September 1972
WELL, IT TOOK AWHILE, but Rod Stewart is back
again with his fourth straight formula solo album.
He's rounded up roughly the same crew of musical
cohorts and deployed them in the same general
fashion, and the result, like his three previous
efforts, is a superb album. Only the songs have
been changed, to protect the inner sense of
individual integrity amongst the albums; but,
actually, that's all you need. The Stewart formula is
broad-based enough to allow for widely varied
species of old folk tunes, blues and funk numbers,
hard rockers, and the melodic 'Maggie May'
mainstream; the instrumentalists have it all down,
Rod himself stands ready to apply the smooth
sandpaper finish, and all that's required for another
ace album is a new set of dynamics -- and on
Never A Dull Moment there's no letdown in this
department.

No two ways about it, this is one fine album. And,

although it unfortunately again raises the dread
spectre of the Rod Stewart-solo and Rod Stewartcum-Faces dichotomy (in that this album is vastly
superior to A Nod Is As Good As A Wink or its two
predecessors), Never A Dull Moment successfully
confounds any churlish souls lurking about ready to
garrot Mr. Stewart now that he has achieved massidol status. If any of those Pavlovian poison-pen
pea-brains start cutting up the Rod for this LP, don't
believe 'em; Never A Dull Moment is one of the
most superbly crafted and enjoyable records of the
year.

The songs herein are split between four originals

and a like number of covers, of which the latter
group the immediate knockout is Sam Cooke's
'Twistin' The Night Away'. Having previously
declared himself unwilling to tackle his main stylistic
influence's material, Stewart finally reverses his
stand and delivers a pounding hard rock version
which retains all the essential exuberance of the
original and leads one to hope for similar
subsequent revivals, the more the better. Also
under cover here are a haunting rendition of Jimi
Hendrix's 'Angel', the mandatory obscure Dylan
number, 'Mama You've Been On My Mind' this time
out, a velvety version which grows insiduously more
impressive on each listening; and a bluesy Christine
Perfect/Chicken Shack U.K. hit of a few years back,

Ken Barnes, 1972

Rod Stewart: Never A Dull Moment
Mark Leviton, Words & Music, November 1972
ONE CAN ALWAYS COUNT on Rod for superb
vocalizing, but his recordings sometimes slip
because of the spottiness of the material, from
marvelous to mediocre. On his new LP, he solves
the problem by writing half the songs himself and

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choosing the others with considerably more care

than was exercised on the previous Every Picture
Tells A Story.

Rod Stewart: Atlantic Crossing

Stewart's unique, bright songwriting talents are

highlighted with the opening 'True Blue', in which
the back-up band is known collectively as the
Faces. Rod writes catchy lyrics, couplets that leave
a real impression because of their looseness and
the way they flow naturally off the tongue, like the
immortal "My body stunk but I kept my funk" off the
last disc. Here, the jumpy invocation is "Never
gonna own a race horse/Or a fastback mid-engine
Porsche/Don't think I'll own a private jet/On the
stock exchange I'm not a threat," with the music
bouncing along brilliantly. The hero of the cut is Ian
McLagan, who contributes dazzling electric piano.
Ron Wood and Kenny Jones produce crisp
assertive lines with clever syncopations which make
this tune the most cooking Faces recording for a
long time. 'True Blue' may just be the best rocker
Stewart has committed to vinyl in his last three
outings.

HAPPILY, THAT HORNY, rank, exuberant rascal

who romped through Rod Stewart's masterpieces
Gasoline Alley, Every Picture Tells a Story and
Never a Dull Moment has returned. This irresistible
character partly fictional, partly autobiographical
infuses Stewart's sixth solo album with such life
that its several notable stylistic and tech-nical shifts
are rendered secondary.

Bud Scoppa, Circus, November 1975

For the record, Stewart has altered his approach for

the first time by recording in America, using an
outside producer Tom Dowd (Derek & the
Dominos, the Allman Brothers) rather than
producing himself, and eschewing his usual backing
in favor of (mostly Southern) American musicians.
Instrumentally, there's an aggressive bone-hard feel
now in place of the rustic, filagreed sound that had
become Stewart's trademark. But where you might
expect these studio-wise Ameri-cans to work up
rather standardized backing parts, everyone
from Cropper, Dunn, and Jackson of the old MGs to
the Muscle Shoals regulars plays with what must
be genuine involvement; the backing on Atlantic
Crossing is as sympathetic as any on Stewart's
other records.

When Jones bows out for the duration of the album,

he is replaced by the wonderful Micky Waller, who
thumps through in his own exquisite, sparse style
for the rest of the disc. 'Los Paraguayos' picks up
the steam nicely until it struts into a Van Morrisontype rocker with a light little riff in the horns. 'Italian
Girls', 'You Wear It Well', and 'I'd Rather Go Blind'
show the Gasoline Alley kind of interplay between
Quittenton's acoustic and Wood's electric guitar,
augmented by Stewart's mandolin and Heatley's
expert stand-up bass. 'You Wear It Well' is the
album's best slow number, carefully constructed
and tenderly delivered by Stewart, with the
recurring lines "You Wear It Well/A little old
fashioned but that's all right," which might describe
Rod himself. 'You Wear It Well' was written by the
same Quittenton-Stewart team that produced the
smash 'Maggie May' and it is a fine sequel.

Stewart's raffish protagonist has al-ways been

American in his rough, brash spirit, so he's right at
home in these surroundings. From the first song,
his own 'Three Time Loser', in which he gets
clapped out from Monterey to East Virginia, to the
last, the Sutherland Brothers' 'Sailing', which has
him voyaging eternally westward, Stewart's lifeloving loser embraces the same America that
Dylan's and Randy Newman's characters inhabit.
It's an America where people are forever roaming,
falling afoul of the law, falling in and out of love, and
playing in rock & roll bands.

Rod opts for another revival ( la ' Know I'm Losing

You') to finish the album, Sam Cooke's 'Twistin' The
Night Away', which is performed with infectious
good humor, precise, but spirited musicianship (Ron
Wood chugs along very well indeed), and is, in
short, the perfect vehicle for Stewart's lighthearted
romping. The closer embodies all the qualities that
one admires in Stewart, the refusal to take himself
too seriously, the attention to detailed arranging, the
energetic involvement in the material, the way his
voice can propel a tune as well as the best
drummer. When Stewart strikes, the listener gets
caught up and has a good time right along with him.
And isn't that what rock and roll is all about?

The three great rock & roll songs Stewart has

written and recorded for the album are all
celebrations of life in that country, which only rock
stars inhabit, and then only in their day-dreams.
The titles tell the story: 'Three Time Loser', 'All in
the Name of Rock 'n' Roll', 'Stone Cold Sober'.
All three bear a marked resemblance to the rockers
on the Stones' American saga, Exile on Main Street,
in their use of horns and/or backing voices and in
the howling abandon with which they careen along.
The first of these, a first-person narrative sung by
Stewart with gleeful intensity, plays like 'Every
Picture Tells a Story' revisited it's funny and
punchy and engaging in Stewart's special way.

Mark Leviton, 1972

664

'Rock 'n' Roll' drives home its pre-vailing riff with the
cocky persistence of the Stones, and 'Sober' is
even hotter it's an absolute knockout.

certain the slow side, too, will eventually reveal

some unexpected treas-ures. Even if I can't help
wishing for now that the album had a pair of fast
sides, I'm still more than pleased to find that the
best rock & roll singer of the 70s still has it.

The lone non-original on the first side is Stewart's

remake of the Dobie Gray hit 'Drift Away', and it fits
per-fectly into Rod's scheme of things. "Gimme the
beat, boys, to soothe my soul/I wanna get lost in
your rock & roll" might as well be Stewart's credo
he should've written it. You'd think he had, from the
way he sings the song with unchecked,
uncomplicated passion. It won't be long, I'd say,
before 'Drift Away' is thought of as a Rod Stewart
song.

Bud Scoppa, 1975

Rod Stewart: Atlantic Crossing
John Morthland, Creem, December 1975
COMING AS IT does amidst sweeping changes in
Stewart's career and personal life, the unsettling
nature of Atlantic Crossing isn't that much of a
surprise. It's simply Rod Stewart trying to get a firm
footing on some new ground, succeeding
stupendously a couple times but more often falling
a little short.

Atlantic Crossing was sequenced to have a 'Fast

Side' and a 'Slow Side,' and the former is slammed
across with such heated elation that the latter
seems positively timid in comparison. With 'Sailing',
Stewart has forged another anthem, but that track
contains the only really stirring passages on the
second side. There is another great song, 'I Don't
Want to Talk About It', written and given its definitive
performance by the late Danny Whitten in Crazy
Horse. Perhaps intimidated by the aching perfection
of Whitten's performance, Stewart has bypassed
the song's tragic dimension, settling instead for
melancholy beauty. Despite the strings that enter
midway and build to irritating grandiosity,
undercutting rather than elevating the mood, the
track gets some feeling across; Stewart's restrained
vocal and the elegantly picked acoustic guitars
make a lovely sound together. But when a great
singer is joined with a great song, one expects a
great performance to result from the union. This
performance is less than that, making it the album's
one major letdown.

For the first time ever, Stewart has put his solo
sound in the hands of a strong-minded producer,
Tom Dowd. The band is made up mostly of
Southern session pickers, not Rod's usual crew of
drinking buddies. That they still come up with
something approximating his old sound is testament
to that sound's efficacy and Rod's own uniqueness.
But it's the differences that stand out most sharply.
Stewart albums used to hold a new surprise on
virtually every song the shifting tempos, short,
punchy soloes, and dramatic silences were as
much a signature as his own raspy voice. On this
album, the rockers all steamroll straight ahead, and
the ballads are all drawn out to uniformly slow
tempos. Also for the first time ever, his vocals on
some songs are mixed down into the instrumental
tracks so far you can't even understand what he's
singing; he's just another bloke in the band. (This
from the guy who cut Street Fighting Man because
he was worried people couldn't hear Jagger's great
lyrics on the Stones version.)

The other three songs on the second side are

attractive and playable but relatively unobtrusive. It
isn't as if Stewart isn't capable of creating as much
drama quiet songs as he is in rockers: Gasoline
Alley's stunning trio of ballads formed the emotional
core of that a bum. These songs, too, may well
contain a few of those lump-in-the-throat moments
of truth as they become more familiar; 'Still Love
You', the lone Stewart-written slow number, is
starting to get through to me.

When it works on this album, it works quite well.

Three Time Loser, an audacious V.D. song
delivered with a whoop and a wink, is one of the
finest rockers ever, with a smoking band track, a
perfect vocal, and an unobtrusive soul chorus. It's
hard to imagine anyone else even attempting a
song like this, let alone pulling it off. Stone Cold
Sober is nearly as successful, what with the band
hammering out that chorus as Rod assesses his
condition with the usual mixed feelings.

Even if Atlantic Crossing is only half-great (and I'm

not yet willing to accept that qualified a judgment),
that's still substantially better than last year's badly
flawed Smiler. In retrospect, that LP can be seen as
a strained but necessary transition for this stillevolving artist: from spontaneous to meticulous
production, from Britain to America, from the
familiar and comfortable to the open-ended. As for
Atlantic Crossing, a less rigid sequencing might
have made the album seem stronger, but I'm nearly

While there's not an outright bad track on the

album, though, the pickings get disconcertingly slim
after that pair from the "fast side." Two ballads (his
own Still Love You and Gavin Sutherland's

665

Sailing) come close to previous standards, but the

former is hoked up with some studio echo and the
latter swamped in a corny string arrangment. And
Drift Away, which is seemingly right up Rod's alley,
is so overstated (by him, not Dowd) that it strains
the credibility.

hit a note. The reason, if you ask me, is the fucking

smog. It cuts the shit out of your voice.
"So I went to Caribou Studios [in Colorado] to put
down the vocals. Nice place, but I couldn't sing
there either. At 9000 feet above sea level, you're
lucky if you can walk and still breathe."

Stewart is still capable of convincingly expressing

more feelings and situations than anyone else in
rock; what's more frustrating about Atlantic
Crossing is that while he is consistently on the
verge of doing just that, he is so often boxed in by
rote arrangements, material that doesn't quite
measure up to him (I Don't Want to Talk About It
and It's Not the Spotlight), or the insistence on
dividing the album into a "fast" and "slow" side. If a
new label, new home, new love life, and no band
don't add up to a whole new ballgame, they
certainly create a situation in which he is forced to
feel things out a little more than in the past. And if
two great songs and eight near-misses don't add up
to a failure, neither can it be considered very
satisfying. Still, Stewart has taken his fair share of
first steps in the past, and always managed to come
out on top ultimately; the real test will come on his
next solo album.

Matters improved when producer Dowd decided to

use Miami's Criteria Sound Studios. "We're really
blazing now," gushed Stewart. "This album is going
to be great. Wait and see. There's a lot of my writing
on it, stuff I'm really proud of." He gave no song
titles, explaining that the final tracks had yet to be
picked.
Rod went on to scoff at notions that he was bitter
over the break-up of the Faces. "I'm a lot happier on
me own," he said. "And there's no hard feelings
over Woody [Ron Wood]. Good luck to him. We'd
been together too long as it was. I just hope he gets
what's coming to him, because he's a fine guitar
player. I'm not pissed at the Stones, either. Mick is
still a close friend. I've been looking after his brother
all last week. I might even have Chris [Jagger]
singing on the album. But all's fair in love and war. If
Mick wanted Woody, all right. I'm gonna have to
break up a few bands to get who I want. I just hope
the Stones does Woody more good than they did
for Mick Taylor.

John Morthland, 1975

Rod Stewart Puts on a Happy Face
Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, 22 April 1976

"I talked to Woody the other night. I feel kind of

sorry for him. He's sitting around in Nassau getting
fat and bored. That's what happens when you
become a Rolling Stone." Stewart laughed heartily.

LOS ANGELES Rod Stewart stood on the lawn of

his Bel-Air mansion, disgusted and scowling into
the afternoon sun.

Rod would not name any of the players he is now

considering for his new band. "Kenny Jones is the
only definite member now. He was the only
professional in the Faces. Beyond that it would be
unfair to release any names to the newspapers. I
want to go back to England and do the choosing in
person. It's not ever something I'll do over the
phone. They're nearly all London guys, though
one's from Los Angeles and another from
Cincinnati. There are no tour plans either, not even
that fucking Wembley date I was supposed to be
doing this June. That's always been a load of
rubbish. I'll tour when my band's ready and not a
second before. If it takes me two years, I'll wait two
years.

"I know what you're gonna ask me and I'll tell you
the answers right now." He closed his eyes and
recited the newest details of his career, as if for the
millionth time. "My new album is nearly finished. I
haven't got a name for it. I haven't got a band and I
doubt if I'll be touring again. I don't feel like it. I
haven't used anybody from the last album, except
for Steve Cropper. He did one track in Muscle
Shoals. I used Tom Dowd again as producer
because I think he's good. He did a good job on the
last one and a better job on this one, especially with
the rock & roll. The rock & roll tracks on the last
album were useless. Trying to get Muscle Shoals to
play rock & roll is useless. That's it."

"The thing is, now I can have a band that's exactly

what I want it to be. Doesn't have to be a set load of
musicians onstage, like the Faces. Now I can have
who I want. Bowie's done that so well. I loved his
show in L.A."

Two weeks later, speaking from Miami, where he

was finally recording the vocals on A Night on the
Town, Stewart sounded happier as he explained his
recent problem. "We put down 15 backing tracks at
Cherokee Studios in Los Angeles and then got
around to my singing. I couldn't sing. I just couldn't

666

Finally, Stewart claimed to be on good terms with

most of the former Faces even though he was the
one to break up the band last November. "They're
all my friends," he said. "Even Mac [Ian McLagen]. I
mean I was getting a lot of aggravation from Mac in
the end, but I'll be getting aggravation from Mac as
long as I've got a hole in me ass."

Is the Deepest written by a teenaged Cat Stevens

years ago, has all the poignance and passion of the
mature Rod Stewart. When he hits the chorus
"When it comes to being lucky she's cursed/ When
it comes to loving me she's worse" there's no
doubt that Stewart owns those lines absolutely. The
arrangements, which fuses a folksy acoustic sound
reminiscent of Gasoline Alley with a stirring electric
guitar solo, is perfectly in sync with Rod's
convincing vocal.

Cameron Crowe, 1976

Rod Stewart: A Night On The Town

His own Tonight's the Night is as erotic as Je

taime (thanks in part to Britt Ekland's breathy
vioceover) and as romantic as dinner by candlelight
Marvin Gaye couldn't top this one for
atmosphere. A Fool for You, with its irresistible
opening ("By the time you read this letter/I'll be out
of your life / Gone forever more/But I guess I'll
survive...") and tough-tender whistling in the fade
(Stewart whistles like Dylan plays harmonica)
breaks my heart a little more each time I play it. But
the most audacious track is the side-closer, The
Killing Of Georgie (Part 1 and 2). Working in a
narrative style derived directly you might say
blatantly from Dylan's Simple Twist of Fate, and
borrowing Dylan's vocal inflection with uncanny
accuracy, Stewart tells the story of the death of a
friend with a candor as unsettling as it is vivid.
Whistling (again) over a celestial harp interlude, he
reworks the melody of the Beatles' Don't Let Me
Down into an even more startling eulogy: "Georgie,
please stay/Don't go away/Georgie, please
stay/You take my breath away."

Bud Scoppa, Phonograph Record, August 1976

AFTER HIS LAST great album, 1972's Never a Dull
Moment, Rod Stewart began casting off much of
what we'd come to love him for: the intimately
homemade sound of his solo albums, his gasolinealley bred London-boy stance (swapped for a
smoother, sulkier style more appropriate to his new
home, L.A.), and finally even his long-time rock &
roll-mates, the Faces, with whom he'd given some
of the warmest and most thrilling live performances
in latter-day rock.
The muddled and mediocre Smiler was followed by
a much better album, Atlantic Crossing. But for the
most part, the neatly placed guitars, drums, and
keyboards of that album (courtesy of producer Tom
Dowd and a crew of Southern studio musicians)
seemed too careful for a singer whose greatness
has always been manifested in the hoarse
whisphers and cathartic shouts of genuine selfrevelation. It's to Stewart's credit of Atlantic
Crossing's music on such tracks as Stone Cold
Sober, Three Time Loser, and Still Love You, but
the chemistry of that collaboration was hardly likely
to generate some new Mandolin Wind or You
Wear It Well.

If our initial reasoned reaction to the track is "How

can he get away with this?" we must nevertheless
admit that Stewart has taken our breath away, not
with his audacity but with his heart. The track may
be a stylistic tour de force, but its real power is in its
spine-tingling intimacy: Stewart has taken the high
road , and he's taken us along with him.

Stewart has proven himself a wizard, then,

because, without changing any of the crucial
elements of the Atlantic Crossing production, he's
managed to substantially change the chemistry of
his new A Night on the Town. The ambience is
much closer to that of his classic Mercury albums
than to his recent work, and through that surprising
atmospheric shift, Rod has set the scene for
compelling performances of the best group of
romantic and confessional songs he's come up with
since ..Moment.

The "fast" side, although it lacks the emotive power

of the ballads, rocks with the abandon of the Faces
onstage. Stewart starts out loose and raunchy with
The Balltrap, amending Sinatra's claim (this trap
ain't tender) but going for it nevertheless ("...C'mon,
baby, let's get naked tonight..."). After bringing
Chuck Berry into the bayou and the honky tonk,
Stewart closes his fast side with What else? a
slow one, Trade Winds, which reminds us to turn
the record over again. And we do.

As he did on the last album, Stewart has sectioned

off A Night on the Town into "fast" and "slow" sides.
But this time, the side of ballads is the more
resonant: it's tautly strung with gut-wrenching,
movingly intimate songs , all but one Stewart
originals. The single borrowed song, The First Cut

Bud Scoppa, 1976

Rod Brings It All Back Home: A Night On The
Town

667

John Morthland, Creem, September 1976

carried away, a detail which heightens the sense of

tragedy.

FIRST THINGS FIRST: this is as brilliant an album

as any Rod Stewart has made, fully the equal of his
first three solo efforts, all of which sounded so good
so instantly that I never bothered to try ranking
them against each other. After the perfunctory
Smiler and the near-miss Atlantic Crossing, A Night
On The Town comes as a partial surprise and a
complete thrill.

This is potent stuff, a song in which nobody wins

and everybody Georgie's uncomprehending parents, Georgie and his friends and the old queens
who "blew a fuse" (great line) when they see him,
even the kid who tried to ripoff some easy cash and
found himself facing a murder rap loses. It is
beautifully sung, pushed along by a chorus of doot
dooting women and a magically light
instrumental track. And when he's finished the story,
Stewart reaches further into himself than he's
reached in years to sing the coda.

When he's on, Stewart never ceases to amaze. He

can be like a pop Puck, pondering bemusedly what
fools these mortals (includlng himself) be, but also
insisting on the need to "live it long and live it fast,"
because it's the only game in town worth playing at
all. If he seems to move effortlessly between the
world of the hard-working, hard-luck guy who longs
for his protective 'Big Bayou' and the world of the
pretty French gowns In 'Tonight's the Night (Gonna
Be Alright)' or St. Tropez and Chardonay In 'Fool
For You', it could be because he's striven to remain
open to both, and has come to realize that however
much the former is romanticized for its sim-ple
values and the latter dismissed as vacuous, it's all
up to the individual, that the need for love, a feeling
of security and a good time can be as real in the
one world as in the other, and that they can't be
gotten alone in either.

Two other originals stand out. 'Tonight's the Night'

(which opens the slow side) is just as tender as you
please. 'The Bailtrap' (which opens the fast side) is
a raunchy, bawdy cry of frustration with a delightful
sense of humor. Both are typical of Stewart's sexual
flair. What I mean by that is there's no way
someone like Robert Plant can tell his lover to
"spread her wings" without sounding lik ea hydraulic
drill about to blast through a sidewalk and while this
is sometimes the stuff of the strongest rock and roll,
Stewart's eroticism is so much more seductive it
can't be denied. But then he can turn right around
and fin a song with such rangy images as midnight
trampolines and red-eyed juice (not booze, but that
fluid which flows from a one-eyed snake), and it's
like something out of Henry Miller, or Canterbury
Tales. Even when he delivers such a brutal line as
wishing his wayward lover was paralyzed in both
her thighs, you can hear a wink in Stewart's voice.

In this way, Stewart is able to remain both aristocrat

and every-man, the smalltime kid who made it out,
learned some valuable lessons along the way, and
isn't afraid to look back and remember. He is so true
to himself, his songs, and his peers that when he
sings, "When I read about you/in all the national
press/on the arm of So-and-So/I may get
depressed," I bet he realizes just as quickly as I did
that it could easily be one of his own ex-lovers
speaking those lines.

As usual, the non-originals are also well chosen.

'Pretty Flamingo' was never a richer fantasy. 'Big
Bayou', with its punching horns and Chuck Berry
guitar licks, rocks relentlessly. Stewart barrelhouses
through the country classic 'Wild Side of Life' as
though it were written as a rock and roll song,
complete with rock and roll fiddle, rather than as the
medium-slow honky tonk weeper Hank Thompson
cut 24 years ago. The only marginal song here is
'Trade Winds', which, while interesting at first, is too
transparent to stand up to repeated listenings.

Every good Stewart album has at least one song

that only he could pull off. Last time it was the
audacious 'Three Time Loser'; here It's 'The Killing
of Georgie (Part I and II)', the story of a gay friend
who taught Rod much of his philosophy of life,
moved to New York to be-come one of the hotter
items in gay circles, and was killed in the streets.
Stewart's stance is so straightforward and obvious,
and yet so com-plex, that it's easier to say what the
song isn't than what it is. Despite its subjects
homosexuality and mur-der it's not lurid, trendy,
conde-scending to Georgie, or bitter towards the
gang that killed him. Stewart simply tells the whole
sad story just as it happened, and lets the facts
speak for themselves. He even gives the New
Jersey gang the benefit of the doubt, stating that all
they wanted was Georgie's money, but that the
punk holding the switchblade accidentally got

Finally, a few additional words about the musicians

and how they're used. Stewart is working with a different band on virtually every cut (as many players
from L.A. as from Memphis or Muscle Shoals this
time), but they all provide him with the ingenious
harmonic textures that are the appropriate foil for
his voice. The soloists are succinct, certain songs
have those dramatic silent spots that have served
Rod so well in the past, and there's some string
arrangements here that must have Stewart's idol,
Sam Cooke, swooning in his grave.

668

What more can I say without foaming at the mouth?

Rod Stewart is back on top.

(produced by Tom Dowd), the image came

perilously close to consuming the talent.

John Morthland, 1976

"What's wrong with being an artist and a

personality, anyways?" Stewart demand. "The
music is better. People say I sounded better when I
was starving. When Gasoline Alley came out I
weighed 11 stone 10 pounds. Now I'm half a stone
lighter. I was fatter in those days! Look at those
pictures, at that chubby face."

Lean And Hungry Rod

Barbara Charone, Crawdaddy!, September 1976
YESTERDAY ROD STEWART wanted his picture
taken. Today he's not so sure. Flaunting a carefully
arranged scruffy look, the singer strolls into a rented
London flat, points an accusing finger at the
photographer and abruptly announces, "You're
sitting in my seat." Sometimes, every picture does
indeed tell a story.

Criticized recently for sounding too well-fed on

record ("Being hungry doesn't make me sing
better," he insists), Stewart is keen to avoid
becoming a commercial commodity whom
housewives applaud. Despite the slick PR job, the
singer sounds desperate again.

Shaken by this sudden change in temperament, the

photographer beats a hasty retreat. "I suppose I
could have had my picture taken in this," Stewart
sighs, glancing quickly at his casual costume, "But
then I'd look just like everybody else. I do put myself
a cut above the others."

"That's the old journalist cliche, isn't it? Art is pain."

Rod waxes cynical. "They always go on about how
Rembrandt painted his best stuff with one leg, how
Beethoven wrote his best work when he was deaf,
how someone else did their best when they had
VD. All I know is that the worst things were done
when I had no money. I'm including the first album
and half of Gasoline Alley. I can't even listen to
those Jeff Beck albums. Vocally, they leave me
cold."

Relaxing in jeans, striped socks, a simple satin shirt

and sunglasses, Stewart presents a duller image
than his normally resplendent dandy. He carries
with him a revitalized air of self-confidence fostered
by his latest album, A Night On The Town.

Early influences like Bob Dylan and the Rolling

Stones were more apparent on The Rod Stewart
Album than any personal identity. Not until Gasoline
Alley did the singer begin painfully to testify through
his own compositions.

Rod Stewart is a changed man. Gone is the blase

posturing of last summer, when a disturbing lack of
enthusiasm permeated Stewart's demeanor and,
not coincidentally, his Atlantic Crossing album. At
that time his characteristic arrogant bravado was
restrained by the Faces' impending collapse.
Gossip items in People and Time magazines, and
cover story cuddles with Britt Ekland, took the
emphasis of the music. Opening supermarkets and
department stores seemed likely to follow.

"Some of those early songs were oversung. That

first album was overdone. I didn't know if I was
trying to sound like David Ruffin or the Rolling
Stones," the flamboyant singer admits. "It was my
first album and it had many influences. I blew it.
There wasn't anything that was me.

"I'm not getting that bad, am I?" Stewart winces.

"I'm not opening any boutiques!

"Not until Gasoline Alley came 'round was it me.

'Jo's Lament' and 'Lady Day' is when the true stuff
came together. I'm forgetting the Faces albums now
but since then it got better all the time until I came
up with Smiler.

"Sure there's people waiting for me to blow it but I

won't. I'm too confident in what I do. I know I'm
good. Not as good as I can be; I haven't reached a
peak yet like I did a couple years ago. Now I've got
a new lease on life. I probably started slippin' after
Never A Dull Moment. There was a lull. But
everybody had a lull in their career."

"I know why Smiler was so bad. We all go through a

drug period and that whole album was made
through the nights putting a lot of 'how's your father'
away. I lost all perspective. That's why Smiler was
bad and that's really an owning up. It wasn't even a
good cover and I designed it. The cover looked like
a fuckin' chocolate box!

Erratic live performances, coupled with the flaws of

Smiler and Atlantic Crossing, dimmed the
incendiary talent Stewart first flashed with the Jeff
Beck Group. Before releasing A Night On The Town

"Britt and I were comparing the music business to

the film business. With her business you can go

669

make four or five real shitty films and still come

back and make a great one, right? In our business
you're only allowed one mistake. You can't make
two or three bad albums or bad stage appearances.
If this new band I'm getting together isn't up to
scratch," Stewart projects, "I might as well go put
me head on the railway line."

American concert where his voice was described as

"hoarse and insistent shouting."
"Hoarse and insistent shouting," he repeats in
amusement. "How dare they describe this thing I've
worked at in my throat-box for years as shouting!
It's not even a gravel voice. It's got more warmth. I
always feel my voice is like black velvet on
sandpaper.

With a handpicked band of Anglo/American

musicians, Stewart is determined to prove
disheartened fans wrong. He heard the critics;
underneath the swaggering "Rod the Mod" lay an
ego that demanded constant attention.

"And that thing about the Faces always being

drunk," Stewart muses. "I used to drink enough
before we went on to send anybody under the table.
Huge port and brandies, purposely on an empty
stomach to get pissed quick, right? 1-2-3-4," he
knocks back imaginery shots. "But as soon as you
see the stage it sobers you up. It's like walking up to
a guillotine."

"I used to feel very embarrassed with some of the

things I did onstage," Rod confesses. "I felt very
self-conscious. Sure I felt that I had to do certain
things like throw the mike in the air. Nowadays I
hardly even used a mike stand. I was very selfconscious, but not anymore. I'm too confident now.
I've grown out of pulling silly faces like we did in the
band.

Excess drink is perhaps something that belongs to

the past. So do the Faces. "Can't you get it through
your thick skill that the Faces are no more?!"
Stewart had roared above the clang and clatter of
champagne glasses at a recent press reception.
But he had reason to be perturbed. His turbulent
affiliation with the group is permanently severed.

"Everything I do now is more convincing. Britt

brought something out in me that I didn't think was
there self-esteem. Before, I didn't think I was
particularly good at anything. I just felt like I was
filling a need for the public."

"At last I'm the front man. But the Faces breaking
up had nothing to do with Woody playing with the
Stones," Rod suddenly volunteers. "Ian McLagen
and I couldn't get on any longer. I still believe
Woody's loyalties would have been with the boys.
Mac and I were the crux of the whole issue. I
wanted to take the band further than a five-piece.
That's why we took Jesse Ed Davis and the strings
on the road for our last tour. Mac wanted to keep it
as a five-piece on the bare boards. We had endless
arguments. It took a lot of deciding to finally quit the
group."

Just then Ms. Ekland saunters into the room

clutching several magazines. Wallpaper patterns sit
on a nearby table while Britt confers seriously with
Rod about light fixtures for a London house they are
decorating. Breaking with tradition, the singer is
unusually attentive. "Yes dear," he mumbles.
"Confidence is the biggest change," Rod stresses
when Britt has departed. "I know I've got a nice
body now, I know I've got a good voice and I know
I'm good onstage, but I was never too sure. I don't
have to drink to do anything now. Before, what I
was doing was never natural."

Ultimately, that restless desire proved to be an

impetus for splitting with "the boys." Stewart thrives
on changing stimulants, knowing all too painfully
that rock bands tend towards stagnation. Moving to
America and using American sidemen for his
albums was all part of the same search for growth.

This brings to mind the debut American

performance of the Jeff Beck Group at the Fillmore
East; Stewart sang the entire first song offstage,
behind the amplifiers.

"Challenge brings out the Scottish blood in me,"

Stewart boasts proudly. "Once rock'n'roll is
predictable it's boring. A lot of bands should break
up. You need new people around you all the time.
That's the biggest reason why I went to America.
The whole taxation thing got completely blown out
of proportion. If I wanted to save that much tax I'd
move to Jersey. Then I could have beer and
football.

"I don't know why I hid behind the amps," Rod

giggles. "Maybe me flies were undone. It's just that I
felt going to America was like bringing coals to
Newcastle. They had so many great black singers,
why did they need this stupid little white boy coming
along."
Suddenly Stewart jumps out of his seat, reaching
for a paperback copy of The Rod Stewart Story. He
reads with great delight a review of that first

670

"What's wrong with change, anyways," he shouts,

slightly enraged with those who want to tie him to
the past. "My memory cells have been jogged since
I've lived in America. It's like someone hit me over
the head with an axe and opened up all this
knowledge. It's like being born again. It probably
has something to do with being 30. Capricorns are
supposed to do their best work in their thirties."

"Atlantic Crossing was a one-sided album. The fast

side was dead. It was a very romantic period for
me, which is why the slow side is so good. But the
voice was mixed down too low on the fast side and
the rock 'n' roll had not guts," Rod recalls unhappily.
"You can't get Muscle Shoals to play rock 'n' roll. If
you want a disco band, Muscle Shoals is the place
to go but they can't play white rock 'n' roll."

If his horoscope proves true, the artist is in for a

very good run. Hoarse and insistent shouting could
once again become the rage. Stewart is even
writing fullbodied songs again.

Deadweight rock was revived and brought back to

life for A Night On The Town, an aggressive tribute
to Chuck Berry influences. Contrasts between fast
and slow sides, plus romantic and perverse sexual
attitudes, all neatly collided, revealing an entire
portrait of the artist. The sensual romance of
Tonight's the Night contrasts sharply with the cocky
chauvinism of Balltrap.

"For me the all-time challenge is not to write a

happy, pretty melody but to get as near as you can
to people's hearts through a piece of plastic. If you
can do that it's the greatest achievement of all
times," says this Al Jolson aficionado. "I don't want
tow rite melodies that someone can whistle down
the street. For me it's all down to reaching
someone.

"The single was meant to be sexy." Rod drawls.

"There's no four-letter words in it. 'Balltrap' is
certainly more perverted than romantic. It's probably
got something to do with some sort of insecurity.
Those songs are radically different, such extremes.
I must get someone to look inside my brainbox. The
deflowering of the virgin," the singer mumbles.

"I like to think I've proved myself as a talent and will

go on proving myself," Stewart brags, gazing into
the future with something akin to certainty. "Being a
celebrity is unavoidable. I'm more of an easily
recognizable figure than I was four years ago but I
must admit I enjoy it. I wouldn't change it for
anything."

"I've had me moments. Many a thigh has been

spread. There I go again," he says more amused
than annoyed. "Shut up, Roderick."
Stewart's conversation is usually stuffed with such
colorful assertions sandwiched between evasive
chatter. But today he was unusually concrete
perhaps another sign of his newly-found
confidence.

What demanded alteration, however, was his

choice of album personnel. Smiler marked the
beginning of the Stewart decline primarily because
the same old Faces were put through wellrehearsed paces.

"The new album is only a start," Stewart gushes.

"There's so many improvements I'll make on the
next album. The next one will have as much to do
with A Night On The Town as that had to do with
Atlantic Crossing and Smiler. All three have been
radically different.

"Certainly the combination of

Quinttenon/Waller/Wood/Mac was wearing pretty
thin," Stewart says of previous solo recording
crews. "My writing had narrowed down. I wouldn't
have been able to do that jazz chord intro to
'Tonight's the Night.' With all due respect to the
boys, they took me so far on record and then it was
time for a change.

"You've got to believe what you're singing, and the

lyrics to all the songs are great. And there's a 100%
improvement with the voice itself. The subject
matter on the slow side is an improvement as well.
On the next album I must write all the material
myself. Everybody's been telling me that the best
stuff is the stuff I've written. That's the first lesson
I've learned with this album."

"Everything happened at once. I moved to America,

met Britt, the band folded in November. Everything
suddenly changed in 1975. All Change!" Rod barks
out in upperclass British animation. "And it all
changed for the better."
The positive nature of these changes was
temporarily obscured by the alternately muddy and
sterile sounds on Atlantic Crossing. Rod tried too
hard to sound like Al Green while forgetting white,
British R&B roots.

The next stop is the stage. Understandably, Stewart

is nervous about his Face-less stage debut. Not yet
finalized, the new band presently includes Faces
drummer Kenny Jones, bassist Philip Chen,
guitarists Billy Peek and Waddy Watchel, the Tower
of Power horn section and a keyboard player. If the

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band commands Stewart's satisfaction they will be

featured on the next album. But before recording
begins, Stewart will work the band solidly, beginning
in South America this autumn and ending in
America next spring. South America seems a
particularly unlikely local for a worldwide premiere.

wasn't too long ago that Stewart (who began his

career idolizing Sam Cooke, David Ruffin and
Ramblin' Jack Elliott) was digging graves for a living
and feeling a little testy himself.
To his credit, Stewart decided not to take the easy
way out this time. Instead of returning to Muscle
Shoals and American sessionmen for a comfortable
followup to Night on the Town, Rod opted to form a
band and cut an album of mostly rock & roll. Foot
Loose & Fancy Free is the result. But there's just
one problem: the record falls flat.

"Well, no one knows who the fuck we are, ya see,"

Stewart grins slyly. "We'll go down there and get
away with murder. We've got to break the band in. I
won't go near a stage unless I'm 100% confident.
Otherwise I'd rather people remember me from how
the Faces used to be. I won't go near a stage if it's
not right.

Part of the trouble is the band, which sounds stiff

and not particularly inspired. Guitarists Gary
Grainger and Billy Peek dredge up familiar 'Brown
Sugar' chords on 'Born Loose' and 'Hot Legs' (a
hedonistic revel that might have worked five years
ago but now sounds only lecherous and silly), and
'You're Insane' tries to combine funk and reggae but
dies because drummer Carmine Appice (ex-Vanilla
Fudge) just can't pull it off. The Faces rhythm
section was creaky, too, but at least it made up for
the lack of swing with an energetic, good-humored
sloppiness.

"I've got a feeling that it's gonna be good. When we

rehearse I get a chill up my spine. The difficult thing
is finding the right combination of musicians, 'cause
we never really did the slow stuff with the Faces. I
like to please everybody but the Faces could never
pull off those acoustic things."
Stewart's goal remains being able to play Mandolin
Wind onstage sounding like the record.
"This band won't be a Faces thing," Rod warns. "If
you're expecting a load of blokes coming out all
drunk and paranoid and copy the Faces, you won't
get it. Now it will sound like the records but with so
much power. The whole thing is on me now. I've got
to prove I can do it without the Faces. I've proved it
on record, now I've got to prove I can do it live.

Then there's the inclusion of a seven-and-a-halfminute version of 'You Keep Me Hangin' On' (with,
yes, the Vanilla Fudge arrangement), an odd lapse
of taste for the normally scrupulous Stewart. A
cover of Luther Ingram's 'If Loving You Is Wrong (I
Don't Want to Be Right)' comes off much better.
Where Ingram sounded forlorn, resigned to the
situation, Stewart is damned positive he's making
the right decision. And when he sings the hook in
the third chorus, the pull of his voice is still capable
of creating Herculean emotional drama. Finally,
there are the separation songs, which are drenched
with a bitterness the arrangements don't always
bring out. It's hard to be discreet when the
disintegration of your romance is fodder for every
two-bit, publication in the world. But Stewart doesn't
even try. 'You're in My Heart,' the current single, is a
cheeky, none-too-subtle put-down that deserves
better than a country chorus awkwardly tacked to a
singsong narrative. The subdued 'You Got a Nerve'
is more straightforward and features this chilling
couplet: "Oh what pleasure it gives me now to know
that you're bleeding inside". It's been a long year for
Rod Stewart.

"It's ever so funny," Rod laughs, breaking the

seriousness of his self-promotion. "We'll have a
strange set of guys. Kenny is the only one who
smokes. We've got one Jehovah's Witness. Most of
'em don't drink but it sure will rock steady. Fuck. You
should hear 'Sweet Little Rock 'n Roller' now!"
Barbara Charone, 1976
Rod Stewart: Foot Loose and Fancy Free
Joe McEwen, Rolling Stone, 15 December 1977
THERE'S SOMETHING to be said for the New
Wave rebellion against (to borrow a phrase from the
not-so-young-himself Willy De Ville) "old meat".
Even if this reaction is mostly confined to England,
it seems very healthy. There are a lot of kids in
England who don't care what kind of fashionably
gauche trinkets decorate Rod Stewart's high-class,
Hollywood home or what the exact terms (if any) of
his separation from Britt Ekland will be. They do
care that Stewart has lost touch with them, not only
musically but culturally as well. And for Rod Stewart
this dilemma seems particularly complex. After all, it

According to Greil Marcus, Graham Parker (who

was pumping gas in England until two years ago) is
quite content traveling between current U.S. tour
dates on a bus a big improvement over the station
wagon that carried Parker around last year. The
press notes for the current Stewart tour advertise
that his entourage also will be making the rounds by
bus. But you can bet Graham Parker isn't lugging

672

 Joel Selvin, 1987

around 64,000 pounds of equipment, a seamstress,

a masseuse, a tour photographer and a makeup
'"girl". As for Foot Loose & Fancy Free, it's sure
hard to care much about 'Hot Legs' with Elvis
Costello and the Sex Pistols around. Even Rod
Stewart can't get lost in this rock & roll. It's pretty
vacant.

Rod Stewart:
Wayne Robins, Newsday, 23 May 1993
THE PENINSULA Hotel's presidential suite is not
your standard overnight business accommodation,
even for Fifth Avenue. There are three bedrooms, a
library, two living rooms, a dining room, two halfbathrooms and three full baths, one with a Jacuzzi
big enough for a swim party. Its 2,500 square feet
span the entire block from 55th to 56th Streets.
Butler, valet, and housekeepers (who discretely use
the suite's service entrance) are always at the
ready. All this is yours for $3,000 a night.

Joe McEwen, 1977

Ronnie Lane: Inspiring Rocker

Joel Selvin, San Francisco Chronicle, 20 June 1987

Ronnie Lane: Wolfgang's, San

Francisco

Rod Stewart looks very much at home here.

TRAVELING AROUND the country when he can barely
walk, playing his music one more time on nightclub
stages, Ronnie Lane is a man living with not dying
from multiple sclerosis.

He has, for the past 20 years, been both a rock star

and celebrity whose adventures have been
chronicled as much by People as by Rolling Stone.
Stewart has had his moments when he has been
thought of as the finest interpretive singer of the
rock generation, as well as one of its most
important songwriters. At other times, he's been
dismissed as a playboy more interested in chasing
blondes than in his considerable musical gifts, and
berated as an underachieving buffoon.

The 41-year-old former Small Faces bassist, who

appeared Thursday at Wolfgang's, was the central
force behind the 1983 ARMS tour with Eric Clapton,
Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page and others that raised money
for MS research.
Currently living in Houston, where he moved after
the tour hoping to establish a U.S. wing to the ARMS
organization (although he has since dissociated
himself), Lane appeared with a fine, young Texas
quartet, the Tremors, and saxophonist Bobby Keys,
who is not only a veteran of tours with Joe Cocker
and the Rolling Stones, but played in the original
Alan Freed rock and roll orchestra.

"There was a time in the late 1970s, early '80s" a

question to Stewart begins on a recent afternoon,
and before the sentence is completed, he is ready
to cop a plea.
"It was a really bad period," he said. "Though I
actually enjoyed it, I must admit I enjoyed it. It's a
period of my life I regret a bit, because I was
reading all my own press and believing it. I thought I
really was sexy."

Lane had to be carried on and off stage and sang

seated on a stool, but this was no pitiful display. He
sang strongly, running through an hour's worth of
new songs, a few old Faces tunes and a couple of
covers, including, with no apparent sense of irony,
'Shakin' All Over'.

Of course, he is sexy, but he's a little more

nonchalant about it. He speaks softly now. He
wears a perfectly cut subdued suit, a white shirt
with subtle pink embroidery: casual elegance
personified. He wears eyeglasses that give an aura
of maturity to a visage once renowned for its rakish
leer. He is beyond all that, he says, but it has taken
some work. He knows how easy it is for a
reputation to sour.

Not many people attended the show, but Lane was

never a well-known figure. He wrote and sang many
of the Faces staples but was overshadowed by
colleagues Rod Stewart and Ron Wood. His fruitful
1977 collaboration with Pete Townshend, Rough Mix,
never got its due acclaim and, in fact, Lane,
regardless of the peer respect he enjoyed, never
really got much of a spotlight until the ARMS tour,
where he rolled onstage in a wheelchair to close the
show singing 'Goodnight Irene'.

He'd had it all critical acclaim and popular

adoration when he moved to Calfornia in the mid1970s and happily, haplessly, nearly threw it all
away. His low point as an artist may have been the
two albums whose sins were defined by their titles:
Blondes Have More Fun (1978) and Foolish
Behavior (1980).

But crowds were practically beside the point. It must

have been a major personal victory for Lane to
merely mount this tour, and the broad grin he wore
throughout his stint onstage spoke volumes about his
joy at the accomplishment.

673

"I got a lot of slagging off from rock critics, which I

thought I fairly deserved," Stewart said. "I think
Greil Marcus in Rolling Stone wrote: 'Rod Stewart
has got one of the finest instruments, rock and roll
voices, of the 20th Century, and he's completely
wasted it.' I read that and said, 'God, he's so right'."

you don't have to struggle to write songs with. He

can strum anything, I can sing to it. It was the same
way with Jeff [Beck]. He'd just plug in and play.
They both inspire me."
Stewart and Wood's musical relationship preceded
the Faces, when they were the singer and bass
player, respectively, for the Jeff Beck Group, the
groundbreaking English rock band led by the
visionary yet volatile guitar player.

It took some time for Stewart, now 48, to turn the

corner and give his gift the focus it deserves. But
his 1991-92 tour showed him ably blending the
crowd-pleasing showman side of his personality
with the artistic. And perhaps in a way of getting
back to his roots, he is releasing an Unplugged
album (the concert has been on MTV this month).

"It's only in hindsight that we realize how good we

were, the Beck group, and what a landmark those
first two albums were," Stewart said of Truth (1968)
and Beck-Ola, a year later. "Led Zeppelin based
their whole band on the Jeff Beck Group. Jeff still
hasn't forgiven Jimmy Page for it."

It's not precisely one of those solo acoustic

Unplugged anti-extravaganzas. There are 11
musicians crowded on a tiny MTV soundstage. So
while the arrangements are full, there's no room for
Stewart to traipse around kicking soccer balls and
shaking what many of his female fans consider the
most desirable derriere in show business.

It was as a member of the Beck group that Stewart

laid one of the cornerstones of his legend. When
the band made its first New York appearance, at the
Fillmore East, a stagefright-stricken Stewart
performed virtually the entire set with his back to
the audience. In that way, for certain, you could say
he's changed.

Unplugging is not exactly a novel idea at this point,

but it could be as rejuvenating for Stewart as it was
for Eric Clapton. Though the mood is casual, the
emphasis is on conveying the emotional nuances of
Stewart's songs.

"I'm still pretty shy with people that I don't know,"

Stewart said. "If I walk into a roomful of people, I'm
not the most confident. But I am very confident
when I go out in front of an audience and I have to
sing my songs. There's a lot of anticipation,
because you don't know what the outcome is gonna
be, but that's really where I'm at my happiest, I
would say. When I'm up there singing for people.
When my voice is working, and it's working really
well, it's the finest drug in the world."

It also draws heavily on material from what might be

called Stewart's first golden era, that early 1970s
period when he established his solo career with the
majestic 'Maggie May'. At the same time he was
touring and recording with the Faces, the
endearingly sloppy road band on which his grainy,
rasping voice was matched to perfect effect with the
rambunctiousness of guitarist Ron Wood, bassist
Ronnie Lane, keyboard player Ian MacLagan and
drummer Kenney Jones.

But Stewart doesn't sing every song with the same

zest and enthusiasm. He still cherishes 'Maggie
May', his 1971 single that was his commercial
breakthrough. This bittersweet tale about a young
man's romance with and parting from an older
woman was never meant to be a hit: It was the Bside of the single 'Reason To Believe' until a
Cleveland disc jockey flipped the record over and
the phones went wild. "I'd still be digging graves if it
wasn't for him," Stewart said, referring to a job he
once held during his working class London youth.
Stewart said he's got a mental block about 'Maggie
May': when he sings it in concert, he always gets
the words wrong.

On the Unplugged versions of 'Stay With Me',

'Every Picture Tells A Story', 'Reason To Believe',
and others, Stewart and Wood reunite for the first
time since the Faces' mid-'70s demise.
"I knew if I was going to do those songs I had to get
Woody involved somehow," Stewart said. "Not only
did he play bass and guitar on those records, but
his sheer presence brings out something in me."
Five years ago Wood told this newspaper that he
had the answer to Stewart's erratic recordings at
that time. The problem, Wood said, was that Rod
"stopped writing songs with his old pal here."

"I haven't sung the correct set of lyrics since I

recorded it," he said. "I do not know why. It's almost
like you can sing any line, anywhere in the song
and it works, because nothing really rhymes."

Stewart laughs heartily. "I can't believe he said

that!" Stewart said. "It might be true. Five years ago
I was in a bit of a lull. He's one of those guys who

674

Stewart would like to be able to forget all the words

to 'Do Ya Think I'm Sexy', his 1979 disco single, a
No. 1 hit that sold millions but contributed mightily
to his fall from critical esteem.

son lives with him, however, and he drives both his

budding adolescents to school when he's home.
"You never stop learning how to be a father," he
said. "I'm far from a perfect father, if there is such a
thing. You don't go to classes to be a father, do
you? You can learn how to drive, or use a computer,
but to be a father, it's just trial and error."

"It puts me to sleep singing it," Stewart said. "It's

every rock critic's nightmare, but they [the audience]
just love that song." Stewart won't be doing the
song on the Unplugged tour, which comes to Jones
Beach Sept. 22 and 23 (a city date is also likely).
On his next tour, probably in 1994, Stewart said, he
may have to return 'Sexy' to his repertoire. But, he
said, "I wouldn't be worried if I never sang that song
again. "

There is, not surprisingly, a generation gap in the

Stewart house over music. "My son loves rap
music. I think he wishes he was black. He dresses
like a gang member," Stewart said. "Well, I
remember what my dad used to say when I listened
to blokes like Jimmy Reed or Lightnin' Hopkins,
he'd say, 'They all bloody sound the same!' I'd say,
'No they don't, Dad, the chords might, but listen to
the lyrics.' I finally started listening to rap music, and
to me, it really does sound the same. So it's funny,
it's all come around in a complete circle."

It's not just the musical era represented by 'Do Ya

Think I'm Sexy' that seems old hat to Stewart. It's
the whole persona the song represented, the
narcissistic skirt-chaser. "I was a bit obnoxious
about it in those days. I revelled in it, thought I was
God's gift to women." With a wink, he adds, "until
they saw me in the morning, until they saw me in
the nude, then they'd know it wasn't true."

Stewart himself says he listens to everything from

Sinatra to Guns N' Roses, but his daily diet is still
rich in the American soul and blues music that first
inspired him. On the table in front of him is a stack
of tapes, virtually all '60s soul: Johnnie Taylor,
Wilson Pickett, Rufus Thomas, Eddie Floyd. "I feel
comfortable with it. I understand it," he said.

After a host of highly publicized relationships with

world-renowned beauties like Britt Ekland, Alana
Hamilton (his first wife), and Kelly Emberg, with
dozens of lesser-known lookers before, during, and
after, Stewart has settled down with New Zealandborn Rachel Hunter. Despite the fact that there are
some superficial similarities to past liaisons she's
blonde, a model, and much younger than he (she is
23), Stewart's convinced that this marriage will have
a long run.

Although Stewart learned to sing by first copying

masters, like Sam Cooke and Otis Redding, his
impact is heard in current music by rock bands like
the Black Crowes, who have been accused of
cloning the Faces, and the immensely popular
Michael Bolton, whose fans believe he has a way
with '60s soul songs.

"I am still madly in love with her, and I will be the

rest of my life," Stewart said. "It's difficult to sit here
talking about my wife without sounding corny, but I
do love her. It's hard to put it in a nutshell. I think
because she's a New Zealander, and they're very
close to the British, it's like we're soul brothers, not
just husband and wife it goes a lot deeper than
that. Apart from her obvious attributes, she's
extremely mature for twenty-three, and has a
wonderful head on her shoulders. She's a
tremendous mother. She's a lot of fun, but she does
get tired quick. You'd think I was the one that goes
to bed at ten o'clock, but she's the one. I wear her
out completely."

"Fine voice," Stewart said of Bolton. "I just wish he'd

hold back a little: It's all voice and no soul."
As for the Black Crowes, his praise was modest but
sincere. "I think they put their records together very,
very nicely. They work out their guitar parts very
well, which is something we didn't used to do in the
Faces, because I think they're very close to the
Faces, and I'm sure they admit it."
With Wood recently in town recalling the good old
Faces days, the group's songs revived on Stewart's
Unplugged and their sound highly regarded, it's not
surprising the singer sounds nostalgic about that
band.

Stewart and Hunter live in Los Angeles and have a

year-old daughter. Stewart also has three other
children: a son, 12, and daughter 13, from his
marriage to Hamilton, and a 6-year-old daughter
from his relationship with Emberg. "I don't see too
much of the six-year-old, because she lives all the
way down in Manhattan Beach [Calif.] with her
mother, but I'm in touch with her," Stewart said. His

"We were boozers, that's what we were," Stewart

said with the fondness of a man who remembers an
era, but not too many particular nights. "We used to
drink a hell of an amount basically because we had
no confidence in ourselves. We just didn't think we

675

were very good. We came at a time when the music

was being taken very seriously. You had Jethro Tull
and Genesis, everybody with their heads down, and
we came out with our satin suits and bottles of wine
and played loud rock and roll music. As individuals,
I don't think we were very good musicians. But
together we were great."

and soft curves, carved up into four to six-acre

plots. Stewart's house was built for him in a mock
French chateau style, the bricks carefully
weathered to make it look 200 years old rather than
two. From the vantage point of his swimming pool,
you can look across the neighbouring hills and see
the skeletons of other properties under
construction, in similarly ersatz styles, like a theme
park imagineer's idea of how the supra-wealthy
should live.

Obviously, others thought they were good enough

musicians. After the Faces, Wood, of course, joined
the Rolling Stones, while drummer Kenney Jones
replaced the late Keith Moon in The Who.

A mobile studio is parked adjacent to an outhouse,

where Stewart is recording his new album; an
assortment of saloons are drawn up in the circular
drive. The low-slung red Ferrari parked outside the
front door is Stewart's: he explains that he uses it
"for shopping".

Though Stewart and Wood have talked about a

Faces reunion (Ian MacLagan would certainly come
back on keyboards), it's not really possible without
Ronnie Lane, who has been seriously ill with
multiple sclerosis for many years. Lane is currently
in a treatment center in Austin, Texas; Stewart and
Wood have been paying the hospital bills. "Ron
Wood and I may have been the two glamor boys up
front, but Ronnie Lane was the heart of the Faces,"
Stewart said.

Twin front doors in glass and wrought iron open

onto a marbled hall, which in turn gives way to a
morning room, crowded with antiques as if a
cheque-book hurricane had swept through an
auction of 18th and 19th century pieces and hung
with pre-Raphaelite paintings, for which Stewart
obviously has a knowledgeable and appreciative
eye. It is a room that has the air of being visited
from time to time rather than lived in.

It's a testament to the durability of the Faces'

unadorned, good-time rock and roll that Stewart
strikes a sentimental note about what might have
been. "Woody was always going to be a Rolling
Stone, and I wanted to be on my own, but if Ronnie
Lane had stayed, I bet we'd have all stayed
together to this day. Our livers would have given out
by now, we would have all been dead from it, but
we would have stayed." It's easy to see why
Stewart feels that way. After all the leggy blondes,
fancy cars, and lavish homes, it's the music that
keeps Rod real.

In the study a regiment of model soldiers (the Black

Watch) march in strict formation along the
mantelpiece, a solitary figure perched precariously
on the edge. "When he falls over;" says Stewart, "I
know there's an earthquake. When the whole lot fall
over I'm moving back to England..." We sit in
Regency armchairs, drinking tea out of bone china
cups. The room is lit with an assortment of Galle
lamps; the bookshelves lined with 19th century
editions of Thackeray, Moliere, Balzac and Sir
Walter Scott. (Family life apparently revolves
around the breakfast room, adjacent to the kitchen,
vibrant with the trappings of domesticity small
children, sundry maids and nannies; a king-size
television screen; the smell of frying bacon; more
bookshelves, crammed with football annuals and a
copy of Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch apparently more
assiduously thumbed than Balzac.)

Wayne Robins, 1993

Rod Stewart: The Lad Himself
Mick Brown, Mojo, May 1995
THE WOMAN FROM ROD Stewart's management
office suggests we should meet at her office in
Beverly Hills; she would lead the way to Rod's
house, and I should follow I ask for his address, just
in case. "You'd never find it," she says, in a way that
suggests she'd as likely give me his PIN number.

Rod Stewart is shorter than I'd expected, but in

remarkably good trim for his age; a wiry; footballer's
build (his position when playing for his Los Angeles
Exiles team is attacking full-back), dressed in jeans
and a plainman's shirt; a snake bracelet wraps itself
around his wrist: it looks like solid gold, studded
with diamonds.

A certain degree of paranoia comes with the

territory, of course; and the territory that Rod
Stewart inhabits is thick with it. Security guards
scrutinise you at the gate to the private estate
where he lives. A sign posted on Stewart's front
lawn promises Armed response' to unwelcome
visitors. Stewart lives in the most rarefied elevations
of Beverly Hills, in a new estate, of steep inclines

The hell-raising Stewart is a thing of the past. In two

hours he drinks nothing stronger than a cup of tea;
his manner sober rather than enthusiastic,
businesslike rather than friendly; tainted perhaps

676

with a degree of suspicion. Stewart, it seems, has

grown weary of the accusation of selling his North
London laddish soul for the blandishments of
Hollywood, and he is obviously happier to talk about
his love for Muddy Waters and Bobby Womack than
his love for Britt Ekland and Alana Hamilton. But
then let's face it, Muddy and Bobby always wrote
the better songs...

So what are the new songs about?

It's ages since you made a proper studio album.

Vagabond Heart was...

Oh, money, money and more money (laughs). The

one song I'm really proud of is a tribute to Muddy
Waters, Sam Cooke and Otis Redding. It's called
Muddy, Sam And Otis. I'm really proud of that.
Muddy died what, two, three years ago [1983,
actually Ed]. And I suddenly realised that all the
people I'd loved down the years are dead. And
they're the three that have influenced me more than
anybody, especially Sam Cooke. Al Jolson did as
well, but it wouldn't have sounded so good, Muddy,
Sam And Al.

Four years ago, yes. There was Unplugged in

between, and Storyteller, the boxed set, which did
really well. But Unplugged did so well. Six million
copies, I think, around the world, which took us all
by surprise. I think everybody thinks I'm going to
come out with another, but what we've been
working on is totally the opposite. It's very electric.

I'm going to get John Lee Hooker to come up and

sing with me. Hopefully he's going to come up
tomorrow night. It would be such a privilege.
Because there's not many of them left. There's him
and Bobby Womack, who I love...I just sung on
Bobby's new album. He's got a big hit now with If
You Think You're Lonely Now (sings chorus).

What have you been thinking about in the last

four years?

That's a remake off The Poet.

You're right. Shit, I wish I'd recorded that song. I'm

so pleased for him, because he really was at rock
bottom. So I sung a couple of tracks on his album,
which was a great honour. I've sung with Tina
Turner. I've sung with The Temptations, so to sing
with John Lee would be great. It would be nice at 95
to think you'd sung with all these wonderful artists...

I don't really put a great deal of thought into it until I

have to start recording. I'm not the type that sits
around the house playing the piano and writing
songs. If I have to make an album I start jotting
down a few ideas and cover versions that I want to
do and get stuck into it. I don't actually enjoy
recording as much as I do live performances.

When did you first become aware of Womack?

I've enjoyed this a hell of a lot, though. Because, for
instance, if we're laying down a track and the snore
drum goes, which takes a half hour to change, or
the guitar player breaks a string, I can come over
here and work on me railway which is what I was
doing when you came in.

Facts Of Life album [1973]. I did Nobody Wants

You When You're Down And Out from that album.
And I've done Looking For A Love on this new
album, but I don't think we'll have room for it. I did
Womack And Womack's Slave, off the Conscience
album. And I recorded Love Wars. But they never
got released.

So you don't work terribly hard even when you

are recording...

Do you record a lot that doesn't see the light of

day?

No. The hardest bit for me is writing the lyrics. It's

when I have to use me brain, so that's why I don't
like it. It's a difficult thing writing lyrics, because I
always try and bring in different or unusual words to
catch a listener's ear. I don't like the normal rhymes
that you hear all the time.

Tons of stuff. For this album I must have done about

40, 48 tracks, so if I kick the bucket in the next 1 0
years there's plenty of stuff in there.
You also did some duets with Aretha Franklin
for a television special?

I've been working with Andy Taylor of Power Station

we've done four or five songs together, and he's
an inspiration. He's about as near as you could get
to working with Woody. He starts playing and it just
brings something out in me; the title just comes out
of the air.

Yeah...she wasn't too friendly towards me and

Elton. I don't know whether she was just having an
off day. It was a great evening though, because her
tit came flying out. She had this big dress on,
singing the last number, everybody onstage me,

677

Elton, Dustin Hoffman, Robert De Niro, all singing

and shouting and she threw up her arms and out
came this big old bosom, straight in my face. So
that's something to remember...

listened to it on me Dansette, Sellotaped a penny

on top of the arm so the needle wouldn't jump...
Eddie Cochran was another influence, because he
had that sandpaper voice...I suddenly realised I had
this voice and I could sing like that, and I didn't lose
it. Extraordinary. And then I started listening to the
blues and soul singers and trying to sound as black
as I could.

What were the first things that turned you on

musically?
Nothing really did until I was about 15 or 16. I had
no musical inclinations whatsoever. I was aware
that everybody loved Al Jolson, but I didn't get up
and start singing 'til the skiffle craze came along
probably Rock Island Line, Lonnie Donegan.
That's when me dad brought me a guitar instead of
a railway engine for my trains. I don't know why to
this day. If he hadn't bought me that guitar I'd still be
building a model railway in a council house in North
London. Bless him.

Your voice is obviously very much your own

now, but whose would you say it was a
distillation of, in terms of phrasing and style?
The closest I've heard is Arthur Conley. His voice
was very similar. But I suppose it's a combination of
Sam Cooke and...everybody, really. It's funny now,
because my son Sean, who's 15, finds himself
loving rap music and dressing like black people,
with the hat and trousers falling down. I have to
laugh, because that's how I used to be. I didn't try to
dress like black people but I used to try to sound
like them. It's amazing, my son knows all these
fucking rap records word for word, but he doesn't
know the capital of France! There's something
wrong with the educational system here.

After that there was no holding me back. It was

American folk music Woody Guthrie; then to
Dylan; then through the blues into soul music. First
album I ever purchased, I think, was an album by
Louisiana Red called Born Behind The Sun. That's
the earliest I can remember. I was 15 or 16, I
suppose. Do you remember Collet's in the Charing
Cross Road? I used to go down there and buy my
Jack Elliott records.

Weren't you the same?

So what first enraptured you about folk and

blues music?

Well, I did know where Paris was.

When did you first realise that music was a real
possibility that you could make something of
yourself through singing?

Well, I came from a fairly poor, working-class family,

but that wasn't the connection. I think I started to
love America, and felt it was so far away. And the
American voices...that's probably what did it. And
then, of course, there was just the simplicity of
American folk and blues It's funny, you think you're
the only one who's listening to it; that you've
cottoned onto something great, and then 10 years
later you realise that everyone was listening to it at
the same time the Stones, The Yardbirds
Everybody in their own little corner, without being
aware of the others.

I don't think I ever realised. We're all insecure in this

business. You're never that secure that you think it's
here for ever. Probably when Maggie May came
along. I had to wait that long really. Because you
didn't want to just go on making records that the
critics love and everybody else ignores, which was
the case with the early Jeff Beck Group records and
Gasoline Alley. And the whole Faces thing
happened around the same time as Maggie May.
So if you want to put a date on it I'd say Stay With
Me, Maggie May 1970, 1971.

And the romance of it...just the name Muddy

Waters' Chicago Blues Band sounds so romantic. I
remember when he did the Live At Monterey album
[He probably means Live At Newport, released in
1961 Ed]. Long John Baldry had this one album
picture of Muddy on the front, wearing a white bow
tie and playing an acoustic guitar [The Best Of
Muddy Waters Ed], it's where the Stones got their
name from and I borrowed it, and he said, "You
must bring it back in two days because Mick wants
to borrow it". Everyone was borrowing this one
album and passing it around. Took it home and

But you must have felt some security before

then, because you'd been making a living as a
singer for five or six years before that.
Oh, I see what you mean. I thought you meant
when I felt secure that I could keep doing it for
another 10 or 20 years because I always thought
it was going to end next month, even when we were
doing The Faces. I suppose I first realised I could
earn a living singing probably when I joined
Steampacket, with Long John, Brian Auger and

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Julie Driscoll. Because we were earning

tremendous money for a band that hadn't had a hit
record.

lyric man and Woody would be the chord man,

which is more or less the way I work with Andy
Taylor. He'll come up with the chord structures and
I'll find some melody that goes across the top.

John Baldry was quite an influential character

for you.

I'm pretty shy when it comes to songwriting. My

manager's always trying to push me into writing with
other people, but I just can't do it. Because for me
songwriting and lyrics is really opening up your
heart for inspection, and if I don't know the person
I'm working with I just clam up.

Very much so. In the stage presence department.

His announcements offer songs, the way he could
chat an audience up. He could also alienate an
audience so easily...Oh God, I remember once at
Eel Pie Island, all the crowd were loving it and he
put on his Hitler impersonation and said "Vill you
stop doing this?" some horrible Nazi statement.
And the fucking crowd just went stone dead. He
killed it completely. But he could work an audience.
He knew how to talk to them and get them on his
side, and I think I learned a bit of that from him.

Let's talk in a bit more detail about some of your

songs. Every Picture Tells A Story.
I can't remember how it was recorded. I can
remember the build up. You know what the song's
about your early teenage life when you're leaving
home and you're explor-ing the world for yourself.
Ronnie and I rehearsed round my house at Muswell
Hill and recorded it the next day. That whole album
was done in 10 days, two weeks, about as long as it
takes to get a drum sound right nowadays.

Because you suffered from terrible stage fright

when you first started performing, didn't you?
There are stories about you hiding behind the
speakers, having to be coaxed out.
Yes, that's true. But it was only one period really,
when we first came to the States with the Jeff Beck
Group, in '65 or '66. And all that business about
loving America, loving black music when I
eventually got here it scared the shit out of me
because I thought, What am I going over there for,
singing Chicago-style blues when they've got all the
original guys over there anyway? The whole idea
that there might be somebody out there who could
do this better than me scared the living daylights
out of me. So we were appearing at the Fillmore
East with The Grateful Dead, and I was so fucking
scared. The curtain's gone up and I was behind the
amps and I thought, I'll sing from here. In those
days we used to have a little bottle of rum that me
and Woody used to carry, at the side of the stage.
So I had a couple of swigs from that and it was all
forgotten.

Tonight's The Night?

I was going out with Britt Ekland. I'd just moved
here. So that's 20 years ago. I remember I got her
drunk, pissed as a fart to sing that old French
bollocks on the end, because she didn't want to do
it.
Did you pay her a royalty?
Bollocks! I bought her a nice frock.
What about The Killing Of Georgie?
That was a true story about a gay friend of The
Faces. He was especially close to me and Mac. But
he was shot or knifed, I can't remember which. That
was a song I wrote totally on me own over the
chord of open E.

Was the songwriting always something that just

shored up your vocation as a singer, or have
you always taken it pretty seriously?

It's a very poignant song. Did you feel you were

going out on a limb with that theme?

No, I still don't take myself seriously as a

songwriter. It's not natural to me. But in those days,
The Beatles had started writing their own stuff, and
then the Stones were doing the same, and all of a
sudden it was the thing to do you really wanted to
put a stamp on the business.

Writing a gay song? It's probably because I was

surrounded by gay people at that stage. I had a gay
PR man, a gay manager. Everyone around me was
gay. I don't know whether that prompted me into it
or not. I think it was a brave step, but it wasn't a
risk. You can't write a song like that unless you've
experienced it. But it was a subject that no one had
approached before. And I think it still stands up
today. I'm going to be doing that song when we play
in Britain.

Woody and I used to sit around in his mum's council

house in the freezing cold in his bedroom, in front of
a one-bar electric fire trying to write songs for the
Jeff Beck Group. I was the melody man and the

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Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?

bosom hanging out. Oh God...how could I wear

that?

(Sighs) Well, the thing about that is that I nicked

part of it. It wasn't a conscious nick, but I'd been
down in Brazil and I'd heard this melody no lyrics
which everybody was singing at the carnival [Taj
Mahal by Jorge Ben Ed]. It was only when the
record was finished that I realised I'd nicked
somebody else's song; and it was a fair cop. I put
me hands up and said sorry mate. And he was OK.
He earned a bit of money out of it. I gave my share
of the royalties to UNICEF, I felt so guilty about
nicking somebody else's song.

Did you feel a berk putting that on?

No, I didn't at all, or I wouldn't have worn it.
Everybody was wearing it.
But wasn't exactly Rod the lad, was it?
No, it was definitely "Rod has gone to Hollywood".
Do you regret that in a sense now? Do you think
it's permanently tainted the way people regard
you?

Actually, the string line is from a Bobby Womack

song If You Want My Love, Put Something Down
On It. I told Bobby and he thought that was real
cute 'cos you can nick string lines without
breaching copyright.

No. It's so long ago now 15, 16 years and I think

people have forgotten about it. I've done so
many...worthy things that I think that's been
forgotten about. But that song, Do Ya Think I'm
Sexy?, I think it's one of those songs that everyone
can remember what they were doing in that
particular year. It was one of the 10 songs that
summed up that whole dance/disco period. And
that's what music's about surely, to bring back
memories.

I think you said of that song, "If ever I wrote a

song that put the spanner in the works it was
that one..."
It's funny because we're going to call the new
album Spanner In The Works. But yes, that song
upset so many people, especially the so-called hard
rock critics in America. I suppose because it was so
flippant, at that time. They all thought I was jumping
on the disco bandwagon, which probably I was. But
it's funny, because that song gets played all the
time now; it's having a rebirth in this country. I was
with Sean, my son, in a very, very hip shop down on
Melrose, where he buys his clothes, and they had it
there.

What's the song you're most proud of?

I'm really proud of this Muddy, Sam And Otis song.
There's some very touching lyrics in it. I Was Only
Joking is another favourite of mine. That's probably
what I accuse my son of now. If he ever does
anything he'll say, "No Dad, I was only joking". And I
say, "You can't go through life saying you're only
joking. You've got to be responsible for your
actions." And I think that's what I was writing about..
that I wasn't being responsible for my actions. I
wrote that in '76, and I was talking about a period
from '68 through the early '70s when I was a bit of a
rascal.

But I'd made so many albums which had got good

critical response, and that just pissed everyone off.
A lot of people thought I was singing about myself,
although the lyrics are in the third person. But a lot
of people thought, look at his hair, the way he
dresses, he's got to be talking about himself.
Well, you might as well have been, the image
you were projecting then. They were the
spandex years weren't they?

In what way?

Yeah, spandex...that's the word. We've just emptied

out a warehouse and I've got some of those clothes
in the garage. Jesus Christ... what I used to wear.

Ethically, you mean.

Messing people about, things like that.

No, no. Girls. (Pause) I don't want to go into that.

It's a closed book now, that.

What do you think of the person who wore

those clothes?

Are there things you look back on and wish you

hadn't done?

I think I must have been a fucking hero to have had

the guts to wear them. I had a whole spandex suit,
dead tight, slashed across the chest, with one

No, I've got no regrets at all. I can't think of

anything, including a couple of dodgy album covers,
that I regret. I wish I'd built a football pitch a few

680

more years ago instead of leaving it until I was 50. I

get so much pleasure out of it. Every day I phone
up the housekeeper in England "How's my pitch?"
As if someone's going to steal it. But the council [in
Epping] have just given me permission to keep it,
because I'd built it without permission, not dreaming
you needed it. If you've got 30 acres surely you
could put a pitch there. But I wanted it to be
Wembley standard, so I did have to move a bit of
earth...

Of the songs I've written, probably all the songs on

Camouflage. I'd lost interest in that time. There
were two American hits on it Some Guys Have All
The Luck and Infatuation but otherwise it was a
bad album. I thought I'd just put it out and see what
happened. What I'd done is put myself in a
producer's hands. My manager said, "Put yourself
in his hands", and I did, and it was the album I'm
least proud of. It wasn't Michael Omartian's fault.
He did the best he could with an artist that wasn't
involved. I didn't care.

So it's like Field Of Dreams. You've built the

pitch hoping the Scottish team will turn up...

It's odd that, because Michael Omartian

produced Bobby Bland's Dreamer. You recorded
It's Not The Spotlight from that album.

Well maybe they will, if they get through to the

European Nations Cup next year they'll probably
play in London and they can come out and train.
Leeds United have used it to train and they loved it.
Gordon Strachan's a good mate of mine, so we
organised that.

Did he do that? That's a Goffin-King song. I didn't

know he'd done that. But I've always loved Bobby
'Blue' Bland. The first label I ever went to for a deal
was Decca, and I sang a Bobby Bland song, Turn
On Your Lovelight. They said no way. Shoved me
out the door!

OK, more songs you're most proud of?

What about Stay With Me? Somebody

described that as "a nasty slice of maggoty
rancour...

I love Forever Young, because that was a real

heartfelt song about my kids. I suddenly realised I'd
missed a good five years of Sean and Kimberley's
life because I was so busy touring all the time. With
these kids now I don't make that mistake I take
them on tour with me, so I can watch them grow up.
So that's another favourite. Unfortunately, it wasn't a
big hit in England, but it's like a national anthem
here.

Maggoty rancour! Well, fair enough.

Well it did have a very sexist slant to it.
It was certainly there, yes. Hot Legs was the same.
You wouldn't get away with those kind of songs
now. They'd be up in arms.

What's the picture of you that you think comes

across in your songs over the years?

Do you feel embarrassed by that now?

Oh, it would be a mixed picture, I think. It's funny,

because I thought I was maturing with the songs I'd
been writing over the last five or six years, but then
suddenly with this album there's a song that's
almost like Hot Legs, about a hooker that moves
from one side of America to the other to earn a
living in a high-class strip-joint, and then goes back
home with a whole load of money and doesn't upset
her family because they didn't know about it. I never
thought I'd find myself writing songs like that
those dirty, rude, shagging songs.

No, not really. It was the way I felt at the time, and
you just sing whatever comes into your mind. But
people still love Stay With Me.
You've always had really good taste in other
people's songs. Do you get a lot of pleasure out
of finding a good song?
Yeah, I love singing other people's material. What I
do with Tom Waits songs, I can find melodies that
he's got there that he doesn't even know he's got
himself. Like Downtown Train I can hear the
melodies that either he's trying to sing or they're in
his head but he can't get them, and I just go there.
I've just recorded another one of his, Hang On St
Christopher, which I don't know if we'll use.

So what inspired you to write that one?

Nothing inspires you. The title is Shock To The
System, and once I'd started singing, when we'd
laid down the track, the words just come out.
Believe me, it's like voodoo. The words come out
and you think, Jesus.

You must have earned him more money singing

his songs than he's ever earned singing them
himself.

What are the songs you're least proud of?

681

Yeah, it's frightening how much I've earned him.

He's very good, though; he's bought me loads of
dinners. I've never met the guy, but he buys me
dinner through the guy who manages our football
team, used to be his publisher. We go out and he
says, "Tom's told me to buy you dinner tonight." So,
fair enough...

You've made a habit of doing Motown songs

over the years...
Yeah. And Dylan. I've done a Dylan song on this
new album, What's A Sweetheart Like You Doing In
A Dump Like This. But Motown...The way those
songs were structured was remarkable: this
ginormous drum sound, very rarely use guitars
just to do these little "chanks", brass on everything.
Listen to The Four Tops and the Temps records and
the sound's huge, like a brick shit house. I just don't
know how they did it. The lyrical content wasn't
great, but the singer made it sound great. Levi
Stubbs singing "Sugar pie honey bunch..." Anybody
else singing that would have sounded ropey, but
with that voice...it was the singers really.

Are you a fan still, an avid record collector?

No, if I hear something on the radio I might go out
and buy it. But the most contemporary thing I listen
to is Prefab Sprout. I think they're tremendous. I get
a lot of help from Rob Dickins, who runs WEA in
England. It was his idea to do Downtown Train and
Tom Traubert's Blues. Have I Told You Lately was
my idea. It's funny, because Rob said I shouldn't do
that song it was too obvious but it turned out to
be one of the biggest hits I've ever had.

David Ruffin was another influence of mine, another

that's kicked the bucket. I was really good friends
with Ruffin. Woody's got a wonderful picture of me
looking down David's throat, because we couldn't
work out why he didn't lose his voice and I did. So
I'm looking down to see what he's got that I haven't.

What about the greatest songs youve never

recorded?
Oh God, there are so many of them. Sittin On The
Dock Of The Bay. I was doing that eight years ago
in concert, and then the tall, lanky cunt comes along
what's his name? With the long hair? Michael
Bolton. He did that and another one, When A Man
Loves A Woman...And I just think, I can't do those
songs after he's done them. I don't mind Michael
Bolton, actually; he's got a good voice on him, but
he...what's the word?...over-emotes a bit too much.
He needs to relax a bit more.

You also sang with Ronald Isley.

Oh Ronnie. God, yeah. He'd be disappointed if I
forgot to mention him. I loved the Isleys, and that
was a great honour too. What a wonderful guy. He
was so pleased to do This Old Heart again. It
brings him a new audience. He came onstage when
we played here, in front of 25,000 for three nights,
and he was chuffed about that. And the song brings
a new audience for me who didn't know about it first
time around when he recorded it. So it's like a handme-down situation with these songs.

What was the criterion for Unplugged? It really

was "My Back Pages", wasn't it?

OK, Bob Dylan.

Exactly. I had to get hold of Woody. I had to get him

to do it, otherwise I don't think I'd have done it. To
have that spark...Because three or four of the songs
we'd never played live before like Every Picture
Tells A Story and Reason To Believe, Handbags
And Gladrags. So when Woody agreed to do it I
said, "Yeah let's go ahead". Because I think I was
actually asked to do it before Eric Clapton, but I was
on tour in Australia. Everyone said I'd jumped on
Eric's bandwagon. What about all the people
who've done it since me? Nobody gets accused of
jumping on my bandwagon! But I think they're
wonderful. It's very interesting. It sorts the men out
from the boys; those that can sing and play their
instruments, and those that have been relying on
technology for all these years.

Well, he's just the greatest lyricist. He conjures up

such wonderful pictures in your head. You're never
too sure what he's singing about. His lyrics are so
elusive, but brilliant. He doesn't write songs like
Blowin' In The Wind and Times They Are A
Changin' any more because he doesn't feel like it.
But there are same wonderful songs on his recent
albums. Do you know What Good Am I? Oh God!
You can't beat him. I could do a whole album of his.
I'll tell you another good songwriter. Frankie Miller.
He had a brain tumour, and he's been in a coma for
the last 10 months, and he's just now got out of the
coma. What a great singer he was. So I've done
probably one of the last things he'll ever write,
called The Star. That'll be the first single, I think.

It's brought me a younger crowd, I think. We sold

out Wembley Stadium six months before the shows,
so something good is happening.

Can we talk about Tom Dowd and Atlantic

Crossing?

682

The first three songs I did with Tom Dowd were with
Steve Cropper, Duck Dunn and Al Jackson the
Stax rhythm section. I was the last guy to sing with
the entire section, because Al Jackson got shot a
few days later. I think his missus shot him. I did To
Love Somebody, Holy Cow and Return To
Sender. The last two weren't released. I don't know
why.

Oh yeah, the Rod Stewart album. We called it that

because we couldn't think of a bloody title [Named
simply Rod Stewart in the US, in the UK it was titled
Love Touch Ed]. I know what you mean. It didn't
gel as an album.
From the late '60s through to the late '70s you
obviously had a clear picture of who you were and
what you were about. The albums in that period
defined that very clearly. Was there a sense that
you were less sure who you were as Rod Stewart,
what you were supposed to be, through the '80s?
No I've never felt like that. It's simple to me. I go in
and sing as best I can, write the lyrics as best I can
and try to be as honest as I can. I've never worried
about where I'm going to fit in. I've always been
fairly nonchalant about my career. If people don't
like it then they don't like it. I don't think I've ever
bent over backwards and made a record that's so
blatantly commercial. Well, there's been probably
one or two I'm not going to tell you which that
you knew were hits going in, and you were doing
them for that reason; they weren't even enjoyable to
sing, lyrically weak or whatever. I'll leave you to
figure them out.

Then I remember Tom took me down to Muscle

Shoals and I thought all the studio guys were going
to be black, and they all turned out to be white...We
did Atlantic Crossing down there, and real quick
too. Alabama's a dry state, so we couldn't drink. Me
and Steve Cropper and Duck Dunn were sharing a
couple of rooms at the Holiday Inn and we had one
bottle of rum we'd sent across the state line for.
We'd draw a line on it and measure it out that's
today, that's tomorrow. We did the whole album on
one bottle of rum. In fact the vocal on Sailing was
done without any alcohol in me at all. One of the
few.
I don't get drunk any more. I hate the feeling of
being out of it. I very rarely drink hard stuff. I like a
glass of wine in the evenings, just to unwind. When
I'm singing I drink a little bit of rum and coke, and it
just does the thing. I can't drink wine when I'm
singing because it causes too much mucus. White
wine will rip your voice to threads, and red wine
puts me to sleep.

But that's not the way it is now. I've had two or three
songs going through while we've been doing this
new album that I know are going to be huge hits,
but I can't sing a trite lyric. So there is a big
difference.

You mentioned Camouflage as being your least

favourite album. Do you feel you lost your way
generally around that period?

So why do you feel you've got your appetite

back?
Probably because I'm singing better now than I
have ever sung before. It used to be a struggle out
on tour, keeping my voice. Now I use a couple of
these little speakers in my ears, so I don't blow my
voice out. Maybe that's had something to do with it.
And I've found I can do things with my voice that I
didn't realise were there. I've fallen in love with it all
over again.

Yeah, very much so. Right around the mid-'80s.

What can I tell you? It happens to everybody at
some point in their lives. I was just disillusioned with
everything, my life at that time. No, actually I
wouldn't say that, because I was very much in love,
I'd met Kelly [Emberg]... Maybe it was my love life. I
was just so in love with her at the time that I didn't
care about the music. I'd been at it a long time, so
maybe I was allowed that one lull. But all is back to
normal now.

It's a phrase you used yourself about that

mid-'80s period, that you were betraying your
talents. Do you feel that?

But there was a period of upheaval from the

early '80s onward. You fired your manager Billy
Gaff; you fired half your band at that time; you
fired your wife, Alana Hamilton...

Maybe. I think I'd just lost interest. Other things

came along that seemed more important than
putting an album together, which should never be. It
should always be that this is the eight months
you're going to take out of that year to concentrate
and just nurture this thing along until you've got it
where you really want it. But in that particular period
of my life I didn't give a fuck. And it showed. And
nobody bought the bloody things!

(Laughs) Fired the wife, yes. But that wasn't the

time. Camouflage came out later than that '86.
But there were two or three albums around that
time that weren't among your best. The album
Bob Ezrin produced...

683

Do you need record sales, approval, for your

own sense of personal security?

tunes, and Rod sings it dewy-eyed and straight. A

highlight of the first two solo albums, on which the
distinctive Stewart folk/soul brew had started to
ferment.

Oh, I feel strong enough in myself now. When you

get to 50 you know darn well it's going to be over
one day. The party can't go on forever, and you
prepare for that day. I'm very lucky. I've got a
beautiful wife, lovely kids, a wonderful home, I'm
financially secure. But even so it's going to come as
a shock when I can't get out there and sing. I think
I'll always get up somewhere and be singing. I just
think we're all pioneers, the people of my age still
doing this, and nobody knows where it's going to
end.

Maggie May/Reason
To Believe (available on Every
Picture Tells A Story; The Mercury
Anthology; Storyteller)
Now we're talking. A truly great double-sided single
(Maggie May started life as the B-side), Stewart's
life-changer, and the best 50p you spent in the
whole of 1971. Anyone worth knowing can still
whistle the violin solo on one side and both of Ron
Wood's guitar solos on the other.

Are you surprised it's lasted as long as it has

for you?

Tomorrow Is A Long Time (available on Every

Picture Tells A Story)
Mama You Been On My Mind (available on
Never A Dull Moment)

Fucking surprised! You kidding? Next year's going

to be the biggest year I've had in my entire life. My
entire life. Financially and otherwise. The last four
years have been wonderful. Really wonderful.

Rod's covers of Dylan songs are surprisingly

sympathetic (and the fact that a couple of the songs
he covered Only A Hobo and Mama You Been
On My Mind never saw the light of day in their
original forms until the Bootleg Dylan boxed set
confirms that Stewart is a real fan): he avoids the
obvious unearths melody lines that Bob probably
didn't know he'd buried, and gives them an
attractive, understated and affecting
accompaniment. Great harmonies on Tomorrow Is
A Long Time, great accordion and pedal steel on
Mama... Dylan was never better served.

Mick Brown, 1995

Rod Stewart: Reasons To Believe
Nick Hornby, Mojo, May 1995
A fevered fan replays Rod's most ecstatic
moments.
I've Been Drinking, by The Jeff Beck Group:
(available on the Storyteller boxed set)

Mandolin Wind
(available on Every Picture Tells A Story: The
Mercury Anthology; Storyteller)

Rod The Mod's early '60s recordings, both as a solo

artist and with Long John Baldry's Steampacket,
were plain and entirely unremarkable jogs through
the R&B songbook, and he only really hit his stride
once Jeff Beck signed him up. I've Been Drinking
is, unlike much of Truth and Beck-Ola, more about
the vocalist than the guitarist; the proto-Zeppelin
metal blues is given a rest for a couple of minutes,
and Stewart is allowed to storm through a ballad
that apparently started life as A Change Is Gonna
Come.

Mandolins and bottleneck guitars, and further proof

that Stewart had found his own distinctive
songwriting voice. Mandolin Wind is as tender and
generous-spirited as anything by any of those
bedsit people, and a good deal less soppy From the
peerless second side of Every Picture Tells A Story.
You Wear It Well
(Available on Never A Dull Moment; The
Mercury Anthology; Storyteller)

Country Comfort
(available on Gasoline Alley; The Mercury
Anthology 2CD set; Storyteller)

...or Maggie May II. More instant nostalgia, a song

that sounded 100 years old the first time you heard
it. Has anything with this many words in it
(Storyteller indeed) reached Number 1 since?

Bernie Taupin's folksy American lyrics place Stewart

under something of a handicap, as he is forced to
paint a rural picture that would have bored The
Waltons silly ("And the 6.09 goes roaring down the
creek/as Parson Lee prepares his sermon for next
week"), but this is still one of Elton's best-ever

Bring It On Home To Me/You Send Me

(available
on Smiler; The Mercury Anthology)

684

It was this rollicking, show-stopping medley that first

sent me scurrying off to check out Sam Cooke
imagine my disappointment when I heard those
horrible, tinny, MOR arrangements that ruined the
originals. Stewart has repeatedly come closer to the
true spirit of Cooke than just about anyone,
including Otis Redding, and he'd probably settle on
that as a crowning achievement.

Easily the best version of a great pop ballad. You'd

think it would be simple to match a voice that good
to material this strong. Apparently not...
Have I Told You Lately?
(available on Unplugged...And Seated)
And that's about it, really A couple of stabs at Tom
Waits (Tom Traubert's Blues and Downtown Train,
the latter spoiled by some unnecessary Trevor Horn
bombast) and this reverential, toothsome cover of
the Van Morrison song...it's maybe not much to
show for a decade and a half, but unfortunately it
will have to do. Maybe Unplugged will give him him
some ideas, because he's needed unplugging for a
long time; I'm still waiting for the acoustic version of
Ole Ola, his criminally underrated 1975 Scotland
World Cup single...

Sweet Little Rock'n'Roller (available on Smiler;

The Mercury Anthology; Storyteller)
Rod has few rivals as a balladeer, but Rod The
Rocker is an altogether more dubious proposition,
especially after Atlantic Crossing, when you could
almost hear the lead guitarists' perms. He had his
moments though: Had Me A Real Good Time on
the first Faces album was a pretty decent Stones
pastiche, and Pool Hall Richard didn't hang about.
This is his most convincing effort. however, a
souped-up Chuck Berry number which allows Rod
to howl and Ron Wood to let rip with a viciousness
that even his present employers have rarely
managed.

Nick Hornby, 1995

Rod Stewart: Soddy In Gomorrah
Barney Hoskyns, Mojo, May 1995

You Can Make Me Dance, Sing Or Anything

(available on Storyteller)

When Rod Stewart fled from Blighty to Bel Air in

1975, his name became a byword for LA
hedonism. Barney Hoskyns remembers the
Atlantic crossing of the man Britt called Soddy.

Not, apparently, a big favourite of Rods, which

shows boxy much he knows. This was the Faces'
last and finest moment. It has a swing which eluded
them for the rest of their shambolic career, possibly
because the) borrowed the "keep on loving me,
baby" slow bit at the end from Bobby Womack, and
not all of its glow could be attributed to drink. It was
so good, in fact, that one almost regretted their
demise. Almost.

"The '90s saw a new rock piety rise up against Rod

Stewart and his 10 gallons of come." (Stephen J
Malkmus, 'Vedder As Merton: 2001', in Idle
Worship, ed. Chris Roberts, Harper Collins, 1994)
STEVE MALKMUS, witty and erudite leader of lo-fi
deities Pavement, speaks for many when he
locates the arch-enemy of rock'n'roll in the
prodigious spendings of Rod Stewart. His essay
'Vedder As Merton' is a brilliantly ambiguous tribute
to the way in which Pearl Jam's Eddie Vedder has
fought a rearguard action against the trappings of
fame so enthusiastically embraced by Rod and his
ilk.

I Don't Want To Talk About It/ It's Not The

Spotlight (available on Atlantic Crossing)
Atlantic Crossing was the first really dodgy solo
album Rod made (there were dozens more to
come), but it's just about redeemed by these two
aching covers the first written by the late Danny
Whitten of Crazy Horse, the second taken from
Bobby Bland's brilliant His California Album. You
wouldn't have thought Bobby Bland and Britt Ekland
would mix, but such is the Stewart Paradox; this
might be heresy, but I'd say that Rod's version of
It's Not The Spotlight is superior, if only because
he doesn't make that unpleasant phlegm-clearing
noise.

Malkmus is far too subtle to pit noble Saint Eddie

against dastardly Sir Roderick in some climactic
moral showdown, but the point still stands: that
when Rod crossed the Atlantic for good in 1975, he
became a Jet Set Lad in a Lamborghini, a tax-exile
travesty of his former glorious self. And by the time
punk had declared war on rock's bloated '70s
dodos, he was simply beyond the pale. As Lester
Bangs understood in the hilarious "book" he cowrote about Stewart with Paul Nelson in 1981
Rod wasn't simply trashy, he was kitsch.

The First Cut Is The Deepest (available on A

Night On The Town; Storyteller)

685

But could it ever have been any different? And what

exactly is Stewart supposed to have betrayed in the
first place? As John Rockwell of the New York
Times wrote of Rod's first solo tour in 1977, "he is
the sort of rocker who can take on the trappings of
Vegas and not be suspected of selling out, because
a Vegas notion of glamour seems to have been his
inner ideal all along".

which he was attempting to capture some authentic

soul feel, courtesy of legendary Atlantic producer
Tom Dowd and assorted heavy friends: Steve
Cropper and Duck Dunn, the Memphis Horns, Willie
Mitchell, and the Muscle Shoals rhythm section.
"It was Joe Smith of Warner Brothers who brought
us together," says Dowd from his home in Florida.
"Rod had dreams about Otis Redding and Arthur
Conley, and he asked me about Wilson Pickett and
Aretha Franklin. Like a lot of English artists, he
knew what he was talking about. He asked me early
on about using his band, and I said there were
some glaring weaknesses for the kind of record he
wanted to make. Some of them didn't have the
depth of knowledge or roots to change their style of
playing."

Let us briefly consider Rod's predicament at the

onset of 1975. He'd just released Smiler; an album
he himself admitted was "shitty"; he was tired of
fronting a band he knew would never be anything
more than a poor boy's Stones; and he was about
to be zapped by Jim Callaghan's Labour
government for 83 pence in every pound he made.
Moreover, like his manager Billy Gaff and his
publicist Tony Toon, he knew he was capable of
making the jump into rock's premier league as an
international solo star.

Anyone who has heard Rod's version of the Bee

Gees' To Love Somebody a song written for Otis
Redding and cut to devastating effect at Muscle
Shoals by James Carr will know what he might
have achieved with Dowd and Cropper and those
Shoals boys who (to his mild astonishment) turned
out to be white. But neither To Love Somebody nor
a version of Lee Dorsey's Holy Cow were in
evidence when the Atlantic Crossing album
appeared in August 1975. Instead, Dowd had
produced a record that sat comfortably alongside
the kind of Californian raunch-cum-balladry that
Peter Asher had patented with Linda Ronstadt, and
Bill Szymczyk taken one stage further with the
Eagles. The creamy dual-lead guitar solo on Danny
Whitten's I Don't Want To Talk About It could
almost be the distilled essence of mid-'70s LA.

On March 5, 1975, following the second of two

Faces shows at the Los Angeles Forum, Stewart
was introduced to the Swedish-born actress Britt
Ekland. A seasoned companion of famous or
powerful men the latest being local mogul Lou
Adler Ekland wasn't instantly smitten with Rod.
But after a spot of matchmaking by Joan Collins,
the pair began the relationship that would see them
feathering a nest on swanky Carolwood Drive,
sometime home to that blonde-to-end-all-blondes
Marilyn Monroe.
It was Britt, as much as Gaff or Toon, who
understood the game Rod now needed to play with
the media. "Obviously people think your life is a little
more exciting than theirs, otherwise they wouldn't
want to read about you," she said with impressive
candour. 'And if it isn't, you should make it a little
more exciting." One could argue that Britt was
eventually hoist by her own petard, since a major
part of Tony Toon's brief for "making it a little more
exciting" was to ensure that Rod was seen with as
many identikit blondes as possible.

It wasn't even as if Rod had managed to shake off

The Faces. Unable to make a clean getaway, he'd
reluctantly agreed to undertake another tour with
the band as a means of promoting Atlantic
Crossing. But it was a tour on his terms, and those
terms included the presence onstage of a 15-piece
string section. "I want desperately to recreate what
I've done on this album onstage and I'll do anything
to do that," he told one interviewer; adding that he
knew Ian McLagan hated the string section. He
might have added that Mac hated Rod Stewart
had probably always disliked him, but now felt pure
contempt for the man and his Hollywood airs.
Surprisingly, perhaps, the tour went well enough for
the other Faces to feel reasonably confident that
Stewart would continue with the band. Six weeks
later; blaming his decision on the uncertainty over
Ron Wood's association with the Stones, the singer
announced he was quitting.

What we have, then, is the creation of a "Rod

Stewart" whos somehow managed to shake off
those scuzzy drinking mates the Faces, a kind of
yobbo Gatsby tearing through the canyons of
Beverly Hills with a Scandinavian actress at his side
a Rod Stewart who's had enough of Mac and
Woody and the beery sloppiness of Ooh La La and
wants to make a record with some real musicians.
"At least Rod was thinking now," wrote Ekland in
True Britt (1980); "thinking and hustling in the same
way I'd seen Lou Adler get involved."

Atlantic Crossing complete with its schlocky,

chart-topping anthem Sailing turned out to be a
massive hit in Britain, and a fairly substantial one in

It's ironic now that the album which made Rod

Stewart the ultimate '70s rock star was one on

686

America. But that was nothing compared to A Night

On The Town (1976), which stayed at Number 2 for
five weeks in the States and included the hugely
successful Tonight's The Night (Gonna Be Alright).
A Night On The Town was an unequivocally
Californian album, produced by Tom Dowd at LA's
Cherokee Studios and featuring musicians like Joe
Walsh, David Foster, Lee Sklar and Andy Newmark.

You Want My Love, Put Something Down On It, but

it made for a great singles-bar anthem.
Blondes Have More Fun, though, was Stewart at
his most tackily narcissistic. As if the cover wasn't
bad enough with his highlighted streaks Rod now
looked like a Belgian teenager's idea of an
American rock star crass tracks like Dirty
Weekend, Ain't Love A Bitch and Attractive
Female Wanted signalled that he was even more
bankrupt of ideas or style than anyone had
imagined. And even more Hollywoodized. "If you're
in the music business and live in Los Angeles, you
should go along with everything involved,"
remarked Rod's drummer Carmine Appice. "It's like
the movie stars lived." Thanks, Carmine.

"There was a slight divergence in the sonic

approach to the recording," recalls Dee Robb, who
engineered the album with his brother Joe. "Tom
was into the tight R&D kind of sound, while Rod
loved the big ambient British drum kind of thing. I
had to balance between the two, giving both Tom
and Rod what they wanted." So much for Rod's
love of soul.

It's difficult to assess the damage Da Ya Think I'm

Sexy? did to Rod's long-term career. Certainly
Foolish Behaviour (1980) managed a fraction of the
business that Blondes had done. And Lester Bangs
was right that Rod hit a new nadir with the album's
first single Passion. "He was so obviously trying,
reaching for the idea," Bangs wrote, "instead of
being passionate or in any way embodying the
concept."

When Stewart put together a band for his first solo

tour that November; there were no less than three
guitarists in the line-up. There was also a new
professionalism about his approach: not only did he
insist on several weeks of rehearsals but he even
took some singing lessons from an LA cantor.
"Suddenly he was hitting C sharp," remembered
guitarist Jim Cregan, whom Rod had lured away
from Cockney Rebel. The European leg of the tour
climaxed with four star-studded nights at London's
Olympia, just before Christmas.

Bangs claimed that the Rod Stewart of 1980 "brings

out my Jewish mother instinct"; he thought that the
poor boy, for all his riches, didn't seem terribly
happy. But then Rod had always struck Bangs as a
little remote. Where a hellraiser like Ronnie Wood
lived in the moment and savoured it to the last drop,
Rod's sights always seemed fixed on some distant,
almost unattainable success.

It was perfect somehow that the double-A-sided

single The First Cut Is The Deepest/I Don't Want To
Talk About It kept the Sex Pistols' God Save The
Queen off the Number 1 spot in May 1977. Rod felt
decidedly rattled by the insurrection of punk: how
dare these little tossers accuse him of being out of
touch with the working classes! But if Foot Loose
And Fancy Free was supposed to be some riposte
to the punks it was way off target. A catalogue of
sexist clichs and maudlin beseechings that
"reflected what I was going through at the time with
Britt" (from whom he separated in August 1977), the
album more than bore out Greil Marcus's charge
that Rod had become "a bilious self-parody".

Was Rod unhappy in LA? Did he ever wonder

whether in leaving Britain he'd sacrificed more than
decent beer and quality footer? Perhaps there was
a small clue in the fact that the famous larynx
packed up just as he was about to do his vocal
tracks for A Night On The Town.
"LA knocks me right out, and it's costing me a
fortune in antiseptic mouthwash," he complained.
"Only an idiot would try to sing with all this bloody
smog around. It cuts the shit right out of your voice."

The following year; Rod went one step further in

alienating diehard Faces fans when he followed the
example of the Stones' Miss You and cut a "disco"
record. "It's not about me but reflects my sense of
humour towards disco," he said of Da Ya Think I'm
Sexy?, which hit the top of the American charts in
December 1978 and became the biggest-selling
single in Warners history; "They crucify me for
going disco, [but]... I've played, performed and
recorded rock songs people can dance to since I
started singing 1 5 years ago." Actually, Sexy was
a pretty good record: the song's brilliant synth-string
hook may have been entirely swiped from Rene
Hall's string arrangement on Bobby Womack's If

Barney Hoskyns, 1995

How to Buy Rod Stewart
Fred Dellar, Mojo, May 1998
"A WHITE person can sing the blues with just as
much conviction as a negro. All these negro singers
singing about 'walking down the railroad track . . .'
They've never walked down a railroad track in their

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lives. Nor have I. You've got more to sing the blues

about in the Archway Road than on any railroad
track I know."

between Stewarts solo efforts, to which the Faces

frequently contributed, and the band's own
recordings, has been attributed, to the fact that
Stewart, a fine songwriter, kept the best material to
enhance his solo career. Certainly, as The Faces
gradually disintegrated the Stewart fortunes
flourished.

So claimed Rod Stewart, cockily, in the press

handout that accompanied Good Morning, Little
Schoolgirl, his first true solo release, in October
1964.

In the wake of a lucrative Warner contract came

Atlantic Crossing, Rod's first-ever album without
Ronnie Wood and one rated by fans such as Nick
Hornby as the first in an increasingly dodgy line.
Made with ace American sessionmen, its cover of
The Sutherland Brothers' Sailing was bought by
mums by the million. The glossily produced followups, A Night On The Town and Footloose And
Fancy Free, have their moments, as does 1978's
Blondes Have More Fun, Rod's all-time biggest
seller, with a main single, Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?,
that "owes something" to Jorge Ben's Taj Mahal.

The track is still available, leading off Storyteller

(Warner), a 4-CD set that spans the whole Stewart
story from his days with Steampacket and The Jeff
Beck Group, through his time with the Faces and on
to his superstar-status recordings of the '70s and
early '80s, including a previously unreleased
version of To Love Somebody boasting back-up
from Booker T & The MG's. Enough for most
Rodders fans? Probably. But those wishing to dig
deeper could start in an inexpensive manner with
Rod Stewart (Laserlight), an 18-track compilation
built around the then Rod The Mod's early singles
for Immediate and Columbia along with various
demos, mainly covers of blues songs by Big Bill
Broonzy, Leadbelly, Willie Dixon and so on.

Foolish Behaviour followed and is currently one of

the few Stewart albums not available on CD.
Another is Mercury's Stewart/Faces Coast To
Coast/Overture And Beginners, ostensibly a
contract-filler. All subsequent Warner albums
Tonight I'm Yours, Absolutely Live (US Warner)
Camouflage, Every Beat Of My Heart, Out Of
Order, Body Wishes, Vagabond Heart,
Unplugged . . . And Seated and A Spanner In The
Works are still obtainable.

As part of the Mickie Most-produced Jeff Beck

Group from late 1966 through to 1969, Stewart
recorded two albums, Truth and Beck-Ola, currently
available as a two-on-one (EMI), before he and
another JBG refugee, Ronnie Wood, joined the
remnants of The Small Faces after Steve Marriott's
departure. Rod, after gaining a 1,000 advance,
opted for a dual career by signing a solo deal with
Phonogram which resulted in a 1969 debut album,
An Old Raincoat Won't Ever Let You Down
(Mercury). Almost folk rock in style, it represents,
along with the follow-up Gasoline Alley (Mercury),
the finest period in the raspy one's career.

Scores of compilations fill the racks, among the

best being Rod Stewart: Lead Vocalist (Warner)
which spans Rod's whole career from Beck to hitech, If We Fall In Love Tonight (Warner), a set of
romantic ballads that includes some new material.
Mercury Chronicles Handbags And Gladrags
(Mercury), a 36-track, 2-CD affair documenting the
Phonogram years, and Great Hits (Warner), which
is exactly what it purports to be.

The initial Faces album, First Step (Warner),

sounds patchy and unsure next to Every Picture
Tells A Story (Mercury), another fine solo outing
which rocketed Rod to international fame on the
strength of one track, Maggie May, and the
exemplary Never A Dull Moment (Mercury).
Meanwhile, such Faces releases as Long Player
and A Nod's As Good As A Wink To A Blind Horse
(both Warner) relied on their ragged inconsistency
for their charm. Also stemming from this glory
period is Sing It Again, Rod (Phonogram import),
the first-ever compilation of Stewart favourites,
along with Smiler (Mercury), an agreeable collection
of originals and covers featuring a number of star
guests. Both topped the UK charts.

Finally, to the weighty Rod catalogue we can now

add such peripheral stuff as Steampacket's The
First '60s Supergroup (Hallmark). Essential to
completists, it contains just one Stewart solo effort
but, added to any of the many various artists
collections that include Python Lee Jackson's In A
Broken Dream, Shotgun Express' I Could Feel The
Whole World Turn Around, Long John Baldry's Up
Above My Head, plus one or two other odds and
Rods, it's proof to all but the most demanding of
Stewart fetishists that there's enough out there to
fulfil their CD dreams. They'll be contributing
sufficient moolah to ensure that their hero never
has to walk the Railtrack way.

As did The Faces' Ooh La La (Warner), another

rag-bag beloved by the public but disowned by Rod
who failed to join the band in the studio during the
first two weeks of recording. The quality gap

Fred Dellar, 1998

688

Creedence
Clearwater
Revival

The Blue Velvets, who were Fogerty, Stu Cook

(bass), and Doug Clifford (drums), were all 13, and
played around San Francisco and Oakland at sockhops. ("All the flat top cats and the dungeree dolls,
are heading for the gym for the sock hop ball"
Little Richardah, the mysterioso of teenage
America). Their sharp tuxedo/Tony Curtis image
was replaced, after some managerial insistence, by
casual shagginess in a contrived modernization
programme, which also encompassed name and
repertoire changes mainly to imitations and
derivatives of pre-acid revolution West Coast stuff.
But "outside obstacles, mainly the Military" were
major factors determining their failure to surface
during the boom. "Some of us were in the service,
and its pretty hard to convince your CO to let you
go to San Francisco and freak out".

What's in a name? Creedence Clearwater

Revival
uncredited writer, ZigZag, October 1969
The Blue Velvets (1958-1963) became the
Golliwags (1963-1967), who became Creedence
Clearwater Revival (1967-?) a name which,
according to Time magazine, was contrived to
indicate simultaneously "their belief in themselves,
and something deep, true and pure, through which
the light always, shines".

Lack of original direction was obviously the circle,

and different things shoot off in different directions.
Rock will take what it wants gospel, folk, jazz,
c&w, etc and discard the rest for awhile. But I
dont think rock n roll ever left people may have
got sidetracked for awhile, but theres no revival as
such".

When I read that, I could just picture the band

seeing how far they could stretch the credulity of
the gullible, straight reporter; so the other week,
when, by the courtesy of Liberty Records, I was
able to speak to John Fogerty the group leader,
spokesman, vocalist lead guitarist, arranger and
producer I asked him about it.

What I was driving at was what seemed to be a

personal return to old techniques and ideas, rather
than anything on a national scale, and I pointed out
that Bad Moon had definite earmarks of the 50s
which werent apparent in any (many) other rock
records of the late 60s.

"Yes that was our press agent. He got really carried

away; most of it was a lot of boloney much too
poetic, you know we dont think in terms like
thatyeah, that was really corny".

"I see what you meanwhen the song first came

out here, I told someone that it took me ten years to
write it." (A likely story). "When a songwriter sits
down to write a song, he may write 100 that are
close, but not the exact song he was trying to get
at. In Bad Moons case, I was trying to write that
song for ten years, and so when I started, it was the
Presley era". (Hey, just how gullible do you think I
am?).

"Our name is what it is, firstly because it sounds

goodthats the main criterion for a name,
especially for a group when theyre trying to get
noticed and known. Creedence was the actual
name of a friend of the group, not a close one, but
we admired his name, which was what brought him
to our attention he was called Creedence
Newball." At this point, I began to envisage a
smirking Fogerty at the other end of the phonewondering how far he could stretch my credulity.
"The other parts are a bit corny I guessbut the
Revival waslike, Id just got out of the army, and
the band had been together all this time, but
flounderingand we needed a resurgence or a
revival within ourselves. It had nothing to do with a
Rock n Roll revival, or a Good Time revival, or that
sort of thingit was just a personal thing. The
Clearwater part came from an anti-pollution TV
commercialyou know, not crudding up the rivers
and bay, and the song that was going on in the back
was I Can Give You Clear Water, and I was really
struck by that so thats the only poetic part of the
whole thing."

What about these experiments into electronics that

you said would be appearing on your next album?
"Oh, thatll be something that happens very slowly
we wont make a whole movement into it, well
just touch on it to start with. Like the track Sinister
Purpose uses stereo as an instrument a sort of
whining, feedback idea, but well never do a 100%
jump into it it takes years to get into a new style,
so were just bringing it in slowly as we feel like it".
A good singer and musician John Fogerly may be,
but hes also an ace question evader, ball spinner to
support sudden ideas and whims, and an expert at
misleading telephone interviewers. Ive seen 6

689

phone interviews hes done, participated in one,

and read an in person discussionand the number
of times he contradicts himself is incredible.
Whether this is a form of amusement (and fair
enough if it is Id get pretty sick of being asked
questions all the time), or even some form of selfdeception (which in his spheres is not uncommon), I
really dont know. Maybe "when the weather is
clear" and the group come to England, someone
will be able to establish some sort of rapport with
him and perhaps find some of the real answers.

Wilbert Harrison's fortunes were not much better. In

those days, getting a No. 1 record did not
necessarily mean a guaranteed return. With an
unjust reward from sales of Kansas City and
trouble in finding a song to follow it, Wilbert drifted
out of the public eye, when he had come in the first
place.
Wilbert's voice was first aired in an era of band
leaders and star vocalists, and specifically at the
time of Frankie Laine's Mule Train cry. With this
song Wilbert won five or six weeks' talent nights at
the Rockland Palace, Miami and was eventually
asked to retire, with the suggestion that he turn
professional.

uncredited writer, 1969

Wilbert Harrison & Creedence Clearwater
Revival

'My first job was with W. C. Baker's band in Florida'

explained Wilbert. 'This man liked the sound of my
voice and I joined him as vocalist. I Learned drums,
piano and guitar because I used to relieve each one
of the guys in the band. Some time later W. C.
Baker took me to a record company Glades and
there I made my first record This Woman Of Mine
and Letter Edged In Black.

uncredited writer, Beat Instrumental, July 1970

WHEN CREEDENCE Clearwater Revival made
their first whistle-stop tour of Europe recently, they
invited Wilbert Harrison to join them.
Creedence music was at the drawing-board stage
in 1959 when Wilbert topped the American Hot 100
for a couple of weeks with Kansas City. It is
precisely this sort of sound that the group has
revised and revived. It is music that has an
emotional appeal and generally leaves few people
behind. This is the tradition of rock music.

'Next I lived in Newark, New Jersey. I recorded for

Savoy and a song called Don't Drop It made a little
noise for me. I stayed with Savoy for five years
before moving to New York.'
Wilbert Harrison's voice doesn't owe much to other
singers. It bears a slight resemblance perhaps to
that of Fats Domino, for its nasal quality. At the
same time, Wilbert's voice is higher-pitched.

In the process of selling over a million copies,

Kansas City gained its share of plays over the San
Francisco radio waves and reached the ears of one
John Fogerty. On hearing period-pieces of Dale
Hawkins, and Little Richard, he was immediately
drawn to the idea of being a rock singer.

The New York sessions produced some of his best

records. King Curtis played tenor sax on some
tracks, and usually present was a guitarist with a
very individual approach, Wild Jimmy Spruill.

John Fogerty, aged 14, was not the only musician in

his class at school; Doug Clifford was practising
drums and Stuart Cook played piano, later turning
to guitar and bass. Calling themselves the Blue
Velvets, they provided the backing to the singing of
James Powell for a hit record of 1960 in the Bay
area.

'Jimmy Spruill is a good friend of mine and a great

guitarist' said Wilbert. 'It's amazing what he can do
with the guitar. He lays on the floor and plays it with
his teeth. He originated that chunky sound on
Kansas City which you still hear today on a lot of
records. He also played mandolin on Why Did You
Leave?.

On leaving high school the Blue Velvets were

signed to the local Fantasy Records where they
remain to this day. John's older brother Tom joined
the others, although at this time his first instrument
was also the piano.

'King Curtis was on C C Rider and Off To Work

Again. On Cheating Baby the backing is by the
Delacardos, a group out of my home town of
Charlotte, North Carolina.'

For the next few years the group's progress was

slow. In the mid-Sixties, John was called up to do
army service, and the Blue Velvets were rendered
fairly inactive.

Throughout the Sixties, Wilbert Harrison recorded

for a series of small R & B labels: Fury (for the
same man who made Elmore James's last
sessions); Neptune; Constellation and Sea-horn.

690

Some of these tracks were released in the U.K. by

the Island group.

At the Albert Hall their sound was instantly familiar.

Driven by the drums of Doug Clifford, they moved
along for the most part at a tremendous pace
through a long series of their recorded material
faithfully reproduced.

Wilbert's voice wailed high but not up the charts

unfortunately. Nevertheless, he determined to
continue as an entertainer and has appeared
everywhere from a host of small clubs and bars to
the Apollo Theatre on the Fillmore East in New
York.

John Fogerty's voice is coarse and hoarse. It is a

rasping shout, yet most of the words are audible.
His guitar fills in lines like an automatic answering
service. He has a large stock of catchy riffs which
often end up as integral parts of his songs.

It was not until 1969 that Wilbert had another

national hit. This was Let's Work Together, and
while Wilbert's version had not yet been released in
this country Canned Heat's cover went almost to
the top.

Leisurely
Wilbert Harrison takes his stuff at a more leisurely
pace. He puffs loosely into an electrified Marine
Band and lets the harmonics fly around the hall
before picking up on a bouncy rhythm with his
Gibson Les Paul Junior and drums.

This song was originally titled Let's Stick Together

and recorded in 1962. Not for the first time in his
career, Wilbert revised one of his songs.
'I thought I'd put some words to it that meant a bit
more,' said Wilbert. 'The song was popular on the
underground stations first before the pop stations
played it. It was issued as parts one and two in
America. The label I recorded for now Sue is
just a small one and Let's Work Together was out
for about nine months before it became a hit.'

Wilbert has not always operated as a one man

band. It is something he has learned over the years
and has proved useful when times are tough.
Both Creedence Clearwater Revival and Wilbert
Harrison have known the ups and downs of being
professional musicians. For perseverance and
determination they men awards.

1969 was also a good year for Creedence

Clearwater Revival. They earned eight gold records
and outsold everyone else in America.

There is no better example of success coming to a

group that is 'together'. Ton Fogerty says 'We've
been together for ten years, we've got a unity of
mind. Our goal has been constant...to make it in
music, but only after making it together as people.

Creedence Clearwater broke through initially with

their revivals of a couple of rock songs from the
Fifties; Suzie Q, a Dale Hawkins song, and I Put A
Spell On You. Retaining a similar sound, they
switched to John Fogerty's originals and have never
looked back.

Wilbert has earned his living in music for 20 years.

He has lately signed as a producer for Mercury
Records and returned home to do a session with Jo
Ann Gentry. He has his own new album on Sue,
which it is to be hoped will appear eventually on
London here.

C.C.R. have successfully combined the essence of

the old rock and. rhythm and blues with an allelectric line up. Creedence music has the same
simplicity possessed by the material that originally
inspired them. It is a basic blues feeling which John
Fogerty describe as, for him, 'the most pleasing
basic form and the most natural progression.' 'All
the notes have been played before, so there's
nothing new scientifically,' said Stuart Cook.
'Artistically I feel we've injected something new and
with good taste.'

Creedence's rise to fame has been more dramatic.

Says John Fogerty 'Right now I'm where I've
wanted to be since I was seven years old. But
we've still just scratched the surface. There is so
much untapped sound and so many songs waiting
to be written. We've studied hard what went before.
Only the future can tell us how well we learnt.'
uncredited writer, 1970

Creedence songs are easily remembered. They

have simple melodies which invariably hook the
customers and they earn a lot of respect with the
insistence of their beat. Abreast of today's pop, they
resist labellings of 'bubble gum music,' because no
one can chew that fast.

Creedence Clearwater Cosmo's Factory

Greg Shaw, Who Put The Bomp, October 1970

691

WELL, THEY'VE finally done it. Creedence

Clearwater has produced an entire album without a
single poor song. And what's more, they don't all
sound alike. Technically, all four members of the
group are playing better than ever before; Fogerty's
improvement as a guitarist is uncanny even since
the last album his inventiveness and the number of
styles at this command have more than doubled, it
seems.

The Rain', which creates a powerful feeling of

despair. You can almost imagine the singer sitting
there lamenting the state of the world only to have
the pied piper of 'Up Around The Bend' come along
and show him the way out of his misery. The songs,
however, are in reverse order, which I suppose
disproves any such intent on Fogerty's part. (For
that matter, though, I think the order of all the songs
is very poorly chosen, especially for a group so
interested in manipulating its listeners' moods
through its music.) 'Who'll Stop The Rain' is the
closest Creedence comes to leaving themselves
open to the perennial charge that their songs tend
to sound alike, inasmuch as it sounds enough like
'Lodi' to make you notice; but it's still a great song.
'Long As I can See The Light' is a soft, blues-painful
song with a beautifully evocative saxophone solo. I
can almost see Buddy Knox kicking up his heels as
he sings 'Lookin' Out My Back Door.' He never sang
the song, but it's the kind of happy, clap-yourhands-and-dance rock & roll song that he would've
been right at home with.

John Fogerty is a confessed fan of the sound

achieved by Sam Phillips on Sun Records in the
mid-fifties with such rock & roll greats as Carl
Perkins, Jerry Lee Lewis and Elvis Presley. He has
succeeded in using a modern studio to turn out high
quality stereo recordings that sound for all the world
like the raw, primitive, powerful records that Phillips
made using only 2 microphones and no
overdubbing. This album effectively captures the
spirit of early Sun rock. The Carl Perkins licks
abound, especially in 'Ramble Tamble', the first part
of which sounds like something Scotty Moore and
Bill Black might've warmed up with before a session
with Elvis. The frequent changes of theme in the
song keep it from achieving any coherent identity,
but it's a pleasant workout nonetheless. 'My Baby
Left Me', an Arthur Crudup song, is done just as
Elvis recorded it for Sun in 1954, even down to the
string bass intro. The intense vitality of the original
is not matched here, but what do you want? 'Ooby
Dooby' also differs only slightly from Roy Orbison's
original Sun release.

I think John Fogerty must be really satisfied with

this album. In it, all the divergent styles that
Creedence has been developing and emulating
come together to create an amalgam of all that's
great about rock & roll. The band has reached a
peak of sorts with Cosmo's Factory, in the sense
that they've learned to weed out (or not produce)
the second-rate songs and the boring instrumentals
that have seemed almost obligatory on their past
albums; their growth from now on will be on a
higher level, refining the various elements of
brilliance to produce songs that will continue to
delight us for years to come.

The other derivative songs include 'Travellin' Band',

an admitted take-off on Little Richard, and 'Before
You Accuse me', a fine 12-bar blues standard
composed by Bo Diddley, one of the best and most
unusual (for him) of Diddley's songs.
Then there's 'I Heard It Through The Grapevine.' I
didn't think much of this cut the first few times,
seeing it as a throwback to the sound of
Creedence's first album. I've changed my opinion a
bit since then, but I still feel the song represents
diminished level of creativity from the rest of the
album. My chief dissatisfaction is with the extended
instrumental break, which is unimaginative and
detracts from the intrinsic emotional force of the
song. The vocals, however, are handled extremely
well, and the deep-voiced chorus is a fine touch that
distinguishes this version from all the others that
have been done.

Greg Shaw, 1970

Pendulum: Creedence Got a New Kind of Bag
Joel Selvin, Rolling Stone, 24 December 1970
BERKELEY Creedence Clearwater Revival is
rolling again, and in several directions, with their
upcoming new album, Pendulum.
"Id say its an intentional deviation from what we
usually do," said Stu Cook, bassist. "Not exactly a
change, but a natural evolution of our getting to be
better musicians."

In addition to all these songs, Creedence presses

forward here with their own original styles. 'Run
Through The Jungle' is a tense, mysterious song
that creates an effective mood. 'Up Around The
Band' is joyful, filled with promise for the Golden
Age to come, and almost an answer to 'Who'll Stop

Pendulum should be out by mid-December. It was

recorded in five weeks at Wally Heiders in San
Francisco and is being mixed down at RCA in Los
Angeles. The LP includes ten cuts, all new songs by

692

John Fogerty. Three are over five minutes long, and

the rest are all around the standard timing for
singles, about three minutes each. Even though
that means seven cuts available for the AM charts,
there will be no official single released from the LP.

soulful-sounding tunes; 'Molina' and 'Its Just A

Thought'. Stu calls the latter the closest they have
ever come to a love song. Also, Jody, who
appeared in 'It Came Out of the Sky', makes his
lyrical reappearance on this album.

"Were trying to change our image," said Tom

Fogerty. "Critics say, Theyre a great singles band,
but they cant make albums." Cook added: "So we
made an album with lots of singles on it and let
them attack that for awhile."

Another difference with this album was the time

factor. All of Credences five previous LPs were
completed in less than ten days. This album was
begun the 2nd of November and finished just in
time for Thanksgiving. This had several effects. One
was the added time gave all the group a greater
chance to work together. "This was our first big
group effort," said Stu, "Before wed just go in and
lay down the basics and John would add whatever
was needed." Also they had enough time to rerecord some of the weaker tracks, recorded in the
first few days of the sessions.

The instrumentation of the group has been altered

for this record: John playing organ or electric piano
on seven of the ten numbers. That shift has brought
Stu, Tom Fogerty on guitar and Doug Clifford, the
drummer, into greater musical roles.
"We reached another level as musicians and that
opened up a lot of doors for us," Stu said. Utilizing
this increased musical acumen, they produced what
Stu calls their "most musical" album to date. Its all
rock and roll, but Pendulum represents a change.
"Wed gone as far in one direction as we wanted,"
explained Tom, "and now were swinging back."

As is their custom, they rehearsed the songs for the

album for four or five weeks before going into the
studio. Rehearsals, at the Factory, began each day
about noon and lasted two or three hours. Tom, Stu
and Doug would return every night to rehearse
again, while John stayed at home, worked on
songwriting and rehearsed himself.

Though the music teems with the familiar

Creedence energy, its translated into brand new
terms. Johns keyboard work adds a fresh
dimension, sounding alternately flowing or bouncy
or moody and even jazzy. With Johns switch to the
keyboard, Tom emerges as a guitarist in his own
right. But the most marked difference is intricacies.

"Sometimes," John said, "reading the reviews, it

seems like, Ho-hum, another hit for Creedence," In
part, Pendulum is a response to just that. The
results wait to be seen, but one things is certain;
Creedence is ready.
Joel Selvin, 1970

The basic instrumental tracks are played with the

tight precision of wrist-watch works, subtleties
wound in. Added to the basic tracks are a variety of
exotic instruments, all new to Creedence.

Creedence Clearwater Revival: Pendulum

Bud Scoppa, Phonograph Record, February 1971

Doug plays tambourine, maracas and vibes; Tom

plays harmonica, Stu plays grand piano on one cut,
string bass, kalimba (thumb piano), recorder and
solo vox on others. (Solo vox is an instrument, not
too unlike a vibraphone with two keyboards, popular
in the Thirties. Stu bought this one in a garage sale
and calls it the CCR Moog.)

DON'T LET 'EM fool you. Pendulum is as distinctly

Creedence as 'Proud Mary' or 'Lodi'. And that, I
think, is good; Creedence music is one of the few
things we can count on; it's like the seasons in its
inevitability. And superficial changes such as the
addition of keyboards or sax or the predominance
of three-minute-plus tracks, don't greatly alter the
fabric in fact, the changes are hardly noticeable
in relation to that automatic and intrinsic statement
contained in each track: "THIS IS A CREEDENCE
CLEARWATER REVIVAL SONG." It's strongly
reassuring that, even when they try really hard to
sound different, it comes out just the same.

"We didnt overdub anything just to overdub." Stu

said, "Where we did, it was to give it something,
some little touch, to notice on the 20th listening. All
the strength is in the basic tracks."
Probably the most ambitious undertaking on the
album is a 6:19-long instrumental, 'Rude Awakening
No. 2' Connecting the songs two parts is a two to
three minute "musique concrete" symphonette;
discordant guitars and tapes played backwards.
New for Creedence with this album is two slow

In contrast to the romantic sensibility that pervades

rock practically from top to bottom, Creedence is
strongly classicist both in concept and execution.
The ties with vintage rock'n'roll, emphasis on technique and form, steadiness and caution, mention to

693

detail, and concentration on each song as an entity

all strongly suggest classicism, a values system
clearly unique in the context of 1970's rock. Is
Creedence an anachronism, or is Creedence music
ahead of its time? The answer, most likely, is both.
Beyond that, a band that plays rock'n'roll and puts
the priority on form(!) must really value simplicity.
Because of Creedence's treatment of the song as a
structure, the band's music often seems as
emotionless as it does pre-cise. In 'Good Golly,
Miss Molly' or 'Travelin' Band', for example, the
emotion is implied (by the close relationship of
these songs to Little Richard's obvious-ly visceral
performances) but not really present. However,
when Fogerty has something to say, the tone
changes substantially. Green River (the third album)
was the closest Creedence has come to a strongly
felt, unified statement, and that includes Pendulum.

notable mainly for their lack of fuzztone, wah wah

and all the other overworked gimmicks. It was a
simple yet compelling sound, an echo from rock's
former salad days. And it was apparently just what
the public needed; both records made Number One
(every record Creedence has made so far, for that
matter, has been gold) and John Fogerty began to
realize how influential his band could be.
I guess it's pretty well known that this group had
been, together a dozen years or so before we
became aware of them, paying those familiar dues
in red-neck bars and pizza parlors around the
rougher fringes of the Bay Area. Local fans
remember their 1966 hit of 'Brown-Eyed Girl', an
echo-ridden dirge of a song that got a lot of play on
San Jose stations around the time Count Five and
the Syndicate of Sound were having their hits. This
record and four others were recorded for Fantasy
on their Scorpio subsidiary while they were known
as The Golliwogs. These are of little interest except
for early versions of 'Porterville' and 'Walking on the
Water', the former credited to T. Spicebush
Swallowtail and the latter to Wild-Green, whose
names also appear on most of the other Golliwogs
singles. I don't know who they were but by the time
of the first album the credits had all changed to
John Fogerty. Other early recordings include four
singles on Fantasy, mostly Merseybeat take-offs
that you'd never recognize as Creedence without
looking at the label (the only exception being 'You
Got Nothin' on Me', a fantastic rocker) and three by
Tommy Fogerty and The Blue Velvets on the
Orchestra label, dating from the early 60s.

Even without benefit of content (in the sense of an

expression of some idea or feeling), Creedence
music is always at least interesting because the
form itself is appealing. When Fogerty actually has
a thought to communicate as in 'Wrote a Song
for Everyone', 'Lodi', 'Fortunate Son', 'Who'll Stop
the Rain' the music becomes near-flawless rock,
and valid art, in its three-dimensionality.
Bud Scoppa, 1971
A Simple But Compelling Sound: Creedence
Clearwater Revival
Greg Shaw, Fusion, 15 October 1971

From the beginning of their career as Creedence

Clearwater there has been a certain amount of selfconsciousness in their music. The word "Revival"
reveals a calculated intention to restore a cer-tain
value system to rock. This purpose goes beyond
their resurrection of Bo Diddley and Elvis Presley
songs and actually becomes a standard against
which the group seems to judge their own work.
Their aesthetic, if you want to call it that, stems
directly from the old Tennessee rockabilly sound.
This influence is most apparent in the tone of their
instruments, the standard 4/4 beat structure of most
of their songs, and the common, basic chord
sequences of the 50s.

WHO'D HAVE THOUGHT it would be an oldfashioned rock 'n' roll band to pull us out of the
doldrums of 1968's acid comedown/methedrine
blues nightmare? But that's the way it happened
and the band was Creedence Clearwater Revival
and they shot straight to the top, breaking taboos
everywhere and sur-prising almost everyone.
'Susie Q' from their first album was over eight-anda-half minutes long yet AM stations were playing it
at full length, and after that the same thing
happened with 'I Put a Spell on You', the second
longest cut. (This still seems strange to me,
especially since no group before or since has been
accorded this treatment, and the success of these
early records can only be explained by assuming
that a lot more people were fed up with the state of
things in 1968 than I thought, and agreed with me
that any relief was welcome.)

John Fogerty, like John Lennon in a way, seems to

have this compulsion to prove himself against these
old records, and as in Lennon's case the whole
thing becomes absurd because his talent is so
much greater than what he's trying to surpass. As a
songwriter and one who understands the dynamics
of a rock 'n' roll record, John Fogerty stands among
Spector, Jagger/Richard, Lennon/ McCartney and
all the other great figures. His concepts are solidly

Like most of the songs on that album, these were

pure rock 'n' roll songs in the white Southern style,
pad-ded out with facile if repetitious guitar solos

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grounded in the 70s and his under-standing of rock

is as sophisticated as anybody's; the main function
of the old rock 'n' roll ingredients is to supply energy
and vitality, and nothing more. Creedence
Clearwater's progression as a band has coincided
with their recognition of this fact.

to communi-cate a message through a song

naturally, in a way that seems both inescapable and
perfectly merged with the ambience of rock. Really
a great song, forcing you by its energy to sing along
and to realize as you do that you mean every word
of it. The album is weighed down by perfunctory
renditions of 'Midnight Special' and 'Cotton Fields',
and mediocre songs like 'Effigy', 'Side of the Road'
and 'Poorboy Shuffle', but it also has goodies like 'It
Came Out of the Sky' and 'Don't Look Now (It Ain't
You or Me)' so it's still an OK record, even if it is
hard to sit all the way through either side.

On their second album the Southern influence

became more pronounced and DJ's began babbling
about "swamp rock" whenever one of the many hit
singles from it came up to play. 'Born on the Bayou'
established the theme of the album, and introduced
the pattern of riffs soon known far and wide as
"chooglin'." "Keep on Chooglin'" became everyone's
favorite motto for awhile, but the high point of the
album turned out to be 'Proud Mary', a classic song
that has been copied numerous times and is
probably to this day the best-known Creedence
composition. Bayou Country also contained their
first out-and-out revivalist effort, a strained version
of 'Good Golly Miss Molly'. This album had two
songs over seven minutes, 'Keep on Chooglin'' and
'Graveyard Train', the latter a plodding mood piece.

Their most listenable album is probably Cosmo's

Factory. There are no boring songs, not even one,
and a certain zest runs through it all that enables
you to share the fun they must've had making it.
Also, this LP marks their escape from the "all your
songs sound alike!" charges that had been levelled
against them from the beginning (a problem rather
easily solved, when it came down to it, by simply
varying the key and tempo of the songs). This is
their rock 'n' roll revival album, with Roy Orbison's
'Ooby Dooby', Elvis's 'My Baby Left Me', Bo
Diddley's 'Be-fore You Accuse Me' and 'Travellin'
Band', a thin disguise for the typical Little Richard
record.

To be honest, I didn't like that album. It seemed too

pat, too conducive to a "groovy" stoned response
and lacking in imagination and real drive. I don't
know if John Fogerty reached the same conclusions
or simply became fed up with all the labelling and
categorizing that was going on, but the third album,
Green River, was a major change. All but one of the
songs were less than three-and-a-half minutes long,
and all were tightly structured and built on the
excitement of clean original, rock 'n' roll riffs with
solos restricted to the essential tension-building
increment. Political overtones, initiated with
'Bootleg' on the previous album, continued with
'Commotion' (a great reflection of the jangled Big
City consciousness) and 'Bad Moon Rising' which
brought a welcome return to subtlety in political rock
songs.

For once they put some life into the old songs, and
though the original artists still come off better in
comparison, it doesn't seem to matter while you're
listening. Of the original songs, 'Ramble Tamble' is
a long pastiche of Sun stomper riffs, 'Lookin' Out My
Back Door' is a de-lightful good-time song you can
almost hear Buddy Knox kicking up his heels to,
'Long As I Can See the Light' has a beautiful sax
solo, and the other two, 'Up Around the Bend' and
'Run Through the Jungle' are among their very best
efforts.
'Bend' is a fine enthusiasm-raiser, and 'Jungle' an
ambitious but successful fantasy. This album
exhibited Creedence at a level of profes-sionalism
and control far surpassing their earlier efforts, and
could have been one of the all-time great rock
albums with a few more originals of equal quality in
place of the oldies. But it's a great album anyway.

Then there was 'Lodi', the flawless evocation of the

rock musician's life on the road, and 'Night Time Is
the Right Time', another attempt to bring back an
old song, which again was less than inspiring. But I
think Green River is still my favorite Creedence
album. It contains the most successful examples of
John Fogerty's application of traditional structural
values to his own music, and the songs hold a taut
excitement that has yet to lose its effect on me.

Long about this time the boys in the band began

worrying about their image. Here they were with a
closet full of gold records and a pre-eminent
position on the American rock scene, yet nobody
really knew or cared who they were. For a bunch of
guys who grew up with their eyes on Elvis this was
frustrating, so they threw a big party and did all they
could to persuade writers to in-terest the public in
their personalities. What they didn't realize was that
nobody gives a damn about the rock star as an
ideal image these days (though you can get public

Willy and the Poor Boys included two big hits,

'Down on the Corner' and 'Fortunate Son'. The first
was a fine, infectious tune with a catchy rhythm,
and 'Fortunate Son' was another classic rock 'n' roll
song with uncontrived political implications. If any
proof were needed, Creedence's status as a great
rock 'n' roll band is amply confirmed by their ability

695

attention by acting out an outrageous role, a la the

Stones, which is obviously not worth doing for the
mere attention it brings) but then expectations can't
be abolished by logic.

J.C. Fogerty's still aboard and sounding better than

ever on vocals, but it's the aforementioned
presence of the hitherto obscured bassist and
drummer that makes Mardi Gras what it is a
forthright and varied program of tasty mainstream
Sixties stuff, folk-rocking and swamp-rocking its way
toward the status of being one of CCR's finest
albums.

So, to their detriment, Creedence became overly

self-conscious. The Pendulum album contained a
forced attempt at musique concrete psychedelia
called 'Rude Awakening No. 2' and even the
straight-out rockers like 'Molina' and 'Hey Tonight'
seemed dampened by some kind of cautious
restraint. What seemed most missing in the album
was a sense of personal commitment to the music,
as pleasant and well-formed as it was. As always
there were exceptions to the general tone of the
album, in this case 'Have You Ever Seen the Rain'
and '(I Wish I Could) Hideaway' but the primary
impression from Pendulum is of something lacking.

'Door to Door', previously the flip of 'Sweet Hitchhiker', written and sung by Cook, really does it for
me. It's Fifties boogie variant stuff, rollicking big
smile music that not only sports high flyin'
Berrychuck lyrics but finds Cook pulling off some
Big El stuttering in the fade; two minutes and 7
seconds. Like the punk boppers in San Jose say,
'all right!'
Clifford's best writing seems to be 'Tearin' Up the
Country (With A Song)', somewhere midway
between vintage rockabilly and current Jerry Reed
novelty (it sounds like it could conceivably get
country airplay and turn a few more tricks for CCR),
but his singing carries off the prize for his
collaboration with Cook, 'Need Someone To Hold'.
With strikingly deliberate accompaniment from the
band (some beautiful dumb piano, chorded rhythm
and economic lead embellishment), he comes off
sounding like a less preachy Swamp Dogg, and it's
remarkable.

The identity crisis continued and re-sulted, shortly

after the last album, in rhythm guitarist Tom Fogerty
leaving the group. Then after a long delay
Creedence came up with a new single, 'Sweet
Hitchhiker,' whose, gassy lyrics about seeing a girl
on the road and wondering whether to pick her up
were ob-scured by an unnecessarily fast tempo
so fast, in fact, that Fogerty was unable to match
his solo to it their worst single ever and likely to
be the first not to sell a million. This was shortly
followed by Tom's solo effort, which was good if not
exceptional.

Fogerty himself is as strong as ever and his power

in delivering plaintive gospel things like 'Someday
Never Comes' shows as never before. 'Someday' is
classic folk-rock, as much Creedence's '72 bid for
immortality as 'Who'll Stop the Rain' was 1970's.
'Hello Mary Lou' is exquisite the perfect marriage
of roots material and performers' empathy,
conceptually a readymade, in execution another in
a long line of peerless CCR dance tunes.

Things do not look hopeful for Creedence

Clearwater Revival from where I sit. They dont
seem to have the self-assurance to transcend the
Sun Records trip (which reached its culmination in
Cosmos Factory) and rely on their own instincts.
Covering this insecurity with exaggerated flash, as
in 'Sweet Hitchhiker', will not work, nor will anything
work for them at this stage but honest confidence in
themselves. But whoever they think they are or
whatever they're striving to prove, they've already
proved that rock 'n' roll can be a viable form in the
Seventies and that they are one of the best rock 'n'
roll bands ever. If only they could be con-tent with
that...

It may not be Green River or Cosmo's Factory, but

Mardi Gras offers some of Creedence's finest
moments, and it's a damn good answer to any and
all of those 'Rock is Dying' clowns.
Gene Sculatti, 1972

Greg Shaw, 1971

Creedence Clearwater Revival: Live In Europe

(Fantasy)

Creedence Clearwater Revival: Mardi Gras

(Fantasy)

Lester Bangs, Let It Rock, April 1974

Gene Sculatti, Phonograph Record, May 1972

I MEAN REALLY, who cares about Creedence

anyway? They're dead now, I'd already forgot about
'em till this thing came out.

CREEDENCE AGAIN. Their sixth or seventh LP, the

first minus Tom Fogerty on rhythm, the first with Stu
Cook and Doug Clifford contributing songs and
singing.

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But then, I'd also forgot that every Christmas

Fantasy's gotta have some kinda CCR package or
they might not even be able to get thru the rest of
the year with all those singing Jehovah's Witnesses
and old dead blues creep repackages they're still so
faithfully plying us with. I'm sure the resurrection of
Korla Pandit couldn't do much less for keeping their
coffers brimming than the general run of their
releases, so even tho CCR belongs to history now
we gotta keep eating new configurations of their old
and always older jams, vinyl shortage or no.

albums, as's common knowledge, are one album

recycling admittedly gutsy funky hardass riffs
whenever Fogerty got a new idea for a lyric or some
kinda point he wanted to make.
By the time CCR were pacing thru their final
albums, tho, he was beginning to run out of points.
Meanwhile, the cogs kept turning teeth or no teeth.
Meanwhile, perhaps the most notable aspect of live
Creedence had always been how unusually close
they sounded to their records. Bigger and louder, of
course, but still never really trashed out on the kind
of limbs people like the Stones and even assbite
live bands like the Byrds peregrinated.

Fortunately, however, this is not yet another

Creedence Greatest Hits Volume XZQ-O-9%
snuckeroo. This is in fact the long awaited and
totally legit live Creedence album. Just like all the
other lame opressive live sets of late it's two whole
records, but damned if this one time they don't
justify the length. And they even trendily recorded it
in Europe, just like the next live Rolling Stones
album since the Stones will always know better
than not to follow in Ike & Tina Turner's footsteps,
and even maggoty to these years Creedence is still
sufficiently on the ball to sniff out the Stones' tacks
afore any old NY Dolls shabbismes get onta'm.

So I for one wasn't really looking forward to any live

Creedence set. But here it is anyway, so we might
as well not ignore it since almost all live albums
suck shit and the aforementioned fact that it doesn't
is almost enough to shove it into the rare precious
and beautiful ghetto.
First notable about this disc is how unnecessary the
great big picture of John, Doug and Stu inside is.
We always knew they were just three more faceless
Berkeley schmucks, and John Fogerty in particular
has one of the most anticharismatically puffy
doughfaces in all of rock. None, absolutely none of
the soul and mysterioso root canal background
redolent in his songs is reflected on his mug. Doug
for his part grew a beard when he was four years
old, and together with the modified Julious
Caesar/puddingbowl haircut he was born with and
his shades renders him utterly dorked out so no
picture of him should ever have been printed on any
record or anywhere else. Rock 'n' roll stars simply
should not look like this and if they do that's their
tough luck, they should keep paper bags over their
heads whenever in public. As for Stu he's such a
nothing in the looks dept he's not even worth
mentioning, you can't even describe him. I don't like
John's cowboy tie either, it makes him look like a
dude ranch doily and reminds me of the Blue Ridge
Rangers which was the most utterly worthless selfindulgence since Liberace decided to do a
Schonberg album. Only even marginally interesting
thing about the picture herein is that it shows them
all drinking Coors beer, shows they got good taste
in suds at least.

Creedence, as ain't no news, was never an album

group. They made a cannibal stewpot fulla
razorbackin' hoptail singles, and live they were
good reliable kindling even if a mite too predictable
for us snookernosed scamps after a little sidewise
action, just like we smart-alices got hyperhip to and
thus the wee bittest disdainful of the automaticulous
formula scrubs of Creedence's AM-singles flair way
early in the game. Which is to say we always
admired 'em, and were moved fairly regular, and
certainly gave to J. Fogerty all the respect he was
obviously due, but and still at that time also we fight
in spite of all fire next time that there was something
a trifle mundane, cut-and-dried, methodical and
generally roto rooter about Creedence. They were
just a honk too professional to make you skip
school more than once. And in spite of all roots 'n'
authenticity, a follicle too AM oriented not to get
sniffed at by our waning but still tangible art-rock
bred snobbery. Somehow the Stones' AM success
didn't invalidate them, why didn't they seem as
calculating as Creedence? Ans.: Cause they
managed to keep more variety rushing thru the
proceedings like crystal-scared blood.

The music: well it's the same music as ever. Done

pretty much the same way with minor exceptions.
Most of the expectables are here, and most of 'em
are done just fine, rousing and high spirited and
true and all the rest of that flapdoodle. Some of my
favourites are missing but I can't remember which
ones. Just like all their other concerts most of this
sounds almost exactly like their studio albums.
Excepting mainly all 13 minutes of 'Keep On

Yeah and that was the other thing. Creedence was

just so damn repetitious. Even more repetitious
than the Doors, and their limitations bonked our
noggins most rudely the instant we heard Strange
Days. One night on speed and beer I actually sat
down and listened to all of Creedence's albums in a
row, and the reason I did it was speed and beer and
that I was crazy then. Because all of Creedence's

697

Chooglin', which manage to sustain themselves

remarkably well or at least better than 'I Heard It
Thru the Grapevine'. But then whadda I know, I
never even liked 'Suzy Q'.

seen since Julie London (Liberty Records; see

inside cover ad).

Lester Bangs, 1974

Tom Nolan, 1975

The Golliwogs: Pre-Creedence

Creedence Clearwater Revival: Bayou

Country/Green River/Willy and the
Poorboys/Cosmo's Factory and more

Tom Nolan, Phonograph Record, April 1975

BLUESY ROCKIN' quartet from El Cerrito makes
debut with this derivative but infectious disc of
baker's-dozen-plus-one tunes. Opener, Don't Tell
Me No Lies, will appeal to Dave Clark fans, while
Little Girl has that surf-ballad feel.

Andy Gill, NME, 6 October 1984

ANCIENT BEAT journalist and hippie doyen Ralph
J. Gleason, who could be a daft old coot at the best
of times, got it completely wrong in his liner-note to
the first (eponymous) Creedence album.

Lead vocalist Tom Fogerty flutters tonsils with a

Denny Wilson throb the chicks'll love (no pics
available) while (brother?) John Fogerty handles
the r&b material. Where You Been, Beach Boys
soundalike clocking at a swift 2:25, seems a cinch
single. You Came Walking has that hitbound
Liverpool Merseybeat; except for the California
vowels this could be the Searchers or the Seekers!
And these lads needn't search far; success surely
won't elude them long.

"Creedence Clearwater Revival, wrote Ralph, "is an

excellent example of the Third Generation of San
Francisco bands which gives every indication (as
this album demonstrates forcibly) of keeping the
strength of the San Francisco sound undiminished."
I don't know whether Ralph had actually seen or
heard the group before he took the green stuff and
rattled out this rubbish, but any attempt to shoehorn Creedence into some homogeneous SF scene
and sound seems, with the benefit of hindsight,
quite absurd.

A versatile ensemble, they move easily from one

mood to another: You Can't Be True has the nittygritty groove of those British bad boys, the Rolling
Stones (strong backbeat by drumsman Doug
Clifford), while You Got Nothin' (On Me) evokes
those "old masters" C. Berry and C. Perkins, via
their moptop British idolators. Brown-Eyed Girl (not
the Them original) is a tuff blues a la England, with
Fogerty (John) rivaling the Animals' terpster, and
bassist Stu Cook laying down a solid line. (Organ
uncredited).

Any fule can tell that, apart from the high, wheedling
guitar tone employed oft-times by John Fogerty in
his career, the group bore little or no resemblance
to West Coast hippy-dippyism.
What they do or did resemble is rock'n'roll, a
musical form which even in those days was
showing distinct signs of rigor mortis, and which
nowadays simply doesn't exist.

Side two premier cut, You Better Be Careful,

sounds mighty like another Londonderry band, the
She's Not There crew (Zombies see feature
story, pg. 20). Fight Fire is a filler cut, but Fragile
Child comes on strong with a Manfred Mann-esque
approach. Next cut, Walkin' on the Water,
highlights meaningfully folkish lyric over strong rock
beat; interesting approach, but potentially
controversial. You Better Get It Before It Gets You,
fifth title to begin with that particular personal
pronoun, has well-handled tempo change and
outstanding vocal by John F., a potential
powerhouse performer (note next cut, the moody
Porterville). Call It Pretending makes an even
fourteen. Shrewd move by this S.F. label to break
into the lucrative pop field (jazzman Vince
Guaraldi's their big buck-maker these days); special
kudos to the cover collage: nicest LP look we've

The band may have been San Francisco born and

bred and resident, but their hearts were suspended
somewhere between Memphis and New Orleans,
indeed, a chief lament of Fogerty's was that he was
born too late to be guitarist for Little Richard or
Eddie Cochran.
The (frankly appalling) cover to their fifth LP
Cosmo's Factory bore the legend "Lean, Clean &
Bluesy", a catchphrase which applies to all their
output, right back to the covers of '99 _ (Wont Do)',
'I Put A Spell On You' and 'Suzie Q' which graced
their debut.
Fogerty's Southern-states fantasy came even more
to the fore on their second album Bayou Country,

698

still the most perfect expression of their brand of

swamp-rock, a then current sub-genre consisting of
them, Tony Joe White, and few others.

Of Rock as "perhaps worst album ever released by

a prominent band", and described correctly, at that.
Tom Fogerty left to cut his solo teeth; John went off
to become the Blue Ridge Rangers, Cook and
Clifford took to sessions, and all eventually
disappeared.

Even a decade and a half later, 'Born On The

Bayou', 'Bootleg' and 'Proud Mary' seem fresh as
daisies, tight but relaxed examples of organic,
blues-based rock'n'roll.

During only four years together, they became the

most successful American rock band of all time,
amassing huge sales of all their albums and (more
than a dozen) singles, and providing many of us,
too young to remember with some idea of what
"rock'n'roll" was like.

Green River was more of the same, but without a

seven or eight minute track to drag things down. As
you might expect, this omission means the album's
weathered somewhat better than its predecessors,
though with songs like the title track, 'Lodi', 'Bad
Moon Rising', 'Cross-Tie Walker', and a searing
version of 'The Night Time Is The Right Time', this
was always a distinct possibility.

Their consistency and their ability to spike chart

singles with political zip is what I'll remember them
for; out of this batch of seven, I'll probably keep
Bayou Country, Green River and Cosmo's Factory,
with maybe one or two volumes of Creedence Gold
to condense the lot.

At a time of increasing sophistication and

pretentiousness, the cover of Willy And The
Poorboys, depicting the band playing blues harp,
washboard, acoustic guitar and washtub bass, was
distinctly infra-dig.

You could do worse, yourself.

So was the music, which nonetheless has lasted

longer than 'The Fish Cheer', 'Alligator', or any of
the product then available on the Island label. You'll
doubtless recall 'Down On The Corner', and there's
plenty more of the same thing here.

Andy Gill, 1984

John Fogerty
Craig Werner, Goldmine, 18 July 1997

This LP marked a move away from swamp-rock, but

the rock it moved to wasn't that far removed
anyway. Creedence never really changed from first
to last, other than a degree or two this way or that
and a sharp dwindling at the end.

THE HISTORY of rock'n'roll bears witness to the

power of the unmistakably individual voice bubbling
up from subterranean reservoirs of the blues,
gospel, and country music: Chuck Berrys ringing
guitar; little Richards gospel whoops; the young
Elvis rockabilly drawl; the James Jamerson bass
lines propelling the great Motown records of the
mid-'60s. If you can name the artist in three notes,
chances are pretty good theyre going to wind up in
the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Cosmo's Factory, which many consider their best

album, unfortunately opens with 'Ramble Tamble', a
seven-minute guitar instrumental of numbing
pointlessness, and includes the worst and, at 11
minutes, the longest version of 'I Heard It
Through The Grapevine' on record (we're talking 11
minutes of nothing happening here, believe me).

Creedence Clearwater Revival (CCR) was inducted

into the Hall by Bruce Springsteen in 1993 mostly
because of John Fogertys absolutely distinctive
guitar and voice. Patron saint of garage bands
throughout America, Fogerty wrote, produced, sang
lead, and played lead guitar on the records that
made CCRs politically-charged "swamp rock" one
of the defining sounds of sixties rock n roll.
Between 1968 when CCR emerged from nearly
a decade of playing bars, high school dances, and
military bases up and down the west coast and
the bands 1982 break-up, Fogerty and CCR
released at least a dozen songs that seem to flow
up out of the deepest wellsprings of American
music: 'Bad Moon Rising', 'Green River', 'Run
Through the Jungle', 'Wholl Stop the Rain', 'Lodi',
'Fortunate Son', 'Proud Mary' etc. If you make it to

Nonetheless, there's much to compensate,

including if I remember right at least two brace
of singles ('Travellin' Band', 'Run Through The
Jungle', 'Up Around The Bend' and 'Lookin' Out My
Back Door'), and possibly more than that, if 'Long
As I Can See The Light' and 'Who'll Stop The Rain'
were released as singles too.
Sadly, after the burst of energy which packed
Cosmo's Factory with hits, the band seemed to be
burnt out.
Two more LPs followed, Pendulum and Mardi Gras
the latter described in the illustrious NME Book

699

the end of the list without at least a few Fogerty riffs

echoing in your head, its probably time to put down
this article and locate a copy of Yuppie Nostalgias
special issue on James Taylor.

working class California suburb near Berkeley came

by his "Southern" voice: "It was totally
unconscious," Fogerty said in a speaking voice that
bears no trace of Memphis or New Orleans. "I didnt
even know it was Southern. I knew from the inside
that I liked talking about swamps and spooky stuff,
but I didnt set out to do anything in particular. It just
felt real good when I finished a song like Born on
the Bayou. Id go, Yeah, I like that, Id buy a record
like that."

Like Elvis, Little Richard, and James Brown,

Fogerty produced music that resonates with the
sounds of the American South. Reflecting on his
recent "pilgrimage" through the Mississippi Delta,
Fogerty pinpoints the curious fact that the poorest,
most oppressed and oppressive parts of the nation
gave rise to something like a shared interracial
heritage.

Fogerty remembers being somewhat surprised

when "people kept pointing out it seemed so
Southern, so swampy. Ive thought about this for
years. Where did that come from? Because I grew
up in El Cerrito, California, and there wasnt much
Southern about it."

"I think about what Muddy Waters really did and

hes every bit as seminal, as ground-breaking, as
epochal, as Elvis Presley. Its funny that theyre both
from Mississippi. Its kind of the same journey, just
some years apart. Initially, they went to different
parts of our culture, but they ended up in the same
place."

The answer to Fogertys meditations arrived,

appropriately enough, at the 1986 Rock and Roll
Hall of Fame dinner where he delivered an
induction speech for Buddy Holly. Holly was part of
the initial group of inductees alongside Elvis, Ray
Charles, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, James
Brown, and Chuck Berry. "That was when I finally
got my answer," Fogerty recalls with a smile, "Id
been thinking about this for twenty-five years. That
night I stood there and either the people who were
being honored were there at the same time or their
posters. There were pictures of everybody all
around. I looked and looked at each one of them
and realized they were all from the South. The only
one I wasnt sure was from the South was Sam
Cooke.

When Fogertys voice drawls out the opening lines

of OCRs 'Green River' "Take me back down
where cool water flows, yall/ Help me remember
things I dont know" hes staking a claim to his
corner of the mythic American soil where, if race
doesnt go away, it at least doesnt keep us from
hearing each others voices. More like Springsteen
than Elvis and Muddy Waters, Fogerty came to his
soulful rock'n'roll through radio rather than regional
upbringing. Fogertys story belongs to a profoundly
American mythic tradition that allows you to
reinvent yourself as a way of discovering something
better and deeper than what you "really" are. Its a
way of imagining community into the broken world.
Fogertys music belongs as much to the Louisiana
swamps as to the San Francisco Bay area where
he was born and raised. Which doesnt change the
fact that CCRs claim to being the quintessential
San Francisco band is as strong as the Grateful
Deads and a whole lot stronger than those of the
Jefferson Airplane or Big Brother and the Holding
Company.

"So it was at least nine out of ten," Fogerty

continues. "And I found out later Sam Cooke was
from Clarksdale, Mississippi, so it was really ten out
of ten. Rock n roll is Southern and thats why Im
Southern. Because what I learned from was
Southern. I rest my case." Fogerty frames the
question as one of regional roots that impart a
distinct Southern family, resemblance to rock n roll
everywhere.

After nearly a decade away from performance

broken only by appearances at benefits for Vietnam
Veterans, earthquake victims, and AIDS research
Fogerty is bringing his classic sound back to the
stage. During a June performance at Chicagos
House of Blues, Fogerty created a perfectly
seasoned gumbo of songs from his new CD Blue
Moon Swamp, blended with the CCR classics he
hadnt performed regularly for over two decades as
a result of sometimes bitter disputes with
Creedences record label, Fantasy.

"If you imitate your father and other people say,

Hey, you imitated your father, you dont even have
a choice. You just do what you see."
As it has for white rock n rollers from Keith
Richards to Lowell George, black music provided
Fogerty with an alternative to the sanitized music
that dominated the pop charts.
"The blues came to me on the R&B radio out of San
Francisco and I really did appreciate the fire on
those records," he recalls. "But when youre a kid,

During an interview with Goldmine at his Chicago

hotel, Fogerty talked about how a kid from a

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youre not researching in the library or going

through the bins at the record store."

Louisiana a lot. So it was just sort of a gap in my

knowledge."

Theres a smile on Fogertys face as he describes

his distinctly limited access to musical variety when
he was growing up: "If there was a record store
anywhere near where I lived, which did not have
any Muddy Waters, thats for sure. The only records
for miles around were in the furniture store, which
was a very common connection because the record
player was piece of furniture so they sold the
records to go with the furniture. In the fifties, the
furniture store in El Cerrito was selling Patti Page
and Tony Bennett, that sort of thing. I doubt there
were more than fifty different titles. I never bought
any R&B records in that store. I bought Elvis
Presley and I remember seeing a Hank Williams
with strings album. I saw that and said What? I
really stayed away from that one," Fogerty
concludes with a laugh.

Almost reverent in his attitude toward both country

and blues musicians. Fogerty is careful to
emphasize that he doesnt consider his music part
of any musical tradition other than straight rockin
roll. The distinctions he makes between rock,
country, and the blues involve both technique and
attitude.
Fogerty marvels at the virtuosity of the country
pickers who inspired his 1973 album, The Blue
Ridge Rangers: "I have so much reverence for the
people who play really good, like a Jerry Douglas or
a James Burton or theres a guy in Nashville now,
Brett Mason, whos just a hot picker. Thats
something else you tend to see more in country
music than in rock'n'roll or even the blues. In
country, people are just flat out pickers on their
instrument. Theyre just amazing players," Fogerty
continues. "When rock n roll guys become
amazing players, its almost like theyre not rock n
roll anymore. They become too highfalutin. Cause
rock n roll folks kind of have an attitude and a
sound with some dirt in it."

Not that Fogerty was totally isolated from the

deeper roots of American music. "I grew up with the
blues," he says, reemphasizing the role radio
played in his musical education. "Its not like I was
for Tibet or Mars. But I was doing it from afar. I was
listening to Muddy Waters but I barely knew
anything bout his real life. I knew he had a great
band."

While Fogerty recognizes "dirt" as a shared element

of rock and the blues, he points to some crucial
differences in the blues tradition: "The blues has a
definite attitude about how you play, at least to my
mind. Once you get too citified and become
scientific, like a college professor, then its not
rooted anymore, thats for sure.

Fogerty remembers feeling a deep sense of

dissatisfaction with the way the blues were
presented by critics such as Ralph J. Gleason, who
was later to write the liner notes for the first
Creedence album. Parodying the dry voice of an
academic lecturer, Fogerty intones, "The blues
came up the Mississippi and landed in Chicago. My
my my." He switches back to his regular speaking
voice: "Thered be all these paragraphs showing off
his college education. But its so much more
awesome to realize this guy whos barely literate
comes up to Chicago and plugs in. I mean any rock
and roller can appreciate that, wow, when
everybody else was sitting on their porches playing
on their acoustic guitars, he organized it and
plugged into it. We call it a blues band, but that was
a rock n roll band. It was loud."

"Thats why I always say Im not a blues man and

Im not pretending to be a blues man," Fogerty
continues. "I have such reverence for the music.
Blues are disciplined, theyre regimented, so you
have to stay in that format. If you go outside, you
cant come back in again. Youre just not accepted. I
dont really want to buy a blues record by some
middle class white guy from Iowa. I have strong
feelings about this. Its just not the blues anymore.
Its fine if he calls it something else, but he shouldnt
say, anymore than I would, its the blues. Because
its not."

Fogertys quest for deeper understanding of his

musical influences and ancestors led him to the
Mississippi Delta in 1990. "As far as I know, it was
the first time Id ever been in the state of
Mississippi, certainly in the Delta," Fogerty reflects.
"The state line is only a few miles south of
Memphis, so I might have been there by accident
when I went to see (Memphis bass player) Duck
Dunn and he took me somewhere, but it was the
first time I knew I was in Mississippi. Thats kind of
strange. Id been in Tennessee a lot; Id been in

Describing his attempt to find the right version of a

song for inclusion on Blue Moon Swamp, Fogerty
makes a similar point about the country tradition:
"Theres a song on the album called Rambunctious
Boy and I had arrangement prior to this one thats
not on the record. I came to the realization one day
that it was really just too flat-out country. And I
remember it was bothering me and I was saying,
why is this bugging me? It was because it wasnt
honest. And I finally said, well, I love Buck Owens
and I think everybody knows that. I name Buck

701

Owens in one of my songs (Lookin Out My Back

Door), but Im not Buck Owens. He does what he
does; thats his job. I shouldnt imitate him. Thats
me not doing my job. So I changed the arrangement and made in more like a rock n roll approach.
I love Buck Owens music, but I shouldnt try to
clone myself into somebody else. I dont want that."

inside meaning of blackness in the Jim Crow South.

Ellisons definition testifies to the fact that we all
have our brutal experiences to deal with and that
the blues peak to our dilemmas, not just a specific
music but as a way of confronting the human
condition. The idea of the blues impulse helps us
hear the shared conversation between Bob Dylans
'Desolation Row' and Bessie Smiths 'Downhearted
Blues'; Springsteens 'Backstreets' and Howlin'
Wolfs 'Killin Floor'; Fogertys 'Run Through The
Jungle' and Robert Johnsons 'Hellbound on My
Trail'.

Fogertys insistence on something like authenticity

the idea that you sing what youre born to
seems strange coming from the man who opened
the distinctly bluesy 'Wrote a Song for Everyone'
with: "Met myself comin country welfare line/I was
feelin strung out, hung out on the line." Its a safe
bet that the black listener whose response took Ike
and Tina Turners remake of 'Proud Mary' to #5 of
the R&B charts in 1971 it rose to #4 pop
heard more than a touch of the blues in Tinas
incendiary performance. From the opening guitar
riffs through OCRs unforgettable harmonies on
"rollin on the river," Fogertys original flows down
from Memphis through the heart of a mythic South
that would have been equally familiar to Howlin
Wolf and Hank Williams.

None of that was in Fogertys mind when he

embarked on his recent trips to the Mississippi
Delta. "I actually didnt know what I was doing," he
says. "It wasnt scientific, like if a guy got a grant
from a university or something like that. Id had this
feeling for more than a year before I finally went
and I just kept telling myself, you dont know what
youre doing, so I didnt go. I just kept pushing the
feeling aside, but I finally decided that what was
behind it was that I wanted to understand more
about the lineage."

The key to understanding Fogertys relationship to

the blues lies in distinguishing between the blues as
a musical form usually twelve bars with an AAB
lyrical pattern and the blues as what black
intellectuals have called a "cultural impulse."
Fogertys right when he insists on the dangers of
uprooting the blues from the soil of the rural black
south. Even when they traveled up the Mississippi
to Chicago, where Muddy Waters and Elmore
James plugged in their guitars and laid down the
fundamentals of rock'n'roll, the Delta blues spoke
directly out of the historical experiences of slavery
and segregation. A white middle class kid from
Iowa, or El Cerrito, California, is venturing onto risky
ground if he presents himself as the voice of
Stovalls Plantation.

At least initially, Fogerty pursued the blues as a kind

of amateur historian: "I was trying to straighten out
who all the people were John Lee Hooker and
Jimmy Reed and Muddy Waters and what order
they came in, who was influenced by who and who
knew each other, who played with each other, that
sort of thing," he says. "When I started out, thats all
I had to go on. Its like anything youre fond of but
dont know a lot about. You start out making a lot of
mistakes."
Especially after the first of several trips, Fogerty
began to focus his search on more specific parts of
the blues heritage. "The first trip was just sort of
testing the water and I really didnt get much done,"
he recalls. "But when I went back down, what I did
was to make an itinerary each day, where I wanted
to go and what I wanted to see. So I knew Charley
Patton had stayed a lot at Dockerys Plantation
outside of Clarksdale and I also knew there were
churches in the area with their graveyards. Of
course, I always ran out of time and I never did get
everything accomplished."

But theres another way of thinking about the blues

that helps explain why, for example, CCRs 'Wholl
Stop the Rain' and 'Run Through The Jungle' can
legitimately be called the best blues songs written
about Vietnam. Black novelist Ralph Ellison, best
known for the classic Invisible Man, defines the
blues as "an impulse to keep the painful details and
episodes of a brutal experience alive in ones
aching consciousness, to finger its jagged grain,
and to transcend it, not by the consolation of
philosophy but by squeezing from it near-tragic,
near-comic lyricism."

Fogerty takes special pleasure in minor discoveries,

such as the moment when he located the grave of
Charley Pattons sister, Viola Cannon. "I was all
excited when I found where she was buried. Theres
not a big sign on the road Charley Pattons sister
buried here. Look!", Fogerty laughs. "I was walking
through this sacred place, this graveyard and there
was her name. I went, Oh my God. Its not the
same name so you gotta know a little bit.

Later in the same essay, Ellison redefines the blues

as "an autobiographical chronicle of personal
catastrophe expressed lyrically," without confusing
the issue of who has the right to sing about the

702

"Its part of my reverence for the lineage of things;

its a joy of discovery," Fogerty concludes. "Its like a
new thing and all the details became an end to
themselves finally. I have to keep telling people Im
not an expert, I couldnt write a book. I just feel a lot
fuller because of those journeys."

popular and successful American bands they

received $10,000 for their appearance at the
Woodstock Festival the band went through
several name changes, appearing as the Blue
Velvets, the Visions and the Golliwogs, the latter
monstrosity foisted on them by the executives at the
Fantasy record label, who thought it sounded more
in tune with the British invasion.

Although Fogerty wasnt seeking out inspiration for

his own music on the trips south, at least one song
on Blue Moon Swamp grew directly out of the
experience. 'A Hundred and Ten in the Shade',
which sounds like it originated with the Swan
Silvertones or Dixie Hummingbirds, came to
Fogerty as what he calls a "visitation."

During Creedences long apprenticeship, Fogerty

saw an awful lot of the places described in 'Lodi',
which became the anthem of garage bands
throughout the United States: "If I only had a dollar
for every song Ive sung/ Every time Ive had to play
while people sat there drunk/ You know Id catch the
next train back to where I live/ Oh lord, stuck in Lodi
again." As rock critic Dave Marsh observes, the
songs complaint about having been on the road for
a whole year without making it sounds curious once
you realize that Fogerty, his brother and rhythm
guitarist Tom, bass player Stu Cook, and drummer
Doug Clifford struggled almost a decade before
finally breaking through with 'Suzie Q' (#11) in 1968.

"It was a direct blessing from my trips to

Mississippi," he says. "It came to me as a complete
song, not like this agonizing back-breaking stuff you
go through with a lot of songs. This just sorta
landed with a feeling and a sound. It was a direct
memory of Mississippi, the heat and the humidity
and the feelings."
Fogerty gives full credit to the gospel group the
Fairfield Four, whose backup harmonies make 'A
Hundred and Ten in the Shade' one of the highlights
of the new album. "I knew exactly what it should
sound like, but it took from 1992 til 1996 to finally
find the Fairfield Four, who had exactly the right
sound. There are things you cant really verbalize,
the words get in the way. Your ears either tell you
its true or its not true; its right or its not right. They
got it right."

Cook, Clifford, and Fogerty formed the earliest

version of Creedence while they were attending El
Cerritos Portola Junior High in 1959. John had
learned guitar chords from a Burl Ives songbook.
He invited Clifford to sign on as drummer despite
the fact that Clifford had never played the
instrument. Converting an old pool cue into a set of
drumsticks and buying a used snare drum, Clifford
became the drummer of a band that soon included
Cook on piano and Tom Fogerty on bass. Before
long the group was performing as Tommy Fogerty
and the Blue Velvets with the older Fogerty singing
lead. When the younger members graduated from
high school in 1963, the group expanded its
geographical range, playing in numerous clubs and
bars around the Bay area.

Early in his career, it must have seemed to Fogerty

that hed never get anywhere near the point where
he could take four or five years working on a single
song. Fogerty grew up in a household where fights
frequently broke out. "I was always ashamed," he
told Time magazine in 1969. "I never brought my
friends home. My room was in the basement
cement floor, cement walls. I just grabbed music
and withdrew."

Fogerty remembers the early incarnations of the

group as "a very typical American band; your basic
high school rock n roll band," whose playlist
included Duane Eddy, Johnny and the Hurricanes,
"a little bit of Ventures, Wipe Out, Louie, Louie,
right down the rock and roll line." In the early days,
the group performed little of the R&B or soul music
that emerged as a major part of the swamp rock
sound.

'Porterville', the first single released under the

Creedence Clearwater Revival name in 1967,
reflects Fogertys attempt to come to terms with the
difficulties at home. Not quite biographical
Fogertys father chose to leave home when John
was nine the song fingers the jagged grain in a
way that speaks to anyone else whos shared the
singers brutal experience: "They came and took my
dad away, to serve some time/ But it was me that
paid the debt he left behind/ Folks said I was full of
sin because I was the next of kin."

"We werent heavily off into James Brown, any more

than most white high school kids would have been.
We werent Delta relics at all. That wasnt in our
consciousness at the time. We did Midnight Hour,
but then everybody did," Fogerty says. "We never
did Mustang Sally. For some reason, we skipped
that one. Going back to ninth grade, we did Hully
Gully and Annie Had a Baby." Fogerty smiles as

Between 1959 and 1968, when CCR seemed to

come from nowhere to become one of the most

703

he remembers the Blue Velvets' version of Hank

Ballards sexually explicit classic. "We were really
gettin down."

of how sharply the reality differed from its image. "It

was actually at the height of the war, so all the rules
were changing," he recalls. "There were National
Guard guys whose units got shipped over to
Vietnam. It was amazing. Things got real altered,
but luckily for me, I didnt have to go overseas or
serve three years in the hard-core Army."

When asked whether his bands ever had a sizable

black audience, Fogerty shakes his head and offers
a description of the groups performance at the tenth
reunion of the El Cerrito High School class of 1953.
"Wed played Green Onions, and this black guy
came up, his name was R.B. King. He would have
been about twenty-eight years old. And he says,
You boys do that rock n roll pretty good. But when
you do Green Onions theres this in-between
youre missin. Later, he would have said soul. He
was trying to compliment us, but it was absolutely
the truth. We were high school kids and we couldnt
play a shuffle to save our lives. Its something most
white people cant do. Theres that little in-between
youre missing, when you get that, then youll have
Green Onions down. I thought about that a lot over
the years."

The fact that Johnson attempted to hide the

escalation by refusing to call up reserve units
which in effect shifted the burden of the fighting to
draftees who were more likely to be from black,
rural, and working-class backgrounds simply
reflects how confused the experience of Vietnam
was for everyone who came anywhere close to it.
In 1967, when Fogerty finished serving his six
months of active duty at Ft. Bragg, Ft. Knox, and Ft.
Lee, the "Summer of Love" was establishing San
Francisco as the center of a counterculture based in
large part on its opposition to what was beginning to
be seen more widely as a corrupt and futile war.
Like Jimi Hendrix, who served in the Armys elite
"Screaming Eagles" parachute unit in the early 60s,
Fogerty never confused hatred for the war with
hostility to the draftees who found themselves
fighting it. He appreciates the intense response his
music received from the "grunts" "you werent
really a vet until after you got back," Fogerty notes
who served in Vietnam.

Although they would not make the national charts

until 1968, the Fogertys, Clifford and Cook, began
their recording career in 1964. Tom Fogerty had
gotten a job as a packing and shipping clerk at
Berkeley-based Fantasy Records, best known for
its jazz releases. In 1963, a nationally televised
documentary had focused on the labels success in
making the Vince Guaraldi Trios light jazz classic
'Cast Your Fate to the Wind' a popular hit. Tom
succeeded in getting the group an audition with
Fantasy which released 'Dont Tell Me No Lies',
sung by Tom, under the Golliwogs name in
November. Neither their debut nor the 1965 followups 'Where You Been' and 'You Cant Be True',
attracted much attention outside the Bay area. The
first indication that the Golliwogs might finally break
out of the cycle of local bars and clubs came when
'Brown-Eyed Girl', released on Fantasys new teenoriented Scorpio imprint, sold 10,000 copies in the
regional market.

Although numerous CCR songs have been used in

soundtracks for movies on Vietnam and at least a
half dozen were adopted by the anti-war movement,
Fogerty wrote only two of them with Vietnam
specifically in mind: the blistering 'Fortunate Son'
and the meditative 'Wholl Stop the Rain'. But
theres no question that OCRs music played a
much broader role in the musical culture of
Vietnam. Marsh places 'Fortunate Son' alongside
'Dont Look Now' and 'Bad Moon Rising' on his list
of the top fifteen protest songs of the 1960s; 'Wholl
Stop the Rain' was used as the title of the movie
version of Robert Stones classic Vietnam novel
Dog Soldiers, 'Run Through the Jungle' appears on
the soundtrack of the film adaptation of Ron
Kovacs memoir Born on the Fourth of July.

But before they had a chance to capitalize on the

success, Fogerty and Clifford were drafted. In 1966,
the American public had not yet begun to worry
much about Vietnam. The domestic economy was
booming; the anti-war movement was limited to a
relatively small group of activists portrayed in the
media as an un-American lunatic fringe. In public
President Lyndon Johnson downplayed the extent
of American involvement while in private he told
advisors: "I dont think its worth fighting for; I dont
think that we can get out. Its just the biggest damn
mess I ever saw. This is a terrible thing that were
getting ready to do."

Fogerty finds it interesting that 'Run Through the

Jungle' is almost always heard as a song about
Vietnam. "It definitely got adopted by the guys in
that country," he says. "But it was really my remark
about American society, the metaphor being society
as a jungle. When I sang two hundred million guns
are loaded, I was talking about the ease with which
guns are purchased in America. And it is a jungle.

Even though Fogerty was "able to finagle my way

into a reserve unit," he shared the GIs knowledge

"Its even worse now. To me its a sad thing. Satan

cries take aim. Were all killing each other. That part

704

of it was an anti-gun statement." Fogerty pauses to

consider his words carefully, "You may think thats a
paradox because I love to go hunting. I enjoy the
ownership of guns. Guns have a history and a lore
like guitars and cars and even women," he says
with a laugh.

decided to rerecord an extended version of the

song, which was released as both sides of CCRs
first hit single (#11).
The groups debut album Creedence Clearwater
Revival (#52, 1968) reflected Fogertys interest in
moving beyond a straight rocknroll sound.
Alongside 'I Put a Spell On You', which reached #58
as the follow-up to 'Suzie Q', the album places
several Fogerty originals ('The Working Man', 'Get
Down Woman', 'Walk on the Water') that would
have sounded at home on an album by blues
rockers Canned Heat or the Paul Butterfield Band.
A cover of Wilson Picketts 'Ninety-Nine and a Half'
provides evidence of the bands continuing attempts
to find that "little shuffle." Later CCR and Fogerty
albums included versions of Jackie Wilsons 'Lonely
Teardrops' and the Motown classic 'I Heard It
Through the Grapevine'. Despite some nice
moments in the extended guitar breaks on
'Grapevine', the relatively static rhythms made it
clear Marvin Gaye and Gladys Knight had nothing
to worry about.

But he quickly turns serious when he asserts that:

"Im not confused. I dont need an AK-47 to go deer
hunting. Its pretty clear that if you have something
like that, you want to kill people. I think its
respectable to waste a lot of time with an old
hunting rifle or an old Colt six-shooter. Thats cool
because its a kind of American history and lore. But
I dont think any true gun freak would mind being
regulated." Fogerty speaks with passion when he
says, "I think its the nut cases that are bothered by
that. Charlton Heston scares the shit out of me. A
lot of the NRA guys are hunters, but the NRA itself
hasnt done the country any good with its
endorsements of Teflon bullets, which were only
meant to go through armored plate and kill
policemen. The NRAs just had it all wrong."
During the Vietnam era, garage bands playing for
racially-mixed audiences on military bases back
home found they could get by mixing in Creedence
jams with some Chicago blues and the sorts of R&B
standards that began to appear more frequently in
the performances of the newly renamed Creedence
Clearwater Revival.

The liner notes to Creedence Clearwater Revival

provided a peculiar, and somewhat lukewarm,
introduction. Written by Rolling Stone consulting
editor Ralph J. Gleason, a leading jazz critic who
had enthusiastically embraced rock n roll, the
notes present a panoramic overview of San
Franciscos emerging scene. Praising area groups
as "the dominant force in a popular music which is
the most universal expression of attitudes and ideas
weve ever seen," Gleason divided San Francisco
groups into three echelons, the top one headed by
the Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Big
Brother and the Holding Company, and Moby
Grape. According to Gleason, the bands performed
in venues divided into "three concentric circles,"
descending from the gaudy heights of the major
ballrooms to small clubs like the Lions Share,
Deno-Carlo, and the New Monk.

There are competing versions of how the bands

name was put together. Everyone agrees that
"Revival" was chosen to symbolize the bands new
direction. But at different times Creedence has
been attributed to either the bands belief in itself or
the name of Tom Fogertys friend Creedence
Nuball. Similarly, some have said "Clearwater"
came from a commercial praising a beers
"sparkling clear waters" despite Johns 1969
statement that it indicated "something deep, true
and pure through which the light always shines."

Creedence, who Gleason gets around to naming

only in the final paragraph of the lengthy essay, had
spent most of its existence playing in spots reason
would have placed somewhere between circles
eight and fourteen. Belatedly getting around o the
business at hand, Gleason closes with a tepid
endorsement of CCR as a band "which gives every
indication... of keeping the strength of the San
Francisco sound undiminished."

Fogerty remembers the period leading up to the

release of the groups first album as a period of selfdefinition. After 'Porterville', which, despite a strong
lyric, has a some-what generic blues rock feel,
failed to attract much attention, he set about
creating a more distinctive sound.
"I wanted the band to sound mysterious, to have its
own definition," he remembers. "So I decided to
mess around with Suzie Q, which was a cool rock
n roll song by Dale Hawkins. I kind of did the same
thing with 'I Put a Spell on You'. Those songs took
us to another place than where wed been for ten
years." When a demo version of 'Suzie Q' began to
receive extensive airplay in the Bay area, Fantasy

"It was nice of him to mention our name in the very

last sentence, on our own record," Fogerty says,
with a lingering touch of exasperation. "The whole
rest of the thing went to declaring San Francisco
the center of the universe. Airplane, Dead, Moby
Grape, Quicksilver Messenger Service. In future

705

years, everyone will know the San Francisco sound

permeated the world, one of the greatest
influences. Creedence Clearwater is a fine example
of the third generation," Fogerty breaks from his
professors voice. "What? Wed been there when
hose guys were off in Texas or someplace. So it
kind of pissed us off.

top-ten singles over the next three years, one of the

most consistent creative outputs in American music
history. 'Bad Moon Rising', 'Green River', 'Travelin
Band', 'Up Around The Bend', and 'Lookin Out My
Back Door' also rose to #2. 'Down on the Corner'
peaked at #3, 'Up Around the Bend' at #4, 'Sweet
Hitch-Hiker' at #6, and 'Have You Ever Seen the
Rain' at #8. When you look over the list of
Creedence hits, whats striking is the absence of all
of the explicitly anti-war songs. 'Fortunate Son' did
rise to #14 but DJs flipped the record and made
'Down on the Corner' the top side. Neither 'Run
Through The Jungle' nor 'Wholl Stop the Rain'
charted on its own. Its a mark of Fantasys limited
experience with marketing pop material that no
CCR song ever reached #l.

"San Francisco sound, great. You mean like Peter

Wheat and the Breadmen? San Francisco sound?
You mean like We Five," Fogerty names two of the
numerous groups active in the Bay area long before
the Summer of Love. "It was all sort of a concoction.
I have to say I looked at it with a bit of a jaundiced
eye. We knew that many of those people came to
San Francisco later. I thought the whole myth, the
mythology of the San Francisco sound, was a
concoction, almost like a Chamber of Commerce
thing."

Riding the wave of their success, CCR began to

appear regularly at the festivals that had featured
rockers from Britain and the United States, often
alongside some of the blues artists who influenced
their sound. At the Denver Pop Festival, for
example, Creedence appeared alongside Frank
Zappas Mothers of Invention, the Jimi Hendrix
Experience, and Big Mama Thornton. At the
Newport 69 Pop Festival in Northridge, California,
they played with Hendrix, Jethro Tull, and the
Byrds. At the Atlanta Pop Festival the line-up
included Joe Cocker, Canned Heat, Johnny Winter,
and Led Zeppelin. Capping the hectic summer,
Creedence was one of the star attractions at
Woodstock, although they refused to allow their
performance to be incorporated into either the
follow-up movie or its sound- track album.

Creedence had relatively little contact with

Gleasons "first echelon" bands: "The Grateful Dead
were always a little off from our circle. They did
things differently. And the Airplane, at least in those
days, gave off this vibe, this attitude like Creedence
somehow didnt fit into those circles. It was very
real. I could never put my finger on what it was, but
we were considered outsiders in our own town."
Once CCRs records began to appear, their peculiar
outsider status didnt keep them from advancing
into the top circle of Bay area venues. In May 1968,
as 'Suzie Q' began to appear on the radio, the
group made its Avalon Ballroom debut on a bill with
bluesman Taj Mahal; in July then played the
Fillmore West, along with the Paul Butterfield Blues
Band. In September, with 'Suzie Q' rising on the
national charts, they played the Fillmore West three
more times. In early 1969, they were back at the
Fillmore West on bills with Fleetwood Mac, then in
its Peter Green-era blues incarnation, and Jethro
Tull.

The surge in CCRs popularity resulted from

Fogertys success in pinning down the swamp rock
sound on their second album, Bayou Country (#7).
The first album crediting Fogerty as producer,
Bayou Country opens with the feedback from
Fogertys guitar which gradually yields to the
signature 'Born on the Bayou' riff that made the
song a perfect opener for most of the bands live
sets; even a quarter century after Creedence broke
up, 'Born on the Bayou' maintains all of its power,
as Fogerty demonstrated at the House of Blues.

Fogerty emphasizes that Creedence admired and

developed friendships with some San Franciscobased bands. He expresses a special admiration
and fondness for Santana. "Carlos and the guys in
the band were up and coming at the same time.
Carlos was a smoking guitar player and the band
was hot. They were doing something quite different
from everyone else. They were relaxed and
genuine, really nice people. That was fun. I was
meeting guys with a dream in their eyes, guys who
were going someplace."

Bayou Country includes garage rock standards

'Good Golly Miss Molly', which Fogerty would
rework into 'Travelin Band' a year later, and his own
composition 'Keep On Chooglin', a boogie classic
that Creedence frequently used to close its live
shows. But the core of the album consists of the
southern-sounding cuts that provide an ideal setting
for 'Proud Mary'. You can still hear echoes of the
first albums blues rock in 'Graveyard Train' and
'Penthouse Pauper', but its blues rock Fogerty
dreamed up out of the mythic Louisiana hed found
in his southern musical ancestors.

By the start of the summer of 1969, no one could

question Creedences right to share any stage at
any rock n roll show in the U.S. The turning point
was 'Proud Mary' (#2), the first of nine consecutive

706

Like 'Born on the Bayou', 'Bootleg' could have been

recorded by no one else. As he does on 'Proud
Mary', Fogerty locates the accent that allowed him
to cross over the Mason-Dixon line without
providing proof of identity. There are some specific
elements of the accent that place Fogerty in
Louisiana, close to New Orleans rather than, say,
Memphis or Charleston. Its in the way he puts the
Brooklyn twist on the vowels in the line "woiking for
the man every night and day," the way he reduces
the word "bootleg" to the near-Cajun "boolay." No
one ever really talked that way, but no one who
came under Fogertys spell was likely to notice, or
mind.

rockabilly. Cross-Tie Walker, Bad Moon Rising;

thats kind of more my center. Green River was
close to the sound you may notice on Blue Moon
Swamp."
As long as youre not making a top 200 list, theres
no particular reason to choose between Green
River and Willy and The Poor Boys, which were
released just three months apart in the fall and
winter of 1969. On Green River, Fogerty perfects
the "spooky" sound that summons up the bayou
shadows as a metaphor for whats going down in
Richard Nixons America, where it was getting
harder to tell the difference between paranoia and
common sense. Sounding like something out of the
Old Testament prophets, Fogertys poetic images
tap a power similar to that of Robert Johnsons
classic Delta blues. When Creedence sang about
that bad moon rising, it meant one thing to the
grunts in the Mekong Delta, something else to the
crowd at the Denver Pop Festival, which had been
tear-gassed three times prior to OCRs closing set.
No one listening to 'Sinister Purpose' or
'Commotion' in 1970 had any trouble at all coming
up with a point of reference.

After Bayou Country and 'Proud Mary', swamp rock

remained a constant part of the musical soundtrack
that carried the sixties into the seventies. The pace
was grueling. While the band continued to tour,
Fantasy released four CCR singles in 1969 and
three more in 1970. By the time 'Someday Never
Comes' (#25) brought the bands run of Top Ten
singles to an end in 1972, Fogerty was showing
signs of creative burnout. There would be only one
more Creedence single, a re-release of 'I Heard It
Through The Grapevine', which reached #43 when
Fantasy released it in 1976 amidst legal battles
which helped drive Fogerty out of the music
business intermittently throughout the seventies
and eighties.

At once angrier and more exuberant than Green

River, Willy And The Poor Boys includes two of
Fogertys most explicit political statements.
'Fortunate Son' calls down a righteous wrath on the
heads of the folks who "wave the flag to prove
theyre red, white, and blue," "while sending the
poor off to die in a war no one even pretends to
believe in," "and when the band plays Hail to the
Chief/ they point the cannon at you," "some folks
inherit star-spangled eyes, then they send you off to
war." The chorus makes it clear where Fogerty
stands: "It aint me/ it aint me/ I aint no senators
son, no/ It aint me/ it aint me/ I aint no fortunate
one." As he said in 1969, "I see things through
lower class eyes. If you sit around and think about
all that money, you can never write a song about
where you came from."

But between Bayou Country and the last CCR

studio album, Mardi Gras, Fogerty was responsible
for a string of albums that stand beside the classics
of American rock n roll. Two of them Green
River (1969) and Cosmos Factory (1970)
reached #l, while Willy And The Poor Boys (1970)
peaked at #3 and Pendulum reached #5. Even
Mardi Gras, clearly the groups weakest work, in
large part because Fogerty divided song-writing and
production duties with Cook and Clifford, made #12.
In a recent issue honoring the most important
albums of the rock'n'roll era, Rolling Stone chose
Willy and The Poor Boys to represent Creedence.

Equally clear about the political dynamics of a time

when too many people were making promises "you
dont have to keep," 'Dont Look Now' lays down a
country-tinged variation on the straight ahead rock
n roll of 'Fortunate Son'. Where Fogerty rips into
'Fortunate Son' with Little Richard style screams, he
delivers the crucial lines of 'Dont Look Back' in
something closer to a whisper: "Dont look now,
someones done your starvin/ dont look now,
someones done your prayin too."

"Im flattered that Rolling Stone would do that," said

Fogerty, "but my personal favorite is Green River. I
like where that music is, the sound of it, the cover,
everything. Its the style, the sound of the song
Green River.
"Its a little more a Sun record," Fogerty continues,
referring to the Memphis studio where Sam Phillips
brought together blues (Howlin Wolf, Little Milton),
country (Johnny Cash) and rockabilly (Carl Perkins,
Jerry Lee Lewis) musicians in the early '50s,
providing a perfect setting for the emergence of
Elvis Presleys rock n roll. "Its a little more

Fogerty ends the crucial three-song sequence that

defines Willy and the Poor Boys social vision with
'The Midnight Special', bringing back the exuberant
sound of 'Down on the Corner', which opens the

707

album. Creedences adaptation of Lead bellys song

which, along with 'Cotton Fields' gives the album a
strong African-American presence, contrasts an
almost cheerful syncopated rhythm CCR shows
definite signs of having figured out "that little
shuffle" with a lyric line that raises images of
incarceration, police violence, and death; in the
black southern tradition, the "midnight special"
could refer either to a train heading north to
freedom or to the suicide that some preferred to life
in the fields. Mix in swamp rock classic 'Feelin
Blue', the haunting 'Effigy' and 'It Came Out of the
Sky', one of the classic pieces of rock'n'roll science
fiction, and its clear that Willy and the Poor Boys
deserves whatever honors anyone cares to pass its
way.

withdraw from CCR in early 1971, ostensibly to

spend more time with his family. That September,
while the group was in the midst of its second
European tour, Clifford collapsed following a
concert in Amsterdam, suffering from scarlet fever.
But in early 1972, CCR was back on the road,
touring Australia and Japan.
In October, the company holding the copyright to
Little Richards 'Good Golly, Miss Molly' filed a suit,
later settled out of court, accusing Fogerty of
plagiarism on 'Travelin Band'. Its an issue rock n
roll has never really come to terms with. In a field
defined by three chords and a half dozen rhythm
patterns, theres bound to be a lot of family
resemblance between songs. Certainly, if Fogerty
had a dollar for every time a rock bands written a
song as similar to one of his as 'Travelin Band' is to
'Good Golly Miss Molly', hed be set for the next
couple of centuries. But for Fogerty, what would
become an absurdist drama on the theme of
plagiarism was just beginning.

The last of Creedences classic albums, Cosmos

Factory, represents what Fogerty calls a
"culmination" of the groups career.
"It may actually be our best record," he says. "I
always thought it was the culmination. By that time,
Creedence had all these records and we looked
back and put everything on it. It was almost
redemptive, you might say. Wed done all these
things and it was like Boom! there, I said it again."

In the midst of these changes, CCR released its last

two albums: Pendulum, the last album on which
Tom appears, and Mardi Gras, the first album on
which John shared producing credits with Cook and
Clifford. Highlighted by the up tempo rocker 'Hey
Tonight' and Fogertys moving ballad 'Have You
Ever Seen the Rain?', Pendulum reveals an
increasing interest in instrumental textures that
move beyond the four-piece rock format CCR had
held to from the beginning. 'Sailors Lament', for
example, incorporates saxophone, and what
sounds like some unobtrusive synthesizer effects;
'Chameleon' opens with an R&B riff from a horn
section modeled on the Memphis Horns 'Wish I
Could Hideaway' with an organ solo. Pendulum isnt
really a bad album, but it was a long way down the
bayou from Green River.

Its a good description. Cosmos Factory features

three Top Ten singles ('Travelin Band', 'Up Around
the Bend', and 'Long As I Can See the Light'); two
of Fogertys strongest political lyrics ('Wholl Stop
the Rain', 'Run Through the Jungle'); a shot of
rockabilly rhythm ('Ooby Dooby') and a couple
shots of blues ('Before You Accuse Me', 'My Baby
Left Me'); and the extended jams on 'Ramble
Tamble' and 'I Heard It Through the Grapevine', that
let Fogerty stretch out like he had on 'Suzie Q'.
But theres little question that the hectic pace of the
previous three years was beginning to take its toll
on the band, both creatively and personally. Fogerty
admits to suffering from burnout. In addition to
almost constant recording, Creedence had begun to
tour internationally, beginning with a 1970 tour that
took them to Londons Royal Albert Hall, where they
performed alongside Booker T. and the MGs, the
originators of 'Green Onions'. Members of the MGs
backed up Fogerty during his 1985 appearance on
an A&M Records Soundstage show and again in
1995 when Fogerty appeared at the Concert for the
Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland.
Presumably, the shuffle thing worked out fine.

And it stood head and shoulders above Mardi Gras,

the next record. Commenting on Rolling Stones
selection of Willy and the Poor Boys for the top 200,
Fogerty laughs and says: "You remember of course
that Rolling Stone also had a comment about Mardi
Gras back in 72. They called it the worst album
ever made by a major rock band, and John agreed
when he read it." Fogerty smiles again. "You cant
escape what you do. Youre better off just being
honest about it. Anyway, its nice that they didnt
choose to put that one on the list."
Theres no escaping the fact that the problems on
Mardi Gras grow directly out of Fogertys surrender
of the creative control that had made CCR
something special. The only songs that bear
comparison with the earlier work are the ones with
the distinctive Fogerty stamp: 'Someday Never

By 1971, however, it seemed clear that serious

tensions were developing within CCR. Clifford,
Cook, and Tom Fogerty all expressed desires for
greater input into the bands creative decisions.
Those concerts played a part in Toms decision to

708

Comes', 'Sweet Hitch-Hiker', and 'Lookin for a

Reason'. The Tom Fogerty, Clifford, and Cook
material reveals nothing to suggest bright postCreedence careers. Before his death from
tuberculosis in 1990, Tom recorded seven solo
albums and played occasionally with Meri Saunders
and Jerry Garcia. Clifford, who also released a solo
album, and Cook, who would join Southern Pacific
in the mid-eighties, would later provide the rhythm
section on albums by Doug Sahm and the Don
Harrison Band. Enough said.

Fogerty sounds less enthusiastic about the first

post-Creedence album released under his own
name, John Fogerty (#78). The strongest cuts on
the album, where Fogerty again plays all the
instruments, are the two singles, 'Rockin All Over
The World' (#27) and 'Almost Saturday Night' (#78).
Although neither meets the standards established
by 'Fortunate Son' or 'Green River', the
compositions had enough going for them to become
substantial hits in England in cover version. Dave
Edmunds had a hit with 'Almost Saturday Night',
while the Status Quo took 'Rockin All Over the
World' to #3 on the British charts in 1977. Like other
rock immortals, Fogerty has made a strong impact
on a range of other musicians. John Lennon
praised Creedence for resisting the pretense that
infiltrated late 60s rock; Bruce Springsteen has
incorporated 'Run Through The Jungle,' 'Wholl Stop
the Rain,' and 'Rockin All Over the World' into his
live performances. Even before Ike and Tina,
Solomon Burke and the Checkmates had placed
'Proud Mary' on the R&B charts. Country rock
bands associated with the 'No Depression'
movement Wilco, Son Volt, the Jayhawks cite
Fogerty as a primary influence. Sonic Youth named
an album after 'Bad Moon Rising;' an early
incarnation of Pearl Jam was named Green River.

Although he shows few signs of the bitterness that

developed between him and his former bandmates in the late 70 s and 80s, Fogerty makes no
attempt to downplay his central role in the creation
of the CCR sound. In a recent interview with
Michael Goldberg, Fogerty meditated on "this
mythical character that I invented called Creedence.
And we all tend to say Oh yeah, Creedence songs.
Its a cartoon I invented. And basically, it became a
recording entity well before it became an in-person
entity... Because I created this alter ego thing, this
Creedence thing, it was allowed to kind of bubble
under in a unspoken way, kind of like a deformed
half brother in the closet or something."
The monster in the closet began to emerge after
Creedence formally broke up in October 1972.
Fogerty continued to work in the studio, pursuing
the country sound he had begun to explore on
songs like 'Lookin Out My Back Door'. His first solo
album, a compilation of country classics released
as The Blue Ridge Rangers (#47), featured a cover
of Hank Williams 'Jambalaya (On the Bayou)',
which reached #16: a second single, 'Hearts of
Stone', made it to #37. But Fogerty looks back on
the Blue Ridge Rangers as a good idea gone
wrong.

During the mid-'70s, major problems began to

develop between Fogerty, his former band-mates,
and. most crucially. Fantasy Records president Saul
Zaentz. Convinced that Fantasy had mismanaged
OCRs financial affairs, Fogerty abandoned his
plans for an album tentatively titled Hoodoo and
retired to a farm in Oregon. Meanwhile, Fantasy
continued to release packages of greatest hits and
live albums, including Live in Europe (#143), which
had been recorded during the groups 1971 tour,
and The Concert (#62). Originally released as The
Royal Albert Hall Concert, the latter was retitled
when Fantasy discovered it had inadvertently
mastered the record using tapes from a 1970
Oakland Coliseum performance.

"I wouldnt do it the way I did it then," he admits.

"Meaning, I wouldnt play all the instruments. I love
that music; the Blue Ridge Rangers was a really
cool idea. It was just limited by John Fogerty
playing all the instruments. Thats a dumb idea," he
laughs. "But those songs are great songs, and then
just arrange it through a rock n roll guys eyes."

For most of the next decade, Fogerty remained

withdrawn from public life, reuniting briefly with
Creedence to play at his brothers wedding
reception in 1980 and a school reunion in El Cerrito
in 1983. Two years later, he released a comeback
album on Warner which reached #l. A blend of
Creedence style rock'n'roll and Memphis rockabilly,
Centerfield demonstrated Fogertys undiminished
ability as a singer, songwriter, and instrumentalist.
The first single from the album, 'The Old Man Down
The Road' reached the Top Ten, and Fogerty
followed up with a two-sided hit pairing 'Rock And
Roll Girls' (#20) and 'Center- field' (#44). Yet
another cut from Centerfield, 'Big Train From
Memphis' hit #36 on the country and western

"Will the Blue Ridge Rangers ever surface again?"

Fogerty asks himself. He stops to think. Hes still
working on his country licks, having learned to play
dobro for one of the songs on Blue Moon Swamp.
On the current tour, hes performing an updated
version of 'Working on a Building' from the Blue
Ridge Rangers album. "Yeah, I think it will. But with
real people. I have every intention of making a
record eventually with people like Jerry Douglas,
who just scares me, hes so great. I would like some
of that on a record I do some day."

709

charts. The album also included a song titled

'Zaentz Cant Dance,' a direct tirade against the
Fantasy executive that climaxed with the chorus:
'Zaentz cant dance, but hell steal your money.'
When Zaentz threatened to sue, Fogerty
sarcastically reworked the song into 'Vanz Kant

When someone in the audience called out a

request of 'Vanz Kant Danz' during the House of
Blues performance, Fogerty laughed and
responded, 'I aint that pissed off anymore. Well
save that one for some other tour.'
Between Centerfield and Blue Moon Swamp, which
Fogerty once vowed "wont sound sort of like a
Creedence album, itll sound exactly like a
Creedence album," he recorded only one record,
Eye of the Zombie (#26). Released as the conflict
with Zaentz was heating up, Eye of the Zombie
sounds not at all like a Creedence album. An
interesting, if unsuccessful, experiment with Staxstyle Memphis soul, the album expresses Fogertys
disgust with the political situation in Ronald
Reagans America. 'Headlines,' 'Violence Is
Golden,' and the title cut, which died at #81 as the
albums only single, provide a strong sense of
America as a nightmare landscape ruled by the
living dead.

Danz.'
What should have been a moment of triumph
rapidly came to resemble a Kafka parable when
Fantasy, supported by Clifford and Cook, brought
suit against Fogerty for plagiarism. Citing the
similarity in sound and structure between 'The Old
Man Down The Road' and 'Run Through the
Jungle,' the suit forced Fogerty into the bizarre
position of having to defend himself in court against
charges of sounding like himself. At one point in the
trial, after demonstrating the relatively limited
harmonic structure of swamp rock on his guitar,
Fogerty said in exasperation, 'Yeah, its the same
interval. What am I supposed to do, get an
inoculation?

But the songs really dont work musically or lyrically,

which is one of the reasons Blue Moon Swamp isnt
filled with explicitly topical songs. "I made a
conscious effort not to be so heavy-handed as
Zombie was," he says. "Im a rock n roll guy and a
music maker first. I consider Zombie kind of an
over-indulgent mistake. Just too much preaching,
too much soap boxing. Where do I get off coming
off with all that stuff?

"I proved that, no, I didnt copy myself, I invented

something new that really sounds a lot like me,"
Fogerty told Goldberg. "Do you find fault with Elvis
for sounding like Elvis? When McCartney sounds
like McCartney or Dylan sounds like Dylan? No one
else ever had to go through that." Ultimately the
main legal issues were resolved in Fogertys favor,
but persistent appeals kept the final financial
settlement in litigation until 1993. As a result, an
angry Fogerty refused to play any Creedence
material on his 1986 tour.

"It was just too much and the album became

something almost unlistenable," Fogerty says,
overstating his case considerably. "It wasnt
something youd gravitate back to. If I was lucky,
somebodyd buy it and maybe listen to it once. I
mean, I could barely listen to it. I dont listen to it
now. It has some moments, but its not well
constructed and I dont encourage anybody to buy
that record. Life is a learning process and the
foremost lesson being that what I do should be
entertaining. You dont scare people to death or
over-preach them. You tell a kid Gods gonna
punish you, theyd rather go fishing."

Looking back on the battle with Fantasy today,

Fogerty sounds at peace: "The real reason that Im
not going to hide under a rock again is that I feel a
lot better about myself. Im not going to worry about
the things Saul Zaentz has done, or the other guys
from Creedence. Mostly what theyve done is lack
support." Fogerty pauses. "Abandonment is a pretty
strong word in that situation. But a lot of the things
that hurt me personally, or even in a professional
way, caused a lot of diversions. I have to go this
way, I have to go that way."

A decade later, Fogerty isnt worried about

repeating that mistake. On Blue Moon Swamp, he
set out "to get it just right," to make "a record that
really rocks." A great rock n roll record, Fogerty
observes, "is about more than just the songs. Its
about the playing. If youre calling it a rock n roll
record and its not rocking, it hasnt got most of what
it really needs. When I was making this album, I
said, this cant just be some guys impression of a
rock n roll album, its got to be a rock and roll
album."

Fogerty credits his recovery primarily to the

influence of his wife, Julie. "With the help of my
wife," he says, "Ive gotten past worrying about that
too much anymore. They are the way they are and
things Im sure will continue because its their
nature. But me being me is more important. I should
be writing songs, making music, singing in front of
people rather than defending myself. Thats my real
job in life."

710

Fogertys return to the concert stage was spurred

both by his desire to play the new songs for a live
audience and his wifes suggestions that he return
to music. "She ribbed me, saying When are you
going to stop playing benefits? When are you going
to play something where you actually earn some
money?'" Fogerty laughs. "Its true. Ive done a lot
of benefits because I believe in them. But theyre
sort of quirky. Its a little strange when you prepare
for a month for just one night. And then you come
out and its all over."

breakthrough single, which came out back when

people still thought music was going to change the
world. Fogerty admits, "Its a mythic state of mind."
Fogertys southern pilgrimages flooded him with
new thoughts on the tangled web of history, myth,
and his own complicated life. He describes leaving
Memphis in explicitly mythic terms: "Lula and
Robinsonville are just a little south of Memphis.
Theyre the first true Delta towns and its strong with
Robert Johnson and Charley Patton, their presence
and history and lore. Its like learning about Canaan
or learning about Galilee. Just the names, you go,
yeah and then he went down to Lula."

Looking ahead to his summer tour, Fogerty

underlined the connection between his old and his
new material. "I didnt just walk out one day and
say, Hey, Im gonna go play the old songs, thatll
put me back with the in crowd, thatll save my
career.' It wouldnt have been honest for me to play
the old songs until I could make it all one life again,
which is what I think Ive done now. The old John
and the new John are really the same guy."

An important moment in Fogertys quest took place

at Robert Johnsons grave. Meditating on Johnsons
troubled life and history, Fogerty experienced an
epiphany that helped him come to terms with some
of his anger toward those hed felt betrayed him. As
he told Dave DiMartino, Fogerty realized that
"Theres this guy buried there and maybe some guy
named Morris Stealum of Cheatem, Beatem &
Whatever owns his songs in some big building in
Manhattan. [But] its Robert Johnson who owns
those songs; hes the spiritual owner of those
songs. Muddy Waters owns his songs; Howlin Wolf
owns his songs. And someday somebody is gonna
be standing where Im buried, and they wont know
about Saul Zaentz screw him. What theyll know
is if they thought the lifes work was valuable or not.
Standing among all those giants, I went, Thats the
deal here. Its time to jump back into your own
stream."

Blue Moon Swamp takes the new John Fogerty

back to the mythic American South the old John
Fogerty helped define, the South where the music
resonates with truths that the history books hide.
Like Cosmos Factory, Blue Moon Swamp maps the
corners of the landscape Fogertys explored and
gives you an idea of where he may want to go. The
two songs that open the CD 'Southern
Streamline' and 'Hot Rod Heart' establish
movement as the image that holds the album
together. Theres no question that the sounds on
the album evoke a rural past: the country pedal
steel guitar on 'Southern Streamline'; the gospel
harmonies on 'A Hundred and Ten in the Shade';
the honky-tonk twang of 'Bring It Down to Jellyroll';
and the hayride rockabilly of 'Blue Moon Nights,'
which sounds like a song recovered from Elviss
Sun Sessions.

No question about it: Blue Moon Swamp flows out

of the same headwaters as Fogertys earlier work.
But it also raises a new set of questions, intertwined
with his thoughts about American music and the
American South. As Marsh points out, despite
Fogertys determination to avoid preaching, Blue
Moon Swamp presents a "sermon on pastoralism
and authenticity." Fogerty realizes that whatever
authenticity means, its under constant pressure
from a changing present.

Some of Fogertys new lyrics contain images that

resonate in ways that recall 'Bad Moon Rising' or
'Wholl Stop the Rain'; 'Walking In A Hurricane,' for
example, could be about Bill Clintons America as
well as a volatile love affair; 'A Hundred and Ten in
the Shade' isnt just about the thermometer. But the
spiritual center of Blue Moon Swamp lies in a sense
of the past that walks the borderline between myth
and nostalgia. Nowhere is it clearer than on 'Swamp
River Days,' where Fogerty revisits both his
childhood and the early days of OCRs career. He
traces the song to his familys summer vacations in
Northern California, remembering "a blazing-hot
summer romance with Susie when we were both
four years old." But when Fogerty sings "Sweet
Susie, do you think about me/ that was good as its
ever gonna be/ give me those swamp river days
again," hes obviously thinking about Creedences

"I havent been back in a few years," he says. "But

a friend was telling me about what Lulas like today.
Mississippi legalized gambling and they set it up
right there on the river, just south of Memphis. So
you fly in and boom! Its like Atlantic City. I got there
just in time because if thats what Id seen, it would
have all been different. So for some reason I was
called and allowed to be there before all that hit."
The changes in the South go deeper, Fogerty
observes, touching the musical traditions that
fathered his creative spirit. "Young black kids today,
even down south, like the music of their day, of their

711

time. They like rap because thats whats going on

in black music. R&B is sort of an old-fashioned
music; blues is a relic. So what could be weirder to
a young kid than to see some white guy playing
blues? Thats gotta be like the weirdest thing. Oh,
so you stealin my Granddaddys music here at the
mall. Its a real strange concept." Fogerty pauses
and says slowly, "Its almost beyond being black or
white anymore. Its really more a vintage thing."

we can walk, and the sounds of our voices, together

and alone.
Craig Werner, 1997
I Was the Leader Already": Creedence's
Beginnings
Hank Bordowitz, Schirmer Books, 1998

Thats just one of the questions that makes Blue

Moon Swamps engagement with the Southern
myth more suggestive than definitive. The other one
concerns power. Fogerty is fully aware that the
burden of southern history remains very real in the
lives of black Mississippians.

IN 1958 ROCK music had passed its infancy -- it

was more like a toddler -- but it still was not
reputable. Not many high schools had even one
rock band, let alone junior highs. Especially not in a
quiet, working-class suburb like El Cerrito,
California. Only a twenty-mile drive from the corner
of Haight and Ashbury in San Francisco, only
perhaps ten miles from the University of California
Berkeley, culturally those towns might have existed
on another planet. During the '50s through today, El
Cerrito epitomizes the quiet suburb.

"Its a different place," he observes. "You see many

more black people in Mississippi than most places
Ive been. Theyre the majority, but theyre not in
control of the power."
Reflecting on an often-noted and little understood
aspect of American racial experience, Fogerty
identifies the seeming contradiction between
political context and personal experience in the
South. "But in Mississippi, I always felt I could walk
safely anywhere I wanted to. Now maybe if I went
down around over the levee where no one could
see, maybe that would be a bad place to go in the
middle of the night. But as far as walking into an allblack club, people always treated me with great
respect as a stranger, trying to make me welcome."

Jeff Fogerty, son of Creedence rhythm guitarist Tom

Fogerty, still lives a couple of towns away. He
asserts, "El Cerrito is like the most un-hip place to
be in the Bay area. It's this little, small, sleepy town
two towns north of Berkeley." Even so, the '50s
wrought changes on the former Spanish settlement
like the decade changed nearly everything in
America. Classic old adobe houses gave way to
more modern homes. Old sounds gave way to new.
When John Fogerty was thirteen years old, in 1958,
he got the yen to form a rock band. Most parents
and even a lot of kids found rock and roll distasteful.
Certainly, in Eisenhower's rosy-cheeked, apple-pie
America, healthy adolescents had better things to
pursue -- especially in El Cerrito. Fogerty, however,
had entertained the idea of forming a band for close
to five years. "I envisioned being exactly what I am
now since I was eight," he recalled in 1986. "I
remember as early as 1953, when I was about eight
years old, that I was going to name my group
Johnny Corvette and the Corvettes. I had already
made my choice: I was thinking about making a
career out of music. Of course, I was Johnny
Corvette. Somehow I was the leader already."

Almost immediately, Fogerty balances that

perception with the observation that there were
some places he chose not to go. "There are joke
joints out away with names like Mad Dog Disco.
Their aspirations are to something grand, but its
painted in hand-writing. Its all dripping and funky.
One of them had a picture of Michael Jackson
hand-painted. So the picture in the patrons mind
would be something grand, but youre looking at
this thing in stark fluorescent light going Oh, thats
God-awful looking." Fogerty pauses. 'I thought Id
better not go in there and disrupt what was going
on.'
Fogertys meditations on his Mississippi
experiences belong to an unending song part
celebration, part lament about what authenticity
means in an America where a California boy can
make a South of his own. Like the songs sung by
Elvis and Muddy Waters when they set out on their
different roads toward the same place and you
can add Mahalia Jackson and Buddy Holly, Bruce
Springsteen and Sam Cooke to the list of travelers
the song Fogerty is singing reverberates with
unanswered questions: About who we are, where

It started when his eldest brother, Jim, turned him

on to R&B, like Ray Charles. "Around 1953, I
started to notice rhythm and blues songs by Bo
Diddley, Chuck Berry and things like that," he told
Jim Delahant in 1969. Nearly a quarter of a century
later, Fogerty commented to the LA Times's Robert
Hilburn, "My idols were guys who were really gritty
and were real rockers. I wanted to live up to what
they did."

712

He recalled walking around as early as the fifth

grade with a blues band playing in his head. He
would sing all the parts, grunting for the drums,
developing mental images of how the music would
sound.

"Most of my struggles were mental," he said in

1970. "My old man wasn't around when I wanted an
old man. My mother was a teacher who was
supposedly making a good living. She really didn't
get involved in my life. When she would, we finally
got to the point where I said, 'Don't get involved with
me. I don't want you any more. I've been doing it on
my own for so long. Leave me alone.' Until a week
before our first hit record, it was right there in the
back of my mind, I may never get out."

His resolve solidified when he first heard Carl

Perkins. "Carl Perkins," Fogerty says, "was the first
one ever to make me think about being a musician
and singer. Elvis was a star. Carl was a musician. I
wanted to be more like Carl."

John's musical life began to replace the family life

he was missing: "I was always ashamed. I never
brought my friends home. My room was in the
basement -- cement floor, cement walls. I just
grabbed music and withdrew." By age fourteen,
John had grabbed music hard, giving in totally to
the rock and roll bug.

Born on May 28, 1945, John fell smack in the

middle of the five Fogerty boys. His oldest brother,
Jim, was on a track that would eventually lead to
work as an accountant. His immediate older sibling,
Tom, had already started to make a name for
himself locally as a singer when John made the
momentous discovery of the power of rock and roll.
Dan, about four years younger than John,
eventually would own a chain of pizzerias. The
youngest Fogerty sibling, Bob, took many of the
photographs for his brothers' records and
promotional material. He wound up in the role of
John's personal manager.

"John used to work relentlessly at home, in his

room, for hours after school," CCR drummer Doug
Clifford remembered, "maybe spending fourteen
hours a day listening to the guitar parts and making
sure he could play those things note for note and
then listening to the vocal. That was really
important. That's why John Fogerty, a white kid
from El Cerrito, can sound like a black kid from the
south. It was something he spent years doing and
perfecting. It's a real tribute to John and a tribute to
the artists that influenced his vocal style."

Growing up in this large family could not have been

easy. John's father, Gayland Robert Fogerty,
worked in the print shop of the Berkeley Gazette.
He had trouble with alcohol, and perhaps other
mental disorders as well. He left home around
1953, fairly soon after bob's birth, about the time
John was eight.

Tom and John came by this talent honestly. Their

mother, Lucile, was musical as well. In high school,
her perfect score in a "Music Memory" contest won
her notice in the local Montana Tribune. She and
twelve fellow students correctly identified several
compositions, naming the composers and spelling
the names correctly. By her days of parenthood in
the 1950s, she gravitated toward the Bay Area's
rapidly growing folk music scene:

Tom recalled, "We come from a strict middle class,

middle income background. We got a pretty fair
deal, I guess. Our parents divorced when I was
eleven. Hell, everybody I knew came from a 'broken
home.'"
"My grandfather and grandmother either divorced or
separated because my grandfather was drinking
pretty heavily at that point," Tom's son Jeff adds.
"So she raised all five boys by herself. Eventually
she became a full-time teacher."

We had this great series of music festivals in the

Bay Area in the '50s and my mom took me for at
least four years. You'd end up with only 100 people
in an auditorium, and there's Pete Seeger talking
about Leadbelly and Woody Guthrie and how music
could have meaning. He spoke about songs about
the unions and the depression days, but also about
contemporary problems, like the House UnAmerican Activities Committee. It showed how
music could be a force.

The divorce left Lucile Fogerty to care for five

growing boys spanning sixteen years in age. She
worked as a store clerk while studying for her
teaching degree. Then she taught handicapped
children.
Things got pretty thin at times around the Fogerty
house. Their father, Gayland, often missed childsupport payments. "I come from what they are
calling a dysfunctional family," John recalled. "I did
use a lot of energy on that subject. I did hate my
father. I always wished it had been better."

If Seeger reenforced the power of the message on

Fogerty, another serendipitous folk festival
experience solidified music's visceral power:

713

"I'll never forget seeing Ramblin' Jack Elliot. They

were testing the sound system at one of those
workshops. He gave them a record to test the PA
and all of a sudden, [he sings like Ray Charles] You
know the night time.... All right! That was great. A
lot of people didn't know what that was, but it went
right through me. I saw the joining in that moment. It
was all just music!"

be rock-and-roller. Clifford also lived in the East Bay

area all his life. Born in Palo Alto on April 24, 1945,
Clifford's father was a machinist and his mother was
a cosmetic clerk. The younger (by three years) of
two boys, he went to school in Livermore,
Manhattan Beach, and Palo Alto, before attending
Portola Junior High. Doug recalled that he tended
toward hypochondria as a kid. He found polio, as it
still plagued kids his age at that time, especially
frightening. On the other hand, he also was a wiry,
athletic kid who would put on circuses early in life.
He even had a special clown suit. Later on, he'd
pantomime to Elvis records.

Because of their mother's interest in folk music,

there was always at least a cheap guitar around the
Fogerty house. John shared it with his brother Tom.
He also created his own imaginary bands by
copying his favorite records:

While not bookish, Doug developed a fondness for

nature well before most people showed an interest
in ecology or even gave it much thought. He had a
particular fondness for entomology, taking up
butterfly collecting in grade school.

"I remember when I was eleven or twelve, Jody

Reynolds' Endless Sleep was out. I learned to play
E, A, and almost B7 on an old Stella with strings
this high off the fingerboard. I was screaming the
song, and my mom came in: "What are you doing?"
It was the first time that I got that rush of playing
and singing.... One day, I was playing the piano and
this old high hat we had around the house. It was
an old song by Ernie Freeman called "Lost Dreams"
that had a real loud kick drum. I'm playing piano
with one hand, the high-hat with the other and
singing the melody. And my mom comes in again
and says, What in the heck are you doing? It was
crazy, but it all made sense to me.

Around the time he started at Portola, Doug bought

an old snare drum and balanced it on a flower pot
stand. Then he allegedly took a couple of old pool
cues into the school shop and turned them into
drumsticks on the lathe. In this way, Doug took his
first steps toward playing the drums.
John and Doug discovered they shared a love of
the blues, the kind of blues they heard on the local
R&B station in Oakland, KWBR. "For a long time,"
Doug recalled, "before there was any such thing as
even Top 40, before that existed, the only real
music...well, it was rock music to us. It was called
rhythm and blues then. They played it on the black
music station in Oakland. That was our popular
music when we were young. The music...they call it
blues, but it was such a wide variety." Fogerty
recalled among his favorite songs that KWBR
played were Smokestack Lightnin' and Moanin in
the Moonlight. With that common interest, Fogerty
and Clifford started to try to bring their love of music
together as musicians. "Doug wasn't the first
musician I ever met," John quipped, "but he was the
first sane one."

"Tom and I went and rented an electric guitar for

five dollars a month," he recalled. "It was a real
piece of growl, but we managed to make two strings
go 'bing, bing' and play the piano."
They would eventually record the parts on piano,
high-hat, and rhythm guitar, and John would add
lead parts to this music. Once again, and not for the
last time, Lucile found this "weird" but it played an
important role in John's musical development.
Eventually, the "piece of growl" guitar just didn't suit
John's needs. He found a Danelectro Silvertone
guitar and amplifier in the Sears catalog. "I
convinced my mom that I could make the time
payments. The guitar cost $80. Ten months of
payments, $8 interest. My mom had to co-sign and I
paid for it from my paper route."

They played together and decided they sounded

awful. For one thing, just guitars and drums didn't
cut it. When John would start playing the licks he
spent hours memorizing in his bedroom, they
sounded thin just over the drums.

Then he cut classes and taught himself to play. "I'm

really not sure how I passed eighth grade," he
admits. "Some of the teachers must have been on
my side."

Doug suggested that they add another player to the

band. He had been sitting in front of Stu Cook in
homeroom for two years. "I was twelve or thirteen,"
Stu recalled. "Doug and I met in junior high. John
was actually in the same junior high with us. We all
met in the music room in junior high."

After a few months, he felt proficient enough to look

for kindred spirits. He found them in two of his
schoolmates from Portola Junior High School in El
Cerrito. First, he met Doug Clifford, another would-

714

In addition to having alphabetically similar names,

Stu and Doug discovered that they were born mere
hours apart. They became fast friends, getting
involved in all manner of mischief. Doug recalls one
time when Stu set himself afire after finishing off
some lawn work too late to bring the debris to the
dump. John enjoyed reading the works of Mark
Twain, but Stu and Doug had some actual Tom and
Huck adventures in their time.

Blue Velvets. While they all enjoyed the blues, they

practiced popular instrumentals so they could play
at sock hops and parties. These ranged from surf
music to Duane Eddy to versions of tunes by Ray
Charles. They learned the jukebox standards and
hits of the day. With greased back hair and white
dinner jackets, they went out and became working
musicians. John remembered:
"When we started, we had ducktails and the
matching outfits. We were trying to be like the
Viscounts and the Wailers. You know, a teen band.
The first thing we played was for sock hops at
Portola Jr. High School. Doug and I had been
together since April, we got Stu in September, I
think, of '59, and we played the school at the end of
'59. And then the next summer we went around to
all the county fairs representing El Cerrito Boys'
Club! That kind of thing."

"Doug and I met in our homeroom the first year of

junior high school," Stu recalls, "and we've been
blurting out ever since. A couple of fuck-offs."
Cook was born in Oakland on April 25, 1945. His
father was a lawyer and his brother Gordon served
as a high-ranking officer for the Australian
Department of Corrections.
Clifford knew that Cook had been taking piano
lessons (mostly classical) for years. Cook also
played the trumpet, as had his father. Doug also
knew that Stu enjoyed KWBR nearly as much as he
and John did.

An early Blue Velvets show might have included

tunes by Duane Eddy, Johnny and the Hurricanes,
and the Ventures: Wipe Out, Louie, Louie,
Midnight Hour, The Hully Gully, and Annie Had a
Baby. "We were really getting down!" Fogerty
recalled fondly in 1997.

"I was listening to that station," Stu recalled, "the

first time my mother ever told me to turn the radio
off. The first time I remember, anyway. They were
playing a song called 'Natural, Natural Ditty.' And if I
only knew then what I know now, no wonder she
wanted me to turn it off. I mean, that was the
biggest boogie ever, man."

"We only knew so many songs," Doug Clifford

remembered. "So what we did was play a song over
again and tell the audience we had a special
request for it."
In addition to the sock hops, carnivals, and fairs,
another outlet for the members of the Blue Velvets
was school assemblies. They played quite a few of
these.

Cook and Clifford had even tried making music

together at various times, but neither of them went
about it with John's determination. For them it was
fun; for John it was deadly serious. The three of
them were able to find common ground, however, in
the music itself.

"I remember the first time I saw these guys," Jake

Rohrer, a longtime friend and later general factotum
for the band recalled:

"We were all on the same wavelength, really," John

recalled. "I just had to decide whether I would join
their band or they would join mine. I chose the
latter. Once we got started we were literally the only
group playing in school."

It was 1960. Word had reached me that there was a

guy in school that could play the guitar and piano.
They had an assembly, and out come the Blue
Velvets. John was pretending that he was a heroin
addict. He had a tire pump that was supposed to be
his syringe. I think he held the stem of the tire pump
to his arm while Doug pumped him up before they
started their gig. I still remember the song they
played. It was something called Train Time. John
was cranking out these great chords on his Sears
and Roebuck Silvertone guitar that sounded just
like a train whistle. Stu played the piano. They were
really good. I was blown away because I was just
the guy at school who could play piano, and here
were these little punks who could play better than
me!

Doug decided he needed more than just his snare,

and petitioned his parents for a drum set. "Both my
parents worked," he recalled. "I wanted a drum set,
so they gave me the opportunity to get a job. I was
the gardener and the maid. I did the dishes during
the week. That's how I got my bread for the set.
They didn't have to do that. They could have said,
"Look, we're working, you work also."
Fully equipped with a small kit, a Silvertone guitar,
five-watt amp, and the house piano wherever they
played, John, Stu, and Doug called their group the

715

During his first year of high school, John went from

the public system to parochial St. Mary's High -where Tom had just graduated. He recalled one
assembly he played there:

Ventures and Johnny and the Hurricanes, in

matching dinner jackets, continental ties and
greased ducktail hairdos. They put out four records
on the local Kristy and Orchestra labels, but as Tom
said, "The reason we weren't making it was
because we were terrible, the ultra white, Mickey
Mouse musicians."

St. Mary's High -- the all-boys school. I got to my

solo and went up on the high strings. I was jumping
up and down. Everybody started freaking out. Then
Brother Frederick stopped the assembly. Getting
the boys excited. "The boys" -- there was always
this taint of homosexuality going on. Then
everybody left the event in shame, as though we
had done some disservice to the Christian
movement.

Between the Blue Velvets and late 1967, when they

became Creedence Clearwater Revival, they had
logged some 2,000 hours in the studio, backed a
number of local talents (James Powell on 'Beverly
Angel') and developed their trademark sound, a
thick throbbing soul rhythm under Fogerty's simple
rockabilly riffs, combined with tough gritty vocals,
and lyrics as tasty as Louisiana gumbo.

Ever the truant, Fogerty missed a lot of his first

semester at St. Mary's. They threw him out and he
would up back at El Cerrito High with his buddies in
the Blue Velvets.

In March 1964, they approached a San Francisco

label, Fantasy (known for its jazz classics, Lenny
Bruce recordings and unbreakable vinylite discs),
with some instrumental demos. Fantasy told them
to put some words to them, and changed their
name to the Golliwogs. Over the next three years
they released a series of singles exploring every
music trend around from the first Beatley 'Don't Tell
Me No Lies' through a series of surf, Anglophilic
records, to Sam Cooke-ish numbers. The flip side
of the last Golliwogs' single, 'Walking On The
Water', suggested, with its mystical Bayou punch,
the shape of things to come. In 1967 Fantasy was
sold to an ardent Golliwog fan, Saul Zentz, and with
a new name expressing their intentions, Creedence
Clearwater Revival set about to fulfill the Whole
Earth Catalog promise of its title. The first break
came during the KMPX radio strike in early 1968,
when the whole staff moved over to form KSAN. As
a result of Creedence support at benefit concerts,
the new station began playing the unreleased tape
of their first album. Creedence fever caught on
quick in the Bay area, and by some stroke of luck,
one of the singles, 'Susie Q', got picked up on the
notorious and powerful Bill Drake top forty radio
format. After that the hits just kept on coming:
'Proud Mary', 'Bad Moon', 'Green River', 'Down On
the Corner', 'Fortunate Son', 'Travellin' Band', 'Up
Around The Bend' and 'Lookin' Out My Backdoor'.

Hank Bordowitz, 1998

Rock 100: Creedence Clearwater Revival
David Dalton,Lenny Kaye, Cooper Square Books
(reissue), 1999
PSYCHEDELIC MUSIC WAS PEAKING AND rock
was undergoing a period of exhaustion in 1968
when Creedence Clearwater Revival arrived out of
nowhere with their "lean, clean and bluesy" sound.
The most innovative thing about them was that the
music they were putting out was over ten years old,
but there were no overtones of oldies nostalgia in
Creedence's first two singles, Dale Hawkins's 'Susie
Q' and Screamin' Jay Hawkin's 'I Put A Spell On
You'. With their revival sound, they brought the
original energy of rock & roll back into rock.
Although their sound was derived from early rock &
roll, as if it had been scooped out of some time
loop, Creedence sound was more a re-creation
than mindless reproduction. Like the early Stones,
they came across unornamented, stripped down to
the essentials and buzzing with vitality. As John
Fogerty told a reporter, "I'm not a seventies press
agent for the fifties... all we did was to sort of clean
it up and make it not more traditional, just not so
darned irritating."

With the release of their fifth album, Cosmo's

Factory, in the summer of 1970, they summed up all
the people who had influenced their sound: Little
Richard shrieks, Marvin Gaye soul and Bo Diddley
on one side; their own extensions of these sounds
on four great originals, 'Run Through The Jungle'
and 'Bad Moon Rising' with their brooding, doomy
superstition, the wistful 'Who'll Stop The Rain' and
the ecstatic 'Long As I Can See The Light'.

The sound was so refreshing that Creedence

sounded like a newly hatched band, but they had
been together as professional musicians for ten
years, ever since thirteen-year-old ]ohn Fogerty had
hand-picked the members from his high school
friends in El Cerrito, a suburb of San Francisco.
Although the group was first named for John's older
brother (Tom Fogerty and the Blue Velvets), John
did most of the singing. They were imitating the

Creedence perfected the singles format at a time

when most other "serious" rock groups were issuing

716

only albums. Their successful revival of the single

was to have a huge impact on the attitude towards
45's in the seventies, but after three years of turning
out great singles and tasty albums built around
them, the rigid hand of Fogerty in the studio
Cosmo's Factory was so named by Tom in
reference to the relentless production line of
Creedence's rehearsal schedule began to tell on
their records: they had become over-precise, and
their last few singles (with the exception of the
whimsical 'Looking Out My Back Door') lacked
humor and were close to sterility. Fogerty gave the
others in the band more say in writing and
production, but their sound and the band's unity
deteriorated further and in 1972, following a sold
out world wide tour and their seventh gold album,
Mardis Gras, they announced their official breakup.
Fogerty went solo with The Blue Ridge Rangers
(1973), a collection of his C & W favorites on which
he played all the insrtruments.

current trends or any of the accepted rules of rock

theory. At the height of psychedelia, Creedence
became an instant sensation with simple, basically
unchanged '50s songs. Their first single was a huge
AM success despite its unprecedented length of
over eight minutes. During their four years of fame,
Creedence was one of a mere handful of groups,
and perhaps the only American one, to bridge the
then-wide schism between mass popularity and the
"underground" audience. And today, in the midst of
pop music's return to its roots and the sort of
simple, compelling singles he helped bring back
into vogue, John Fogerty is enjoying no less
success with, of all things, a revival of bluegrass
music.
To understand how he has managed to get away
with it, time after time, we must go back to a time
before it all started happening because John
Fogerty is, above all, a true and honest product of
his environment, and it is that honesty that has
made him what he is.

In the best of the Creedence repertoire, Forgety

seemed to turn out the songs effortlessly, though
the lyrics themselves were anything but facile.
Beneath an insistent deliciously primitive rhythm
and the machine-tooled "rockabilly shud and
shimmer" were nightmarish suggestions, ancient,
newly unearthed images of the ruminating southern
landscape Fogerty loved to fantasize and project.

*
He and his brothers Tom and Bob grew up in the
Berkeley area, across the bay from San Francisco.
Berkeley is an interesting city, stretching from the
cheap rundown houses near the bay into the hills
where the University of California is nestled, along
with the upper-class dwellings of the affluent
intelligentsia. The populace is a curious mixture of
students and mostly black lower-class spillover from
the industrial blight that makes up much of the
surrounding area.

It was a pure feel for the mother lode of American

music that made 'Proud Mary' a rock standard, but
it was the musical mythical space which he created,
picked out of the fabric of hillbilly and rhythm and
blues, that produced such melancholy vision as the
"rain" songs or the triggering images of 'Up Around
The Bend'.

There is a certain mentality peculiar to residents of

Berkeley, and as he matured that mentality played a
large part in John Fogerty's approach to
songwriting. But as a high school student in the late
'50s, his life was pretty much like that of kids his
age everywhere.

David Dalton, Lenny Kaye, 1999

John Fogerty
Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, September 1973

He had been knocked out by the first rush of rock &

roll excitement Elvis, Carl Perkins, Bo Diddley,
Chuck Berry, and all the rest. Through listening to
KWBR, the local R&B station, he also became
familiar with the black sources of rock & roll such as
B.B. King and (an obvious influence on his later
singing style) Howlin' Wolf, as well as records like
Screamin' Jay Hawkins' 'I Put A Spell On You',
which were a bit too raunchy to be played on white
stations.

JOHN FOGERTY is many things, none of them

ordinary. Besides his obvious musical ability, he is
unique even among musicians. A loner, self-reliant
and firmly committed to his beliefs. An intelligent,
articulate, mature individual, with an understanding
of music and society and his own position in relation
to them. A clean-living, self-respecting man who has
consistently sidestepped the blinding pitfalls of
super-stardom. A maverick. And, in many ways, an
enigma.

John Fogerty's interest in music began developing

in earnest during the eighth grade, half of which he
recalls spending at home, practicing his guitar. He
had already taught himself some piano, going over

With Creedence Clearwater Revival, and now on

his own as the Blue Ridge Rangers, his success
has always been impossible to explain in terms of

717

'Bumble Boogie' countless times until he could play

it note for note. He did the same with 'Honky Tonk'
on guitar, and though he took a few lessons from
people like Barry Olivier (leading Bay Area folkie
and later the organizer of several big Folk
Festivals), he was basically self-taught.

It wasn't until the Blue Velvets all went down to

Fantasy and actually looked at the record that they
realized they were no longer the Blue Velvets. To
match their "now" sound, Max Weiss had given
them a "now" name: The Golliwogs. They hated it.
For four years they hated it, but they wanted to be
successful, and there was nothing they could do, so
they went along with it. But it was a constant source
of embarrassment to them, and a large factor in the
amount of care they put into everything they did
afterwards, including the choice of their next name.
It was also the sort of limitation that drove them to
overcome their other, musical limitations,
intensifying they already present tendency toward
perfectionism.

In early 1959, he and his older brother Tom (who

also knew a little guitar) decided to form a band.
Doug Clifford, a friend from school, joined on
drums, and Tommy Fogerty & the Blue Velvets were
born. Five months later Stu Cook came in on bass,
and the group began playing frequently at school
dances, county fairs, and so on. Their repertoire
was mostly the instrumental hits of the time; Johnny
& the Hurricanes, the Ventures, the Viscounts, etc.
When vocals were required John sang, although it
was still considered Tom's group.

*
John Fogerty doesn't particularly like to talk about
his days as a Golliwog. Not only the name but the
whole era is a subject he'd rather forget. All the teen
clubs, battles of the bands, and worst of all the lack
of success, seem ridiculous in light of what the
group was capable of, even then.

They recorded a couple of records, for the local

Orchestra label, but nothing came of it and so, after
high school, the Blue Velvets didn't really pursue
their musical career. Tom already had a job and
family, Doug and Stu were in college, and John was
serving a stretch in the Army Reserves. They still
got together on weekends and whenever there was
a gig, but just didn't consider themselves
professional musicians.

By the summer of 1965 the underground rock

scene was already brewing in San Francisco, with
bands like Jefferson Airplane, the Mystery Trend,
the Charlatans and the Grateful Dead appearing
sporadically at parties and dances around town. But
the East Bay, though only a fifteen minute drive
away, was a different world. Bands there worked a
circuit of clubs such as those run by Barry Carlos of
Go-Teen Productions and Pete Paulsen of Teens &
Twenties. The East Bay had its own localized
scene, including tremendously popular groups like
the Baytovens, Peter Wheat & the Breadmen, the
Harbinger Complex, and Tom Thumb & the
Hitchhikers.

All that changed in March, 1964, when they

approached Fantasy Records with some demos of
piano instrumentals they hoped might interest Vince
Guaraldi. Fantasy was the most successful of
several small record companies in what was, at that
time, a minor backwater of the music industry. Their
product consisted mostly of North Beach cool jazz
and beat humor/poetry. Max and Sol Weiss were
the owners, and they liked the Blue Velvets' demos,
but suggested the boys try some vocals. So they
went home and taped a few of the original songs
they'd been doing, submitted it to Fantasy, and a
few months later, to their surprise, a record
appeared.

This was punk rock as it existed in the Bay Area.

Oddly enough, San Francisco itself produced no
punk groups of any consequence, but the outlying
suburban areas were crawling with them. San Jose,
about 80 miles south, was another big center, with
the Chocolate Watchband, Count Five, the Tikis, the
Syndicate of Sound, the ETypes, the Jaguars and
many more. The East Bay groups played often in
San Jose, and Fogerty must have found it galling to
be shut down at band battles by such local favorites
as the Jaguars, an inferior band in every way.

John was in Portland at the time. He had gone up

there to check out the burgeoning group scene that
was becoming known as the Northwest Sound.
Made up of groups like Paul Revere & the Raiders,
the Kingsmen, the Sonics, Don & the Goodtimes,
and the Wailers, the Northwest Sound was really
nothing more than a combination of rough 'n' ready
'50s R&B with the heavy drum sound and powerful
rhythm chording of the early British groups. Fogerty,
with his taste for basic, earthy rock and his deep
admiration for the Beatles, was naturally attracted
to the scene. But after a few nights of playing with a
local band, it didn't seem quite so interesting, and
when he heard that his group had a record out back
home, he returned to Berkeley.

But at least the Golliwogs were keeping busy, and

building a reputation of sorts. Punk rock reached its
zenith in the summer of 1966, and though the San
Francisco scene was also booming, the Golliwogs
were part of a coexistent and largely nonoverlapping scene that kept them before the

718

younger high school audience, and out of the

psychedelic ballrooms.

neither side got much action, and their next record

was the last for the Golliwogs.

Objectively forgetting about what came later, the

Golliwogs still stack up as perhaps the best band of
their type in northern California, and one of the best
around the country. They weren't raving fuzztone
punkers like The Shadows of Knight or the Music
Machine; rather, they fell into that heavily British
influenced style represented by the Knickerbockers
('Lies'), the Chartbusters ('She's The One'), the Ides
of March ('You Wouldn't Listen') and the Choir ('It's
Cold Outside'). They did mostly original songs,
where most of the other groups around the East
Bay were limited to repertoires of Stones and
Yardbirds, and they never performed 'Louie Louie'.
Each song was built around a melody, and
Fogerty's lyrics even then were a cut above
average. The Golliwogs fleshed out their songs with
Mersey rhythms, harmonies, and usually an original
touch or two.

'You Better Get It Before It Gets You' was a fine

Animals/Sam Cooke styled song, which again went
nowhere, but the other side was the start of a new
direction for the group. Over pounding chords and a
savage, Eastern-tinged fuzz guitar, Fogerty
screamed like a man possessed, telling of a weird
experience in a swamp by the river. 'Walking On the
Water', the first song that was entirely their own,
and also the first thing they'd done that wasn't a
love song. It was, in fact, the start of a new identity
for them.
Their final release on Scorpio, in late 1967 was
'Porterville'. The story of a man who's afraid to go
back to his home town because of his father's
crimes, it solidified the group's newfound
personality and sense of purpose. They were tired
of pretending, of singing other people's songs under
phony names. Up to now they had been totally
anonymous; even the composer credits on the six
Golliwogs records listed Rann Wilde and Toby
Green (pseudonyms for Tom and John). For
Porterville the credits read "T. Spicebush
Swallowtail", Fogerty's final alias, and the group's
name appears for the first time as Creedence
Clearwater Revival.

That very first record, made on a home tape

recorded, was 'Don't Tell Me No Lies'. It sounds like
an early Beatles song. Lacking in production, but
with all the necessary ingredients for a fine record.
The flip is a surprising Beach Boys styled song with
'In My Room' harmonies and guitar lines right out of
B.B. King. Furthermore their second release had a
similar B-side, 'Little Girl', lifted blatantly from 'Surfer
Girl'. But it was their last stab at the Beach Boys,
overshadowed by the A-side, a brash, energetic
rocker based on Please Please Me, entitled 'You
Came Walking'.

A cumbersome name, perhaps, but one that

reflected their intense desire for the perfect image.
"Creedence" was both the name of a friend arid a
word meaning "truth" or "believability". "Clearwater"
presented an image of purity and natural
wholesomeness. And the revival of both certain
forms of music and of their own spirits was very
much in their minds at the time.

Their third single, in the summer of '65, was 'You

Got Nothin' On Me'. It was a wild record, with the
same energy level as 'Sweet Hitchhike'r but an
overall rawness that ranks it high among the
Stones-influenced records of its time. Its flip was a
fairly ordinary punk riff out of the Newbeats with
comb-and-tissue-paper harmonica. Following this
record, Fantasy put the Golliwogs on their new
punk subsidiary label Scorpio, and their next
release was 'Brown Eyed Girl' in early '66. A
powerful song with a heavy debt to Them's 'Gloria',
down to the use of echo, distant organ and John's
most hoarse vocal yet, it got played on San Jose's
KLIV and became a minor hit around the fringes of
the Bay Area.

*
At about the same time they were making these
changes, equally momentous changes were taking
place at Fantasy Records. The company wasn't
doing too well, and in October 1967 the Weiss
brothers sold it to Saul Zaentz, a veteran of the
local music scene who had known the Golliwogs for
some time and liked their music. He backed them in
their decision to pursue a new sound, bought them
equipment with his own money although he was
almost as broke as them at the time, and
encouraged them to record an album.

The Golliwogs were now running out of English

groups to copy, having done the Zombies on the
backside of 'Brown Eyed Girl' with a remake of
'She's Not There' called 'You Better Be Careful'. So
they went back to the Stones for 'Fight Fire',
throwing in some Beatles, Zombies and Searchers.
They even got into some Gerry & the
Pacemakers/Hermans Hermits on the flip, but

The first thing they cut was 'Susie Q', a 1957 Dale
Hawkins song that they'd been playing almost as
long as they'd been together. They chose a familiar,
comfortable song in order to devote more attention
to the sound and production of the music. It was

719

also a wise choice for another reason Quicksilver

Messenger Service, then the most popular
unrecorded band around, did a long version of the
song as one of the highlights of their act, and
Creedence's 8 minute rendition, replete with John
Fogerty's guitar solo pyrotechnics, might have been
aimed specifically at Quicksilver's many thousands
of Bay Area fans.

The record broke out of San Francisco, and got to

the bottom of the Top Ten nationally. Two months
later, while it was still on the charts, some stations
remembered that 'Spell' was out and started playing
it. It only got to No. 58, but by then Creedence
Clearwater was established.
At this point, Creedence was hovering musically
somewhere between being a San Francisco
boogie-blues band and the hot singles group they
were to become. On the cover of their first album
John was pictured wearing some kind of Sgt.
Pepper uniform, with inane liner notes by Ralph
Gleason talking about the Big Band Era and
lumping Creedence in with the third generation of
San Francisco groups. Their second album, Bayou
Country, found them at the peak of this style and
the beginning of their next phase.

They recorded a whole album's worth of songs, also

including 'I Put A Spell On You', Wilson Pickett's
'Ninety-Nine And a Half' and a longer, remade
version of 'Walk On the Water'. Then there was 'Get
Down Woman', a fairly straight, uninteresting blues,
'Gloomy', a monotonous song saved only by some
backwards tape effects, and 'The Working Man', an
early attempt to get at the essence of lower-class
mentality. Here we see the first signs of Fogerty's
interest in proletarian matters, which was
undoubtedly molded somewhat by his exposure to
Berkeley's radical students and their unending
quest to identify with The Masses. But even then,
Fogerty's sincerity and genuine empathy gave his
music a convincing forcefulness the textbook
Marxists could only dream about.

The album included two songs over seven minutes,

the plodding 'Graveyard Train' and a bouncy dance
number called 'Keep On Chooglin'' that became
their first trademark and remained the most popular
song in their live performances right up to the end.
For a long time "keep on chooglin'" was as oftheard a hippie password as "keep on truckin"' and
despite the presence on the album of a strained
attempt at 'Good Golly Miss Molly' and two more
songs of social commentary ('Bootleg' and
'Penthouse Pauper'), and even 'Proud Mary' (which
went straight to the top of the charts and was
covered by Solomon Burke, Ike & Tina Turner and
countless others, becoming an instant across-theboard classic and probably their most widely known
song of all), with Bayou Country Creedence
became typecast as practitioners of what was
called "bayou rock" or "swamp rock."

At any rate, the album was finished in early 1968.

Its completion came at a time when an Francisco's
first (and only) underground FM station, KMPX, had
just gone through a prolonged strike which resulted
in the staff forming a union and exiting en masse to
start another station, KSAN, which took over the
market in no time at all. Creedence were in tight
with the KSAN people, having performed at benefit
dances for them and such, so when the tape was
completed it went on the air immediately.
The response was instantaneous; the station was
besieged with calls, and ended up playing the
whole tape, several times a day, for the next few
weeks. During those weeks, there was a sort of
Creedence-mania among local music fans;
everyone was talking about this fantastic group that
had come along, seemingly from out of nowhere,
and everybody was waiting for the album to come
out.

Like all their songs, 'Born On the Bayou' and 'Keep

On Chooglin'' were constructed around guitar riffs,
the same clean, simple rock & roll riffs Fogerty has
always favored. But because of the former song's
lyric content, and the recurring themes of rustic
wisdom in many of his songs, a lot of people
thought that Fogerty and his group were actually
from Louisiana. And 'Proud Mary' of course
contributed to that impression.

It came out shortly, and started selling briskly. Then

something quite unexpected happened. Two singles
had been issued simultaneously, 'Susie Q' and 'I
Put A Spell On You'. The local AM radio stations,
worried about the ratings being pulled by the new
FMs, had been programming album cuts for a few
months. When 'Susie Q' came out, the edited single
went on the, playlists, and response was so heavy
that they all began playing the full album version,
which was two minutes longer than 'Light My Fire',
a precedent-setting record and the source of much
controversy a year before.

Actually, the whole mythos developed out of John

Fogerty's quite natural fascination with the South.
His favorite music, blues and classic rock & roll, had
nearly all come from the South, and was full of
references to it. He also had an interest in the
folklore and culture of the South, and a sort of
idealized vision of life along the bayous that proved
a rich source of images which he used as
metaphors to put across various messages in his
songs. Or, you might simply say he was a country
boy at heart.

720

Anyway, swamp rock was the pigeon-hole they

were stuck with, ironically enough not even sharing
it with Dr. John, who was much closer to the real
thing. It faded away, however, after their third album
demonstrated that the group was into a far more
universal sort of music than that label could
encompass. 'Lodi' only got to No. 52 in the charts,
but it quickly became the definitive anthem of
everyone who'd ever been in a dead-end rock band,
and passed immediately into the repertoires of
thousands of such groups.

Next came Willy And The Poor Boys, a bit of a

letdown. It featured 'Down On the Corner', another
of those "gettin' down with the po' folks" songs. In
itself it was a catchy, infectious tune, but in the
company of such other songs as 'Poorboy Shuffle',
'Feelin' Blue', 'Cotton Fields' and 'Side O' the Road'
it made for an album that was rather disappointing,
and about as convincing as the cover shots of the
group cavorting through the ghetto with various
pickaninnies.
The album was salvaged, however, by three of their
best songs from this period, which was probably
their creative peak. 'Fortunate Son' is the most
honest of their political songs, full of bitterness and
resentment, along with pride and defiance. And, as
John once pointed out, it speaks as much for
conservatives as it does for radicals: the object of
its scorn is the callous rich who pervert power to
their own purposes, and there are few who wouldn't
admit to sharing that scorn. By this time, however,
the radicals were beginning to criticize John
Fogerty. Here he was, the leader of Berkeley's most
successful rock group, and instead of donating all
his filthy profits to the Peace & Freedom Party and
dedicating songs to Trotsky, he was writing these
noncommittal tunes that did nothing to advance The
Revolution, which was already crumbling like so
many mildewed pamphlets.

In addition to Lodi, the Green River album collected

three more recent hit singles, two of them Top Five
smashes. 'Green River' was written about a place
called Cody's Camp in northern California, but
encapsuled Fogerty's feelings about the lure of a
simple, natural way of life, equating it at the same
time with a lost youth and innocence, so that it
became more than just another "back to the land"
song. 'Commotion' was a simple, frenetic comment
on the jangled pace of city life, while 'Bad Moon
Rising' was one of the more sophisticated political
records of its time, discussing social unrest in pure
metaphors of nature, the elements, and a
convincing, almost superstitious, sense of fear.
All that aside, what made these three songs into hit
singles was the simple, compelling rock & roll
sound of Creedence Clearwater. They eschewed all
the technical, theatrical and theoretical gimmicks
that were prevalent during the late sixties, sticking
with a basic two guitars, bass and drums sound, not
jazzed up in any way, coming across much like the
records of the fifties that they were so close to in
spirit. By now they had picked up a sense of
economy, the ability to pack into two minutes what
had taken them six to say before. What they had
come up with was something John Fogerty might
well have held as a primary goal at that time: to find
a viable, commercial '70s equivalent to the
elegantly clean, utterly exciting Sun records he had
loved so much as a kid.

He came in for special criticism with 'Don't Look

Now (It Ain't You Or Me)', a song that might well
have been aimed at Berkeley's pampered armchair
ideologues. It was a song meant to jar middle class
kids into thinking, for once, about just who in
society, was doing their dirty work for them, but it
brought cries of "revisionism" and even "populism"
in a number of reviews that I recall reading. The
album's final high point was 'It Came Out of the
Sky', which made gentle mockery of mankind's
general absurdity; the only sane person in the song
is Jody, the farm boy from Illinois.
They closed this phase of their career with Cosmo's
Factory, in my opinion their best album and one of
the best of its era. It came at a time when they
evidently just wanted to let loose and play the kind
of music they liked best, and in part it must also
have been an attempt to both prove to themselves
how far they could go with rockabilly and also to get
it out of their systems. If that's so, then both their
goals were accomplished.

The only actual old song on the album was Ray

Charles' 'Night Time is the Right Time', but all of
Green River had the flavor of the best Memphis
rock of the fifties. 'Cross-Tie Walker', a fine,
overlooked song, was as much a product of Carl
Perkins as 'Brown Eyed Girl' was of Van Morrison,
and with most of the songs short, tightly-structured
and built on the excitement of clean original rock &
roll riffs with solos restricted to the essential
tension-building increment, it remains for me one of
their two best and most listenable albums.

The first side opened with 'Ramble Tamble', a seven

minute pastiche of Sun riffs, a sort of loosening-up
opener. They then ran through Bo Diddley's 'Before
You Accuse Me', Roy Orbison's 'Ooby Dooby', Elvis'
'My Baby Left Me', Marvin Gaye's 'I Heard It
Through the Grapevine', plus 'Lookin' Out My Back

721

Door', loosely inspired by Buddy Knox, and

'Travelling Band', with its obvious debt to Little
Richard. The presence of those songs alone would
make any album solidly enjoyable, but there was
more.

Their success had meant a lot for Fantasy Records,

too. Saul Zaentz was now a wealthy man, and
Fantasy had relocated from its humble digs to a
brand-new brick-walled edifice near the fringes of
the Berkeley ghetto: the house that Creedence
built. The new Fantasy offices were a real
showplace: fountains, sweeping staircase,
completely equipped gym and sauna, and the very
latest in modern studio facilities, which were made
available at no cost on certain days for the use of
local musicians. Knowing it had all been built by
Creedence (although the group never owned any
part of the company), and realizing they had to
diversify if Fantasy was to outlive their contract with
the group, they signed a number of acts, including
Clover (a mediocre rock band from Marin), Redwing
(an excellent group from Sacramento), Alice Stuart,
the Congress of Wonders (a comedy group), and
others. Redwing received unanimously favorable
reviews, but so far none of these signings has paid
off. One source blames Fantasy for not promoting
any of them, expecting them to come home on their
own the way Creedence did. The ten year contract
signed by the Golliwogs in 1964 expires soon, in
any case as Saul Zaentz surely doesn't need to
be reminded.

Cosmo's Factory also included four of Creedence's

very best contemporary originals, adding up to an
album without the slightest bit of excess. 'Run
Through the Jungle' is an ambitious but successful
fantasy, full of the brooding, superstitious terror that
was only hinted at in 'Bad Moon Rising'. This song
puts you right there in the damp, dark jungle, with
devils on the loose and panthers on the prowl. Then
there's 'Up Around The Bend', which like 'Bad Moon
Rising' expresses a premonition of social change in
simple, natural images. Somehow "catch a ride to
the end of the highway, and we'll meet by the big
red tree" becomes, in the joyous, uplifting' context
of this song, something more than the content of its
words, a rallying cry to prepare for better times.
The first of John Fogerty's "rain" songs also
appeared on this album. 'Who'll Stop the Rain' is a
wrenching cry of frustration, words and music
combining perfectly to ask a question not often
tackled by a rock & roll song. As always, you can
make what you want out of Fogerty's lyrics, but
listening to songs like this it's hard to understand
how people can take the likes of Don McLean
seriously on the one hand and write John Fogerty
off as a maker of mere pop singles on the other.

During the year or so between Cosmo's Factory

and their next album, Pendulum, Creedence had
time for other things besides touring. They put
together a TV documentary that was scheduled to
be aired, then unaccountably held back. They
changed their minds, it was said; they didn't want it
out. But somehow it came out, and it was great. It
really captured the behind-the-scenes action that
takes place when a group this big is on tour.
Hilarious interview filmed in a radio studio with boss
jock Tom Campbell. Pretty good background. And
fantastic concert scenes. A lot of people say
Creedence was a disappointing group in concert,
because they didn't improvise on their records.
Balls. Their shows were great because their songs
were great, and in concert they were strung
together with a blistering sense of excitement and a
snowballing kineticism that peaked with 'Chooglin'',
when the audience would rise as one and dance on
their seats. A couple of live Creedence bootlegs
came out, and there should have been a live album
on Fantasy.

The final song on the album was called 'Long As I

Can See The Light', and it was a fitting close to a
great album and a brilliant chapter in John Fogerty's
career. A revelation of how soulfully he could sing, it
also featured a beautiful, mournful saxophone solo
and gospel-tinged electric piano both played by
John. It was a song of reluctant but necessary
parting, ending with a promise to return.
*
Creedence Clearwater Revival had been at the top
for three years now, with an unending string of
million-selling singles and five albums that had also
sold a million units each. They toured extensively,
playing to huge crowds all over the world.
Millionaires themselves, they spread their wealth
around as equitably as they could. They weren't
radicals, but they did believe strongly in civil rights
and quite a few of the causes that were making
headlines in those days. They played numerous
benefits, donated funds to the Moratorium and other
legitimate anti-war efforts. Without telling anybody,
they gave a boat to the Indians who were then
under siege on Alcatraz Island, also supplying them
with food every week.

But it seems that for some reason, they didn't want

to emphasize that side of themselves at that time.
They were quoted saying they didn't like the "hit
singles group" image; they yearned to be taken
more seriously. Why, they wondered, didn't the rock
press write long articles analyzing their every word
and movement, the way they did for all the other top
groups? Maybe, it seemed, they hadn't given the
press a chance to get to know them. Well, that

722

could be corrected. They got a fatuous Hollywood

writer named John Hallowell to spend some time
with them and write their "biography". Appearing in
January 1971 as a Bantam paperback, Inside
Creedence was an amazing piece of literature. In
88 pages it supplied absolutely no information
about the group, except for an incomplete
discography at the end. The author, evidently a
movie critic, knew nothing about their music and
kept asking about...movies, of course. The following
passage is typical of the book:
"John Fogerty has my number, all right. John
Fogerty has everyone's number. I say. 'God is the
ocean'. The leader replies, not batting an eye, 'Oh?
I though He was Darryl Zanuck.'"

The identity crisis continued and resulted, shortly

after Pendulum, in rhythm guitarist Tom Fogerty
leaving the group. He hadn't forgotten that he was
once the leader of the band, and felt somewhat
submerged in his younger brother's shadow.
Creedence decided not to replace him, coming up
eventually with a new single, 'Sweet Hitchhiker',
their most fast-paced screamer yet. Not their best,
however. The song's tempo was too fast for their
instrumental or vocal comfort, and the end result is
a record that simply doesn't hang together the way
their best singles had. It was backed by 'Door To
Door', written and sung by Stu Cook, a rough fiftiesstyle rocker about the travails of a door to door
salesman. It was the first Creedence record not
sung or written by John, but it wasn't bad.

The press was further courted at a lavish party

thrown at the Fantasy studios. Writers were brought
in from the east coast, everywhere. I wasn't there,
but I've been told it was sumptuous. During the
press conference portion, the group expressed their
frustration at not having a well-publicized image.
They had managed to sound like Elvis, and rake in
as many gold records, but something was still
missing. Why weren't people interested in their
personalities the way they were in Mick Jagger's?

Tom by now had issued his first single, 'Goodbye

Media Man', in June 1971. A rather vague, weakly
sung, right-on statement, it bombed commercially,
as did the album which followed. Creedence,
meanwhile, had solved their identity problem. It was
decided that putting John in the spotlight was unfair,
since the other two members of the group had an
equal right to write and sing their own songs, so on
the final Creedence album, 'Mardi Gras', each
member contributed an equal number of songs.

There were no answers forthcoming. Meanwhile

Pendulum had been in the works for a long time,
and when it finally appeared it bore witness to the
group's faltering sense of purpose. Creedence
music had never been what you'd call spontaneous,
but now it had become overly self-conscious. The
album was dominated on most cuts by heavy organ
rather than the classic guitar riffs of yore, and songs
like 'Born to Move' and 'Chameleon' end up
sounding more like Booker T. & the MG's. The
album's crowning failure was 'Rude Awakening No.
2', an embarrassingly forced attempt at
psychedelia, full of tape loops and jazz sound
effects.

The album was a disaster. The critics, while lauding

Fogerty for his democratic impulses, pointed out
gently that equal opportunity did not guarantee
equal ability (a fact generally overlooked by people
in Berkeley). 'Sweet Hitchhiker' and 'Door To Door'
might have gotten by as the worst cuts on any
previous Creedence album; here, they were just
about the best, and that wasn't quite good enough.
John did what he could to back up the others with
great guitar work, as on Clifford's 'Tearin' Up the
Country', but he couldn't hide the fact that their
songs were mediocre and neither one of them could
sing. Fogerty's own 'Someday Never Comes' was
the only real standout on the album, one of his
more deepfelt reflections on the meaning of life,
although far from his best musically.

As always, there were exceptions to the general

tone of the album. 'Molina' and 'Hey Tonight' were
pleasant rockers with nice sax solos, although they
seemed dampened by the same cautious restraint
that ran through the entire album. 'Pagan Baby' was
a decent but rather unimaginative song reminiscent
of the first album, 'Sailor's Lament' an interesting Dr.
John sort of number, with backup vocals, doubletracked sax and more production than was usually
put into a Creedence record. The album even
included a couple of outstanding tracks, 'Have You
Ever Seen the Rain' and '(I Wish I Could)
Hideaway', but the primary impression from
Pendulum is of something lacking, mainly a sense
of personal involvement in the music.

Creedence Clearwater Revival called it quits after

that. If they couldn't be equal, they couldn't be
John's backup band any longer either, so they went
their separate ways. Doug Clifford released a solo
album in late 1972, about which the less said the
better. Tom, who has been playing locally with Jerry
Garcia and Merl Saunders (Fantasy's all-purpose
organ man), has a new record coming out this
month on which Stu and Doug appear as session
musicians, although everyone is quick to mention
that this is not any "Creedence reunion". Of course
not. Because when you get down to it, Creedence
was never much more than John Fogerty. The other
three were adequate on their instruments, though

723

not great. The success of Creedence was due to

the songs, guitar, voice, and personality of John C.
Fogerty, and nothing else.

liked motorcycles and old records, become a

millionaire with a band that played music not much
different from that produced in Memphis in 1955,
seemingly oblivious to the general trend toward
rock operas, jazz-rock, and all manner of other
pretensions?

In his subsequent solo career, Fogerty has more

than demonstrated the truth of that. His first record
was 'Blue Ridge Mountain Blues', by the Blue Ridge
Rangers, released toward the end of 1972. The
picture sleeve showed five musicians standing
against a shadowed skyline, and most people
assumed this was some bluegrass group Fogerty
was producing. It soon emerged, however, that all
five figures in the picture were. Fogerty, and that he
had played every instrument, every note on the
record, all by himself.

Well, maybe he caught some of the backlash from

that. During the time of Creedence's hits, it hadn't
yet been generally recognized that the basics of
rock & roll, as laid down in the mid '50s, had nothing
to do with "oldies" (as per the common
misconception) but were, rather, the most universal
common denominator of rock music. Nobody had
said as much, but Creedence proved it musically
and the public bought it because it was right. A
good song is always commercial, no matter when or
what. But of course, it's still the singer not the song.

It was bluegrass music all right, with fiddles and all;

even a hillbilly gospel song on the flip. It didn't make
the charts, but his next release, the old Hank
Williams song 'Jambalaya' was quite a large hit.
Although it was only one man spread over the
record's sixteen tracks, it had a more open,
spontaneous sound than most of the Creedence
records. It was also Fogerty's most blatantly pure
country/rockabilly effort, primitive and unadorned,
and its success was baffling to many. Who was
buying it, the same kids who bought Moody Blues
and Partridge Family records? Evidently.

John Fogerty's songs were more than simple

rockers; they were often subtle, lyrically brilliant,
and moreover, socially relevant. Like John Lennon
only more acutely, Fogerty wanted to bring back the
sound he loved and realized that to do so his songs
must also say something to today's audience, as if
to prove that a contemporary message would make
an old-styled song sound fresh. And he was right,
but there was more to it.

They also bought the next single, 'Hearts of Stone',

a 1953 R&B hit for Otis Williams & the Charms. The
record fell into a small genre that came and went in
1956, of rockabilly arrangements of R&B songs
(previously inhabited by Carl Perkins' 'Only You',
Ray Campi's 'Tore Up' and little else) and it would
be hard to describe anything with less 1973
commercial potential. Yet it was also a big hit.

Despite the lack of image-saturation, I believe the

success of Creedence was due, to a far greater
extent than has been acknowledged, to the
personality of John Fogerty. His link to the '50s was
more than musical he was descended from a line
of rock heroes including Elvis, Eddie Cochran, and
Buddy Holly. In the '60s rock was taken over by
faceless groups with amorphous names, but
Fogerty was a throwback to the era when the
singer/guitarist/rocker was a figure every guy
identified with and every girl adored.

The first Blue Ridge Rangers album also included

songs by Merle Haggard, Mel Tillis and Jimmie
Rodgers, and was in fact a very traditional sounding
country album. Yet the kids bought it, as they will
undoubtedly buy the second album, which is
already in the works. It should include some
Fogerty originals, of which there were none on the
first. According to a close source, he's been going
through a dry spell and hasn't written a song in a
year and a half. Now, however, they're coming fast,
and John is reportedly brimming with ideas for a
rock album after the next Rangers LP, and a return
to live performances in 1974. It's pretty clear that
John Fogerty is going to be one of the major stars
of rock for a long time to come.

It takes a strong, confident personality to fill that

role, and Fogerty had it. He was intelligent, modest,
likeable. He respected himself, his music and his
sources; thus, he was in turn respected and, by
many idolized. His wasn't a following based on
flash, but it was a solid and loyal one. As noted
before, his basic honesty and integrity came
through clearly in the best Creedence records, as
they do in the Blue Ridge Rangers. I think people
have responded as much to that as to the power of
his music, compensating for the lack of more
obvious commercial factors.

The question arises one final time: why? When

everyone else who tried to demonstrate the
relevance of '50s music to today met with failure,
why did Creedence find such spectacular success?
How could John Fogerty, a kid from Berkeley who

John Fogerty once told an interviewer, "I'm not a

seventies press agent for the fifties." True. He was,
rather, a true child of rock & roll, a rocker in the old
sense, a guy with a guitar and the desire to reach
kids in the most direct, effective way possible. That

724

he could succeed so well, both artistically and

commercially, without resorting to mellotrons,
orchestras, orange hair, vaseline, depravity, or any
gimmick at all, with nothing more than a basic
musical style laid down nearly 20 years ago (but still
as relevant as the U.S. Constitution or the Holy
Bible), will remain as a shining example to everyone
and an undeniable testament to the enduring power
of rock & roll and the unique talent of John C.
Fogerty.

technology. He makes it seem easy and natural; for

him, perhaps, it is.
Though it should follow that form serves feeling on
Fogerty's records, it would be more accurate to say
that, for him, form and feeling are identical. More
than anything, the very timbre of rock & roll as
experienced on the earliest Presley sides, on Little
Richard's great records, on the earlier, simpler
music of the Beatles and Stones was its
transcendent message. Fogerty's drums, guitars,
saxes and vocals are made to sound just so, not
only on new readings of the vintage Lonely
Teardrops and Sea Cruise but also on the
originals, like Almost Saturday Night, which draws
on Help-period Beatles, Rockin' All over the World,
which echoes Honky Tonk Women, The Wall, with
its rockabilly shudder and shimmer, or Flyin' Away,
which gives the Doobie Brothers riff new resonance.

Greg Shaw, 1973

John Fogerty: John Fogerty
Bud Scoppa, Rolling Stone, 25 October 1975
JOHN FOGERTY singlehandedly prepares records
that are virtually perfect in execution as well as
conception: brilliantly concise self-expression,
captivating and broad-based radio music. Though
he alone, among great rock stars, works exclusively
in solitude, his music seems neither sterile nor
elitist. Compared to other major pop figures,
Fogerty is practically a miniaturist, but the narrow
and rigidly defined formal limits in which he works
serve if anything to make his accomplishments
more impressive.

Unlike most of Creedence's albums, there's no

extended rock & roll piece (such as Keep on
Chooglin', Suzie Q or Effigy); instead, textural
elements are fused into taut dramatic units. For
example, the tongue-in-cheek nautical sound-effect
opening of Sea Cruise is commented on by his
saxophone chorus, which transforms itself into a
foghorn chorus before the end. The droning
Beatles-esque guitar riffs of Almost Saturday Night
are set off by the delicate striking of chimes,
deepening the aching quality of the vocal and lyric.
The sardonic intro to You Rascal You (the album's
third nonoriginal) combines with Fogerty's surly
vocal to change the song from a joke into a caustic,
possibly psychotic threat:

John Fogerty is nearly identical in form and spirit to

the best Credence albums, Cosmo's Factory and
Green River. And where his previous solo project,
the eponymous The Blue Ridge Rangers, contained
only familiar nonoriginal songs, seven of the ten
tracks on this official solo album were written by
Fogerty. Though I never fail to underestimate the
value of Fogerty's music initially (it's so simple, after
all) two of these Almost Saturday Night and
Dream/Song already have that classic ring.

I'll be glad when you're dead

You rascal you.
The best Creedence tracks (including every one in
the long string of hit singles) were distinguished by
this kind of flying wedge shaping of elements; on
John Fogerty, every one of the tracks works in this
way.

Still, it isn't so much the material as the overall form

that's impressive about John Fogerty. Utilizing the
most sophisticated machinery and methodology, he
makes records that sound deliciously primitive.
Rather than striving for high-fidelity precision for its
own sake, Fogerty uses sonic manipulation to
create emotionally accurate (if not strictly
authentic ) reproductions of the sound, for example,
of mid-Fifties rockabilly or mid-Sixties Beatles as
platforms on which to build his own music. Fogerty's
fundamental preference for the raw over the
polished, as well as his ability to build that raw feel
into everything he records, philosophically and
literally reconciles the impetuous hotbloodedness of
rock & roll with the cool detachment of spaceage

Long a functional electric guitar virtuoso of the Keith

Richard/George Harrison school (in which
harmonics, rhythm and economy are the chief
characteristics), Fogerty has turned to the
saxophone on the solo album in order to achieve
greater range; he plays the sax with the same
timbre, timing and directness he gives to his guitar
playing. Skeletally simple bass and drums and very
sparing rhythm piano make up the other weapons in
Fogerty's arsenal. Using those few straightforward
elements, Fogerty rolls smoothly from the midFifties to the mid-Seventies, from one end of rock &
roll to the other.

725

Fogerty's songwriting is as functional and to the

point as his guitar playing. No lyric is more
important to him than the accompanying guitar, but
he chooses stylistically appropriate forms to work
within (the parable: Where the River Flows, The
Wall; the neo-folk-message song: Dream/Song,
and the rock anthem: Rockin' All over the World,
Travelin' High, Almost Saturday Night). As a
lyricist, Fogerty is unique not for sheer eloquence
but for his transformation of commonplace words,
phrases and metaphors into vital and personally
expressive elements. The word locomotion in
Almost Saturday Night instantaneously links
romantic American dreamscapes (trains chugging
through the night) with teen-party vernacular (Little
Eva). Here, as in just about all of Fogerty's writing,
context is everything. Walls, dreams of flying, urges
for traveling and flowing symbolic rivers are among
the universal, all but hackneyed elements Fogerty
so deftly applies to his own ends. If these elements
seem terribly conventional, so are the musical
elements he works with. If Fogerty were a mechanic
he'd fashion found junk into customized '56 Chevies
and '65 GTOs.

spin-offs of the Rangers has displayed an

obsession with form, with finding some way to
create within conventional structure. The new album
is rich in pure veins; traditional country (Where The
River Flows, Dream/Song), Fifties rock 'n' roll
(Rockin' All Over the World) and New Orleans
(You Rascal You, Sea Cruise). If his covers sound
perfunctory at first, they deserve a closer listen.
Beneath the surface, Fogerty's singing generally
more inspired than in the last days of Creedence
is full with the nuances, eccentric toss-offs and the
momentary sense of abandon that's characterized
the best rockers.
Odd as it seems, his linear, no-frills budget attack
on Sea Cruise is just what the doctor ordered after
the excesses perpetrated by more famous acts in
the name of "Oldies authenticity." Fogerty, above
all, knows when to blow and when to quit. His
reworking of Jackie Wilson's Lonely Teardrops
gives off the unmistakable glow of a solid rocker at
his strongest; in one fell swoop he brings the song
down out of the hysteric pop clouds Wilson had
placed it in and onto the dance floor, beer-stained
and ragged, revitalized for the first time in
seventeen years. The accomplishment, like most of
Fogerty's past triumphs (I Heard It Through the
Grapevine, Ninety-Nine and A Half), runs the risk
of being overlooked for the fact it represents a
mastery within, not over, an admittedly familiar
form.

Even within the confinement of the studio,

eschewing the exposure of the stage, Fogerty
captures the fiery spirit of rock & roll as well as
practically any rocker, past or present. Still, listening
to this album, I sense a yearning for some heated
interaction with a packed house, a hot and a great
sound system.

The point being, Fogerty can probably be counted

on to retain a comparatively low profile for the rest
of his natural life. It's hard to imagine him ever
striking blows for the New Music, guesting on some
cybernetic jazz set with Mahavishnu McLaughlin.
On the other hand, Fogerty's likely to maintain his
adherence to the conventions of the most simple
and direct music around. He'll go down rocking,
which is more than can be said for all the
superstars whose faces and fame surpassed his
along the way.

Bud Scoppa, 1975

John Fogerty: John Fogerty
Gene Sculatti, Creem, December 1975
IT'S BEEN TEN or twelve years since the East Bay
Golliwogs traipsed onto some crepe-strewn
highschool gym floor and set up, almost a decade
since Creedence Clearwater Revival took the stage
in a smoky Avalon Ballroom, nearly half as long
since John Fogerty assumed the identity of the illfated Blue Ridge Rangers.

Gene Sculatti, 1975

John Fogerty Looks At Rock In 76

Now he's back with a long awaited solo album. The

good news is he's no closer to middle age nor
muzak than in 1965 or 1969. The less-than-great
news is that there's little here that's new under the
sun, nothing in the way of revolutionary advances.
In fact, some of John Fogerty reads like a chapter
from Creedence Clearwater, Volume 57.

Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, April 1976

''Let's face it," John Fogerty was saying, "could I
wear eye shadow and get away with it?" He was
speaking of the sense of alienation he feels from
most of today's music, and the difficulty of defining
his own image.

Which shouldn't be taken as a slight either. After all,

most of Fogerty's music from garage band
apprenticeship to bayou feedback and the stylistic

Since his first solo album, over a year ago, and in a

larger sense since the breakup of Creedence

726

Clearwater Revival in 1971, Fogerty has been trying

to settle in his own mind the question of how he, a
musician with simple, honest roots, fits into the
musical spectrum of the '70s, a decade he finds, at
times, bewildering.

western, '50s rhythm & blues, and old rock & roll,
but failed to present an original style as
convincingly his own as the Creedence sound had
been. His first solo album, particularly the lead cut
Rockin' All Over the World had been a brave
attempt to recapture the essence of that style, but,
though enjoyable, it was ultimately unsatisfying.

This question becomes all the more pertinent as he

prepares to release a new single, and finishes work
on a new album that will put him in the same
marketplace as Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, Lou
Reed, and the Bay City Rollers. What do people
expect from him, and what will they be getting? And
what will they think of it?

"That album was like a time capsule. It'd been a

long time since I'd done any rock & roll, and
everybody was saying I hope this one's gonna be a
rocker' and 'Hey, why not do some good ole rock &
roll?' But when I finished it, there was something
wrong that I just couldn't put my finger on. It
sounded dated in a way, like it should have come
out in 1971. It would've made a good follow-up to
Cosmo's Factory, but it wasn't what I should be
doing now."

John Fogerty has clearly given a lot of thought to

these questions, as I discovered when I spoke to
him recently. Uppermost in his mind are the
expectations of his fans, which, though wellintentioned represent a great danger to Fogerty. A
lot of people seem to be convinced that he should
come back and re-create the Creedence sound with
another string of galvanizing hit singles in the same
style.

So what is he doing now? "There's a single coming

out this month, in advance of the album, that might
give you some idea of the direction I'm going in. It's
called You Got the Magic and it's a kind of love
song, but not, you know, strings or any of that crap.
Just an honest love song. Im trying to make this
album a more accurate representation of what I
feel. I dont know, youll have to hear it, really."

The past, it seems, refuses to leave Fogerty alone.

If it isn't people wanting him to imitate his old
records, it's his old records themselves. Fantasy,
his former label, has just issued its third compilation
of Creedence hits ("At least this time they did it
properly. This is the album they should have put out
five years ago...") and an old LP cut, I Heard It
Through the Grapevine has been a fairly big hit in
the discos and on the charts since Fantasy
released it on a single in January. Based on this
fact, a lot of observers have speculated that
Fantasy might try re-releasing a whole series of old
Creedence tracks, as Capitol did with the Beach
Boys last year, initiating a literal Creedence
Clearwater revival. How would Fogerty react if that
happened?

Three years ago, Fogerty made the statement, "Im

not a 70s press agent for the 50s." Still it seems a
lot of people havent gotten the message. "You can't
keep on doing the same old stuff forever. Look at
Little Richard, Chuck Berry... they're a joke. At some
point, Berry stopped being a rocker and became a
walking example of rock history. That's not right. For
awhile, I was cast in the role of a protector of rock &
roll, a younger cousin to all those guys, as if I had
this responsibility to keep their music alive. I mean,
I love that music, and I can't think of anything
around today that has that kind of energy, but the
past is past.

"I thought it was great for the Beach Boys, and of

course I like seeing my records sell, whatever they
are especially Grapevine, which was sort of
languishing on an album, and was always intended
for this kind of thing, even back then; we visited
some discotheques in Europe and were very
excited to see people dancing, which no one was
doing in the States. But even though it pleases me,
at the same time it bothers me. I don't like the
feeling that I'm competing with myself. It seems like
whenever I put out a new record, I'm forced to
compete against some new Greatest Hits album by
Creedence. It can be very frustrating."

"There's another thing, too. When the Beatles came

along, Elvis and all that was practically forgotten,
even though it had been only four, five years. It's no
longer than that now since Creedence has broken
up, which people have to realize. It puts me in a
funny position...."
Fogerty has no desire to forget his past, but at the
same time he's realized that his values, his
aesthetic standards, have to be updated if he's to
survive as an artist. The basics of rock & roll don't
change; there was no essential difference between
Travellin' Band and Good Golly Miss Molly, but
the way those basics are interpreted, given a new
energy level, and applied to modern technology,
makes all the difference.

His newest album, still in the recording stage, is due

to be released by this summer. The big question, of
course, is what will it sound like? Since leaving
Creedence, Fogerty has dabbled in country &

727

"I really love quad, for instance. I used to think, you

know, 'Back to Mono' but if you use the
technology right, stereo and quad can give you a
better representation of what was great about
mono. It's the same thing; you can't re-create the
past, but you can update it, and make it
contemporary.

I mentioned a few names: Bowie, Lou Reed, Elton.

"I've listened to those people, and I really don't
understand it. It makes me very uncomfortable. Is
this what they call rock & roll? Elton John really
baffles me, frightens me at times. He's so
unbelievably huge but huge like the Bank of
America. It's overwhelming, but no matter how big it
gets, it's just not exciting. At least to me. If he's
today's equivalent of Elvis or the Beatles,
something's wrong."

"The whole idea of 'Good Ole Rock & Roll' is

something that really bothers me. It's become such
a cliche, and the worst part is that it has nothing to
do with the reality of old rock & roll, it's like some
Happy Days stereotype made up by kids who
weren't even born in the '50s. I remember being on
The Andy Williams Show once, and the Osmonds
were there, this was before they made it big, and
they were doing 'All Shook Up.' And they were only
about nine years old at the time. This was good old
rock & roll? It's like the word 'oldies'. That kind of
approach just makes people forget the true reality
of rock & roll the way I remember it. My values are
based on having grown up with a music that had a
real craziness, a toughness, a defiance. It changed
a lot of people's lives, you know? And it's all
forgotten. I'm not saying we should go back, but
why can't today's rock have that same vitality? It's
because they don't even know it's possible."

Ah, now we're getting hot. I took the liberty of

pointing out that a lot of people were beginning to
agree with him, that a backlash was taking shape
against disco and gutless rock, and that the next
wave seemed to be made up of young groups with
the same kind of roots and values we had been
discussing. Fogerty was surprised, but delighted to
hear of it. There was only one more thing to ask. I
phrased it cautiously, not really sure of how he
would react:
"What do you think of the latest savior of rock &
roll, Bruce Springsteen?"
Fogertys response was a revelation. He revealed a
critical ability greater than that of most of my
colleagues, and in fact stated my own opinion more
lucidly than I could have. "I just got his album," he
began, "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
I had a feeling I wouldn't like it, but everybody was
telling me I had to hear this guy. I don't know, he
may be something, but it's not rock & roll. His
singing is atrocious, the production is awful, you
can't hear anything; it's all subdued. In no way does
it strike you the way Chuck Berry did. His visual
imagery is good; he's tough-looking, from the
streets, all that, but he's not really tough, not the
way Gene Vincent was, or the Stones. 'Born to Run'
was okay, but it wasn't that good. I think people
were buying the image more than the music you
notice his follow-up was a stiff. To me, he's like the
rock singer in a Danny Thomas production, you
know, the kid wants to go to the concert, the
parents come along and learn that rock & roll isn't
all that bad, just clean, simple fun and a lot of cheap
thrills."

A point well taken. One might assume, then, that

Fogerty feels no great involvement in the present
music scene. I solicited his thoughts on the subject.
"I listen to the radio constantly, A.M. radio,
everything thats out I try to understand. Some of it,
though, is just beyond me. I liked the disco thing
when the music still had soul. Now it's pathetic, but
the fact that people are dancing is still a healthy
sign. And I'm really glad all the supercilious bullshit
is gone, all those lame singer-songwriters. There
are a lot of good pop records out. I like 'Let Your
Love Flow' by the Bellamy Brothers, 'Who Loves
You' by the Four Seasons. Steely Dan is very good.
I like 'Squeeze Box' even though it's obnoxious.
Double entendre is always fun, but this isn't even
single entendre... a little too obvious."
My own predilection for commercial pop is no secret
to the readers of this magazine, so I had to agree
with these sentiments, but what, I wondered, about
hard rock? Was there anything out there that
Fogerty acknowledged as keeping alive the tradition
he had worked most zealously to preserve?

What's causing all the excitement, then? "Wishful

thinking, that's all. Just like my last album, actually.
Sometimes if enough people want something to be
true, they can fool themselves into thinking it
actually is."

"Well, you'll have to define what you mean by 'hard

rock'. I don't even know anymore. I frankly never
understood Alice Cooper, Zeppelin, any of that. I
suppose thats what they call hard rock these days,
but to me it's something else."

Wishful thinking. In a sense, it's the dominant mood

of our time these few months, that is. We all want
something great to happen, we feel that it could,
that it ought to. So we over-react, throw away our
judgment. I've done it myself, plenty of times. It's

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fun, while it lasts, to throw yourself into the spirit of

something like that; it's part of pop. But it's still a
delusion. The only artists really worthy of that kind
of devotion are those that can maintain a consistent
level of greatness, and generate a sense of
excitement based on reality, not wishful thinking.
Fortunately for Fogerty, he's already proven his
ability to do just that, and this current climate will
only work to his benefit as he prepares to enter the
arena once more.

Which reminds me how strange it is that a peaceful,

reclusive good ol boy like Fogerty came to sound
like a mad black faggot called Little Richard
Penniman, and makes me glad as hell to report that
the voice of Centerfield snarls as meanly as it has
ever done. On The Old Man Down The Road, a
last dispatch from the swamplands of Run Through
The Jungle, he could be mistaken for a redneck
heavy-metal Solomon Burke. "He got the voices
speak in riddles/He got the eye as black as coal/He
got a suitcase covered with rattlesnake hide..."

Although he may think of himself as reactionary, my

own impression is that Fogerty is a remarkably
clear-headed realist as regards the state of rock &
roll in 1976. He's optimistic and enthusiastic,
anxious to go out on the road and already putting
together a touring band. There won't be any makeup or green hair, but we can expect a flashier John
Fogerty than we've seen in awhile ("One of my
long-time dreams has been to get a '53 Cadillac
convertible, bright pink, with dollar bill upholstery")
playing real rock & roll with the sense of style he's
never lost. In a year which America has devoted to
a reappraisal of its roots, rock & roll is fortunate to
have John Fogerty. He may not be the protector of
the music, but he might just be its truest
conscience.

Theres nothing here as honky-tonk rockin as

Almost Saturday Night, however, and certainly
nowt for Status Quo to cover. If anything, the New
Orleans of Sea Cruise and You Rascal You has
given was to a revisiting of Creedence territory.
Saw It On TV seems deliberately to echo Wholl
Stop The Rain, looking back on Kennedy, Vietnam
and The Beatles through square eyes and still
wondering why "they built their bombs/And aimed
their guns"; Mr Greed, breathing unscrupulous
slumlords over a chunky ZZ Top boogie riff, sounds
as vitriolic as Fortunate Son. And Searchlight is a
single swampy Creedence riff rolled over tight brass
interjections and effective syndrums, reflecting on
something more darkly personal: "What was the
demon that made me run/Can I ever hope to
understand?"

Greg Shaw, 1976

The rest is happier. Life is just a rodeo in Rock &

Roll Girls. And I Cant Help Myself is light
Springsteen fare with a coiled Mark Knopfler guitar.
Zanz Cant Dance, the story of a boy and his
pickpocketing pig, suggests Fogerty has been
listening to African music, since it opens with a Juju
guitar lick and features a talking drum. Centerfield
itself is a lovely ode to baseball: "A-roundin third
and headed for home/Its a brown-eyed handsome
man".

John Fogerty: Centerfield (Warner Bros.)

Barney Hoskyns, NME, 1985
TIME STANDS still in Fogertyville. Its ten years
since the old Creedence leader made a record and
nothing much has changed. Theres a few
syndrums and claptracks on Main Street now but
theyre the merest concession stands. The ballpark
is still there and the Memphis train still howls
through at night.

With the widespread return to rural rock roots by

everyone from Brooce to The Long Ryders in full
flow, maybe Creedences Revival has come at last.
This downhome DIY triumph every instrument
played by JCF fights for simple American glories
as staunchly and lovingly as Born In The USA. All
he needs now is a Dancing In The Dark.

Actually, the Memphis train doesnt howl through at

night because Memphis train is Elvis Presley and
Big Train is a country slice of Sunbilly that mourns
his passing. "Like no one before/He let out a
roar/And I just had to tag along." Centerfield regrets
such things but every last lick bottles the past for
future consumption.

Catch you in 95, John.

Its an album of unabashed homage, like a photo

"album" of old baseball stars. The sleeves back
cover is a kids bedroom of the 50s preserved as a
museum piece: a baseball cap and almanac, a
collection of tin models of classic American heroes,
cowboy, fireman, Yankees pitcher. Seated off to one
side, next to a Tray-ler radio, is the model of the
black blues singer.

Barney Hoskyns, 1985

John Fogerty: Fogerty Returns To The Stage
Michael Goldberg, Rolling Stone, 14 March 1985
Oldies highlight show for cable TV

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IF HIS HIT ALBUM AND SINGLE hadn't already

established John Fo-gerty as rock's comeback artist
of the year, his first public perform-ance in more
than a decade did. To see the thirty-nine-year-old
former leader of Creedence Clearwater Revival
stand at the very front of a stage and tear into Rock
and Roll Girls was to witness one of the most
amazing rock & roll resuscitations in re-cent years.

Fogerty had regained his confidence. The call-andresponse vo-cals between Fogerty and the backup
singers on the first few tunes were chill-ing. In
between songs, Fogerty joked around and
reminisced about old Cree-dence tours. Then, when
he stood up and let loose on Let's Go, Let's Go,
Let's Go it was like being in rock & roll heaven.
By the third set, it was name-that-tune time, with
Fogerty and the band jamming on Booker T. and
the MG's instrumental Hip Hug Her and Johnnie
Taylor's Who's Making Love, as well as Long Tall
Sally, Blue Suede Shoes, Knock on Wood, My
Girl, Honky Tonk Women and Hi-Heel Sneakers.

Fogerty's return to live performing took place on

January 31st at the Chap-lin Stage on A&M
Records' Hollywood lot. The ostensible reason for
the show was the filming of a nine-song miniconcert for a cable-TV (probably MTV) special. But the
unspoken purpose of the concert was more
important: it was a chance for Fogerty, under the
most controlled conditions the invited audi-ence of
about 200 was filled with sym-pathetic Warner Bros.
employees, friends and musicians to feel once
again what it's like to stand onstage and play rock &
roll.

As midnight approached, Fogerty began the bluesy

bayou riff that kicks off The Old Man Down the
Road. His eyes were closed; there was sweat on
his brow. As he started singing the song, the
audience started dancing. It was one of those
classic rock & roll mo-ments in which performer and
audience lose themselves in the music. When it
was over, Fogerty just laughed and said, "Who is
that old man anyway?"

The setting was casual and intimate. Fogerty and

the phenomenal band he had assembled for the
night Booker T. Jones on keyboards, Donald
"Duck" Dunn on bass, Steve Douglas on saxophone, Albert Lee on guitar, Prairie Prince on drums
and four first-rate male backup singers strolled
through the audience, mounted a low, round stage
and took their places on stools and chairs. Wearing
a blue-plaid flannel shirt, jeans, blue suspenders
and cowboy boots, Fogerty nervously told the audience about a backstage visit from Lenny Waronker,
president of Warner Bros. Records, the label that
released Foger-ty's Centerfield LP.

Michael Goldberg, 1985

The Natural Is Back
Mark Leviton, Bam, 15 March 1985
WHAT BECOMES a legend most? You won't find
John Fogerty in mink. He favors checked flannel
shirts, suspenders, jeans and work boots, would
rather go fishing on a clear lake in Oregon than
make the rounds of nightspots, would rather be
behind home plate in Oakland than in front of a bar
in New York.

"Lenny's trying to cheer me up," Fogerty said.

"'You'll do great, John. This is your first concert in
twelve years, huh? Don't be nervous.'" With that,
Fogerty and the band began the old Swan
Silvertones gospel hit Mary Don't You Weep. For
the record, this group of musicians sounded
nothing like Creedence Clearwater Revival. Imagine
instead Elvis Presley fronting the Five Keys, or
Jerry Lee Lewis working out with Hank Ballard and
the Midnighters. In addition, the band's repertoire
was made up mostly of oldies R&B work-outs like
the Four Rivers' I Confess, the Medallions' My
Pretty Baby and Ray Charles' Leave My Woman
Alone; Fifties rockers like Hank Bal-lard and the
Midnighters' Let's Go, Let's Go, Let's Go and Don
Gardner and Dee Dee Ford's I Need Your Loving;
and the Muddy Waters blues classic Mannish Boy.

He returned from one hunting trip talking about

"incredible moments of joy. It isn't the hunting...it's
existing in the mountains and living with yourself.
Seeing how it all really works, not what goes on a
Hollywood and Vine. It's seeing a tree that was 30
feet high last year and now is 32 feet high. You
weren't there, but the tree grew anyway. That's how
it all works." As the composer of Proud Mary, Bad
Moon Rising, Lodi, Up Around The Bend, Who'll
Stop The Rain, Someday Never Comes, Green
River and other classics for his band Creedence
Clearwater Revival, his place in history is solid
already, but amazingly he's come back to recording
after a twelve year absence with an album called
Centerfield that contains more mammoth
songwriting achievements. Add to that the fact that
Fogerty performed all the instruments, wrote all the
songs and arrangements, and produced as well,

For the camera's benefit, the group played three

sets, the first of which was clearly disappointing.
Fogerty seemed unsure of himself, and he never let
the spirit of the music carry him past his own selfconsciousness. By the second set, however,

730

and you've got one of the most astonishing one

man shows on earth.

that Joe got something across to me I'd never felt

before, especially not at Fantasy. I felt pressured
myself that I owed product to Asylum. The first
album I gave them wasn't very good, I certainly
can't look back on it now as very good it's not
even ordinary. This one was obviously worse than
that, and Joe Smith was saying, "John, you don't
have to make another record right now. We'd like it
when it's ready, but we're not standing here with a
rock over your head demanding a record." He said
it seemed like I was having some problems, and
why didn't I go work those out, whatever they were?

Not that this kind of virtuosity is unexpected from

John. While Doug Clifford, Tom Fogerty and Stu
Cook certainly contributed mightily to the
Creedence sound, there was never any doubt that it
was John's band. Forget if you want to that in the
space of only three years Fogerty produced nine
Top 10 singles, most of them double-sided hits, like
Down On The Corner/Fortune Son or Have You
Ever Seen The Rain/Hey Tonight. Creedence was
the most American of all American bands, reflecting
the turmoil of the '60s and '70s with much more
than the glib protest and rallying cries of the era.
Behind every thought was hard work, behind every
lyric the simple rock and roll virtues of Sam Phillips'
Sun label. If the words of Proud Mary didn't
describe a great paddle-wheeler, the churning
music would. Fogerty's music has always had a
complete, almost visual kind of quality, and his
recording style has been spare and pointed. Of
course, Fogerty's voice, somewhere between a
growl and a drawl, pushes every line and nuance
with emotion, leaving no doubt that he's invested a
piece of his soul in what he's doing.

That was the greatest thing that ever happened. I

did have a lot of problems. The first thing I decided
was I could take the time to have taste again, you
know, the way it was before, when nothing came
out until it was ready. This was in 1976, remember.
Now weird legal and financial things happened at
this time; in fact, because of the Asylum situation I
began to work on my problems, other than musical.
Some of it was contractual involvements, financial
involvements, and I decided to take charge of my
life. You must understand the money we'd earned
from Creedence was in a real nebulous state. I
started trying to tie things down, and as a result
there was a big explosion and it all went away
wham!

The album title comes from John's devotion to

baseball, which he often uses as a metaphor for his
career and American political life. The title tune
itself, with its refrain "Put me in, coach!" is a sign of
Fogerty's determination. As he told one interviewer,
"You get your ups. You may be down 13 runs in the
ninth inning but you're going to get your ups." The
album includes an understated, personal tribute to
Elvis called Big Train (from Memphis), the gripping
slice of Creedence-styled swamp music The Old
Man Down The Road (the album's first single), a
raw, rocking attack on a favorite Fogerty subject in
Mr. Greed, which should remind many of his
previous Fortunate Son, and a beautiful paen to
lost values called I Saw It On TV. Each track is
direct, honest and thoroughly Fogerty, without the
vacillation and compromise that marred his last
commercially available album in 1975. Centerfield is
the competition to beat in 1985 in what John might
think of as the World Series of Rock and Roll.

I try to be cool about pointing fingers, but certainly

we were led into certain things because of our
involvement with Fantasy Records. So there I was
trying to go back into the studio, and my life savings
were absolutely gone, everything gone. Suddenly at
the same time, I discovered that I may have a huge
I.R.S. bill. I was now trying to understand this
myself instead of just trusting the accountants, and I
saw a real possibility that I would owe everything I
might make in the future for some time. I kept
thinking about Joe Louis God, I didn't want to end
up like Joe Louis. It took an act of Congress to
dispose of his debt.
The only guy I thought I could trust was [Warner
Bros. executive] Joe Smith. He had a really good
reputation, and everything I saw in person
supported that. He recommended a tax attorney to
get things sorted out I had to start chipping away
at this pile of baloney. So I got a "lawyer in a tall
building" who worked without the usual kind of
retainer. It was clear I couldn't fight with the kind of
money I had against the other guys, who through a
cruel irony were using money earned for them by
Creedence as it turns out.

I suppose the main question is what happened

between your last release ten years ago and this
one?
A lot of things happened at once. The first was
taking the Hoodoo album down to Elektra/Asylum
and meeting with Joe Smith and both of us
agreeing that it really wasn't happening. He was
really great about it. This was not a humiliation, this
was constructive really, because the company was
willing to back me up all the way. The result was

If you're a little guy in America, you haven't got a

shot, unless there's some super-Constitutional thing
in your favor. There's writs, and closures, and
everything, and you can't keep up with it. But my

731

attorney definitely thought I'd been shafted.

Through the trial in 1982, I had the shadow of this
tall building supporting me, you know?

And then I thought I'd trade my past for my future. I

told them they never had to pay me another cent as
recording artist for Creedence material not the
songs, NEVER give away your songs but I didn't
have to give them three more albums either. Not
quite that simple, but that's basically it. And then in
the trial of 1982 it became finally clear that what
happened to our money was amazing. The
judgement said we had to be paid back. And at the
end of that year, I came back from hunting one day,
and I knew it was time to really start working on a
record.

Did you feel paralyzed, unable to record?

I was active in the studio, but it was so lame what I
came up with! I would see these people's faces in
front of me, holding big bags of money they'd gotten
from us, like a spectre, a hallucination! I'd be sitting
on the drums, and see this, and it would just be too
heavy. By the way, I'm not into chemicals or dope,
so this wasn't that kind of hallucination.

I began to work in splotches of paint a line for one

song, a title for another. I Saw It On TV was the
first song that seemed to make sense. I had been
working on this stuff for some time, and one day at
about 10 am I went out fishing on a lake. Once I
had style and sound down I had to confront the
work of writing songs. I used to have a clear focus,
and I used to be good at it, people would like the
songs, beyond the words alone. I had thought about
this song for three or four years, with just a verse,
and a smattering of melody. I was up and down on
the lake all day. I knew the first line was "They sent
us home to watch the show coming on the little
screen." This really did happen to me in 1952, when
they sent us all home to watch Eisenhower be
inaugurated. What I got out of it on the little screen
was a bunch of black Cadillacs. As a middle class
kid I just thought it had nothing to do with me it
was just a bunch of rich people in their Cadillacs.
Most of the kids maybe went to the park, but I
dutifully watched.

I definitely felt oppressed. I stayed five or six

months there I may be a loser sometimes but I'm
not a quitter and it got more and more ridiculous.
I'd have half an idea for one song and half an idea
for another and try to put them together...and it just
didn't happen. The whole time I was in my own
rehearsal studio, getting my chops down. I liken it to
pumping iron, getting stronger and stronger, moving
up in weights. I'd get up and go to my job like
anyone else, start about 9:30 am and work until
6:30 or so, come home, have dinner, and practice
again until around 11:30 at night. No weekends off.
But it was getting worse, more and more
depressed, and further away from the center of
John Fogerty. I could play but I didn't know what to
play. That's why I made a record like You Got The
Magic, which is practically disco. A blind man in a
fog, just flitting around.
I was still under contract to Fantasy for outside the
United States, and owed them three other albums.
See, knowing it is one thing and proving it is
another, so I have to be a little careful about how I
say these things. But I couldn't deal with the idea I'd
have to turn over three more albums to these same
people I was fighting. I thought I might make the
albums and they'd be huge hits and I'd be funding
them fighting me further! It was crazy. I couldn't
make music like that, it was like dumping your life
savings down the toilet over and over.

I quit about six o'clock in the evening and walked

back to the car with maybe a verse-and-a-half and
a chorus. I was starting to feel a little confident. And
I got my fishing gear straight and shut the door in
the car and CLICK my brain said "Hey, I can do
this!" It felt like before, when I'd give myself that
certain space and write Proud Mary or whatever. I
had jumped over the hurdle. I was a songwriter
again. It was a great moment for me. It was like the
earth shaking hey baby, did the earth move for
you too? That was the beginning of songwriting
again for me.

I went way into a writer's block. By 1979...I didn't go

to a shrink, I'd gone through that with marriage
counseling. It didn't work, but the marriage did when
we worked on it the shrink was a jerk. But I
couldn't sleep, so I went to an Alpha Wave place to
learn a trick to help me sleep I was a zombie,
getting two or three hours a night. I kept running
each day, which I think helped save my life
something about running just gets it out of you. But
I'd sit there at the Alpha Wave center and complain
about my life instead of working on the technique. I
either had to quit music, or find a solution.

There's so much emotional power in your

music, it's easy to confuse the speaker with you
in every case. In that song, it's really at least
partially from the point of view of the old man.
It's not Tin Pan Alley. But the songs are also acts of
imagination. I'm very close to these songs. A
teacher of mine used to say, "Write about what you
know. A good story has to have a beginning, a
middle and an end." It's so obvious. I think I'm a
pretty good pop writer someday I may tackle a

732

novel, I guess but through the years of high

school English it all came down to a few sentences
like those. If you get on to foreign turf and write
about something you don't understand, you should
know right away. Even though I pick an imaginary
form, most of the time it's my personality. It's all my
screen. It can't come out like Bernie Taupin or
somebody.

casting around for what you might do, and there's

disco, or The Go-Go's or whatever on the radio...I
went through all those in my little rehearsals. I didn't
like them on the radio and I didn't like them when I
attempted something similar. More and more I
began to see what I should not do, even if I didn't
quite know what I should do. Once I became a
strong band, playing everything well enough, then I
could concentrate on what I liked. It fell in place. I
drop-kicked the keyboards out the window, because
they just fill in space, and pretty soon you can't hear
what's happening between the high-hat and snare
anymore. My style evolved back to the same style,
because that's what I like. I used to say I was like
Pinocchio, waiting to become a real boy a real
band.

I have a listener I imagine as well. I am him. There's

this imaginary group of people who understand, as
far as I know. It's not this faceless, drunken mob.
They're watching closely.
Creedence was a critical and commercial
success, but this gap we've had in your output
has allowed others less talented to usurp your
place, you might say. Creedence always
represented a certain kind of patriotism, not
Reagan-type flag-waving, but a good feeling
about America. You were a standard-bearer for
that feeling, and the details you put into songs
from your own life in fact had more universal
meaning than overt protest songs.

By August of this year, six tracks were done, but

three were still giving me a hard time. I recognized
the mental state of creating some bad music that
was pulling the whole thing down. I'd heard the six
tunes 3000 times since February, and I had no
emotion left, no judgement. I knew it sounded like
Creedence, and I wondered if Warners thought they
were getting Michael Jackson or some modern
synth-rock. I had to find out if I was working on the
right thing. It was like in The Shining, when you
think the guy is working on a book, but all he's been
doing is typing the same line over and over. I
thought maybe I was out there somewhere, lost.

Creedence was happening when it was hip to run

everything down. Nixon sucks, politics sucks. We
were in our early 20s too. It was very easy to say I
wrote a few political songs, I think. But I really love
and loved this country. I'm a product of this place,
I'm not from Argentina. This is what we agitated
against right then, but I think I projected the idea
that in five years that wouldn't be there anymore
and there'd be something else. There's a strength in
America that gets us through all of it, from
Golddiggers Of 1935 to Purple Rain.

So I had to have the guts to take the six tracks

down there to Lenny Waronker and let him hear
them. I was scared. I had my hat in my hand. This
isn't Rock Legend coming down, this is like a job
interview. My lucky number is 35, and I flew out of
San Francisco instead of Oakland because of time
problems, and went from gate 35. It seemed a good
indication it was alright. Then I got lost, got to
Warners an hour late...it was all very nervous
because Lenny had the same questions I did
what if it's crummy? He'd have to tell me. He knew
I'd had records rejected. And while he listened I was
not having a good time it was like measuring your
manhood or something. Lenny just went crazy,
because he'd been waiting for it to be awful, and
when I came in singing he felt it was going to be all
right. He came unglued. We were both four feet off
the ground.

Who'll Stop The Rain is not a protest song as

much as a piece of poetry that continues to live.
The songs grow, but we grow too. I don't even know
how to relate to that. I can remember when Elvis
came back and started recording again. It was good
to have him back, but I kept wanting him to really be
Elvis, you know? Instead he came from Las Vegas.
Anyone who stays away a long time creates some
expectation I'm trying to relate to what I've been
getting from people who have this reaction to me.
It seems like you're the kind of person who
doesn't want to progress so much as preserve
what's good. I suppose this album could be
criticized because it is so much like a great
Creedence album instead of some synthesizer
record.

Considering how popular Creedence were in

their time, and still are to a great extent, why
isn't your music more influential? No one seems
to cite Creedence as an influence with one or
two exceptions, like Springsteen.

I went through that, with my last record. You can't

do what you used to do, technically, so you start

The tunes like Proud Mary and Green River have

had a lot of cover versions, but I do wonder if
Creedence was so popular why didn't other people

733

jump on that sound? Why aren't there five

Creedence bands the way there are five Michael
Jackson clones? That's something I still don't
understand.

Most artists might write a political song about

Reagan, something contemporary, but you
seem to be saying that there's too much
unresolved with Nixon to go all the way to
today.

Maybe that kind of simple, exposed Creedence

sound is too intimidating. Not anyone can make
music that emotional and naked.

Well, have you gotten over it? I'm not the only
intelligent person in this country. I was writing about
Reagan in 1970 after all, in Ramble Tamble and It
Came Out Of The Sky, Hell, I read in the paper
today this great line: "The amazing thing about
democracy is that it continues with the masses
continually uninformed about what's going on."

I had to recreate myself, to get that sound again.

My record collection was stolen around fourteen
years ago and that really cut out my heart, my roots
were gone, and most of this stuff is not on radio. So
I started making cassettes, collecting all the tunes.
First one was Honky Tonk Pts. 1&2 by Bill Doggett,
then I got those Japanese Little Richard and Chuck
Berry albums, so they'd have the original covers. I
got such energy from these tapes. You can really
connect with the voices, each personality. Ray
Charles, Little Richard. And then you also notice
saxophone. My son was listening to one of the
tapes and asked me if he could take sax lessons.
He's now been playing about a year. He's no
dummy. In 1964 the saxophone died because The
Beatles didn't have one. John McCafferty knows
King Curtis, I think, but there's not much around.

I do think about that connection we had in 1968 that

we were all together and that we were really going
to change things. Music and society was all related.
You looked a total stranger in the face and you
already knew something about him. And it was
more important than clothes and fashion. That
feeling, that part wasn't baloney.
Springsteen has a line about learning "More
from a three minute record than we ever learned
in school." That seems to me a very un-Fogerty
type line, because while your music might
indicate that attitude, it would never be so plain
as to simply state it. The point is to demonstrate
it's true, not tell somebody what to think, isn't
it?

The tapes eventually evolved into my psychedelic

era Broken Arrow by Buffalo Springfield,
American Pie. My wife thought it was just the worst
music, and I'd say, Hey, peace! Can't you just smell
the paisley jeans and hiphuggers? My wife just
remembers the phoniness, the out-of-tune guitars,
the festivals. Of course, you have to remember at
one point she really liked Frankie Avalon. She liked
Blue Suede Shoes by Elvis.

I can't knock Bruce because, hey, the guy likes me.

There are lines that are cool, but I don't hear the
culture in his songs, I don't hear the potpourri of
America in his sound. It's all like New Jersey,
limited. If you feel patriotic, wouldn't you reflect the
diversity of the whole country?

Are there any effects you've struggled to

express that you haven't been able to, things
you got permanently stuck on?

Would you consider yourself a perfectionist?

I Saw It On TV was that kind of thing, but it worked

out. There are about six things to say just about the
lines "I know it's true/cause I saw it on TV." TV
makes it real, but does it? There's a poignancy
about it. I don't mean to puff up my own bellows, but
that's a big one for me. Maybe I'm the old man in
the song, 30 years hence. I could have quite easily
been the song, having lived through that particular
war. I had that image of fathers losing their sons for
years, while Haldemann and Erlichman and those
guys were busy yelling for their golfcarts. That war's
not over, just because Nixon finally said, "Okay,
peace with honor!" The ripples go galaxies away! It
didn't stop just because some guys got off a plane
one day. Look at what veterans are going through.

I once heard Danny Kaye say a neat thing, he said,

"I'm not a perfectionist, because that means you
think you're going to be perfect, and I know I'm not."
But I do go after detail. I believe in that strength, of
bringing those things together that you're attuned
to. I had guitars built especially to get exactly the
sound I wanted. I wasn't getting it off the shelf. So I
worked with a guy in Santa Barbara who makes
instruments, and we went one-on-one and took a lot
of time. Your typical engineer hears a bass in the
studio, and he starts throwing in this and that, and I
say "Whoa. Just listen to the sound as it is." And it
turns out you don't have to do anything to the
sound. I do my homework it's called preproduction. I got what comes out of the instrument,
from that kind of wood, that kind of neck.

734

If there were no record business, no one would

ever hear your songs but you, would you still be
playing and writing?

missing from the rock prairie. So first off, welcome

back, John.
Formalities out of the way, to Centerfield we go, and
smack into that low-clouds, watch-your-ass, middleof-nowhere mystery music that was so arresting all
the way back when The Big Chill generation
thought the frost would never come. Fogerty knew
better, and that's why Green River and Cosmo's
Factory can be played to this day without causing
guffaws, while so much Bay Area turn-of-thedecade rock has mildewed beyond listenability. The
Old Man Down The Road is a tightly coiled cousin
to rural blues with lyrics like a Stephen King
interpretation of the Old Testament: "He make the
river call your lover/He make the barking of the
hound/Put a shadow 'cross the window/When the
Old Man comes around." What's the geezer doing
in the road? Fogerty never tells, and good for him.

Hey, for twelve years no one did hear what I was

doing. You have to remember for years I was in a
band. Our goal was to be like Elvis or Little Richard
in eighth and ninth grade, and we came up from El
Cerrito and we succeeded, and we're traveling
around the world in Lear jets. And then suddenly I
found myself chained to the dungeon wall, and I
was cranking out little gems to pay for the cost of
keeping a guard on my door. And I just thought I
wouldn't give anymore, but I knew someday I'd
overcome that. I don't think you do something if you
can never taste it, or smell it, or hear it. It's fun to do
it, but everybody wants to show off, you've got to
have someone to share it with. Of course, there's
another side to that, because when I go up to
Oregon and it takes a few days to get the city out of
my mind, I think I could be happy, if I wasn't making
music, just being a hermit and letting that part of my
life be there. Sitting by the river, how can you not
think that you've found peace? But then you've got
this unfinished canvas, and you've got to put
something there.

Fogerty is a guy with several calling cards, so one

function of Centerfield is as resume. You want
rockabilly, he bows towards Sun and does a oneman imitation of the Tennessee Three on Big Train
(From Memphis), perhaps the least sappy Elvis
tribute to come down the pike. You want a Fogerty
rock-as-rock song (remembering, perhaps, Rockin'
All Over The World or Traveling Band), he obliges
with the altogether infectious Rock And Roll Girls.
You want to hear him let loose his oddball diction,
and damned if Searchlight doesn't come out
soichlight, just as you hoped it would. Like EB '84,
Centerfield is an album that would win even if it just
sounded the way it does, hit the right notes,
recreated the right spirit.

Mark Leviton, 1985

John Fogerty: Centerfield
Mitchell Cohen, Creem, April 1985
I have a better title, except Malamud already
claimed it: The Natural. John Fogerty's sound could
never be pinned down to time or region; spring
Who'll Stop The Rain or Lodi on a panel of
musicologists 30, 40 years from now and ask them
to place it, and odds are there'll be a lot of baffled
head-scratching.

Waiting more than nine years for nine songs does

tend to raise one's expectations. We in the rockwriter trade have been using Fogerty as a kind of
yardstick for ages now, surmising that Springsteen,
Seger, the Blasters, the Del-Lords, et.al., wake up
every morning and hope it's the day they'll write
their Bad Moon Rising. If Fogerty's felt the
pressure of his grand-old-masterhood (ironic since
back when his band was boinin' up the charts with
incredible regularity, they were often snottily
dismissed as a singles machine), Centerfield
doesn't show signs of strain. Only Mr. Greed, a
snarling indictment of a money-grabber ("You're a
devil of consumption/I hope you choke": this from
the writer of Fortunate Son) lands with a thud.

There's some New Orleans bounce, some Memphis

thump, a bit of a blue yodel in the voice, and the
spare directness of blues. The bite of '50s rock 'n'
roll, the hickory-smoked twang of Henry Fonda in
The Grapes Of Wrath. All this stuff, and it still only
takes three notes to identify the music's maker.
That is, if your musical memory bank accepted
deposits prior to Watergate. I'd have thought this
was one of those "man who needs no introduction"
situations, but when Z-100 here in N.Y.C. first
played The Old Man Down The Road and asked
its listeners who the singer is, one woman hesitantly
said, "Sam The Sham?" Not quite, lady (I'd have
loved to hear Creedence tackle Wooly Bully,
though, now that you mention it). It has been nine
years of Fogerty's voice if not his imprint

Two tracks, the title song and I Can't Help Myself

not the Four Tops tune, but a serious contender for
hitdom, with or without an Arthur Baker remix
express Fogerty's enthusiasm as he steps up to
take his cuts. And the LP's most ambitious song, I
Saw It On TV., takes a not especially original idea,
tracing our recent history through tube touchstones

735

(Ike, Elvis, JFK, Beatles, Vietnam, Watergate), and

makes it work. Not because of individual images,
but because of Fogerty's muted passion, and a
terrific ending. After all the icons are toted up, he
switches to the point of view of an old man in a
rocking chair, embittered by the loss of a son,
angered by the betrayal by his government: "The
light, he says, at the end of the tunnel/Was nothin'
but a burglar's torch." Then, after the final chorus,
he strums the guitar licks from Who'll Stop The
Rain. He knows that his music is part of our
collective past as well, and that we didn't see it all
on TV: some of it we heard on records.

('Swamp River Days', 'Joys of My Life','Hot Rod

Heart'), Centerfield (the title cut and 'The Old Man
Down the Road' and his relatively obscure Asylum
album John Fogerty ('Almost Saturday Night' and
'Rockin' All Over the World', which is probably best
known as a Bruce Springsteen encore). One of the
highlights of the album is the title cut, a new song
that clearly demonstrates Fogerty's continuing
vitality as a rock singer and songwriter.
There's no question that Fogerty's return to the
stage has fulfilled his highest hopes. Blue Moon
Swamp won him his first-ever Grammy as the Best
Rock Album of 1997; his songwriting was honored
with the 1997 Lifetime Achievement Award from the
National Association of Songwriters; his guitar
playing earned him the Orville Gibson Lifetime
Achievement Award; the Blue Moon Swamp tour
was honored by Performance magazine as the
Theater Tour of the Year. Fogerty talked with
Goldmine just before he set out on a large-venue
tour in support of Premonition.

Mitchell Cohen, 1985

John Fogerty
Craig Werner, Goldmine, 3 July 1998
Just before he embarked on last summer's Blue
Moon Swamp tour, John Fogerty told Goldmine that
"the new John and the old John are the same guy."
The Blue Moon tour was the first time in nearly a
quarter century that Forgerty had incorporated
Creedence Clearwater Revival classics like 'Proud
Mary', 'Fortunate Son'"and 'Bad Moon Rising' into
his touring repertoire. Embittered by a seemingly
endless string of legal battles with his old record
label, Fantasy, and estranged from his former
bandmates, Fogerty had refused to play any CCR
material in the 1986 tour that followed up on his No
1 album Centerfield.

So after the Blue Moon Swamp tour do you still feel

like the new John and the old John really the same
guy?
I would agree with that. I feel like I've finally gotten
them together. I can relate very directly to the guy
who wrote. 'Proud Mary' or the guy who figured out
the arrangement for 'Suzie Q' and for a long time
that was all sort of jumbly and painful.
Your performing career began back when the guys
in Creedence were still the Blue Velvets and the
Golliwogs. You immortalized that period in 'Lodi'.
Was there a particular incident that led you to
choose Lodi from all the places you played on the
road?

"There were just so many bad feelings associated

with the music and with those times and a lot of it
still hadn't been resolved by 1986," Fogerty
reflected. "But I knew from the beginning that
whenever I got back out on the road, I'd be doing
the old songs. The only problem was picking the
right songs. There were just so many."

Especially when we were Golliwogs, we played all

up and down the state and mostly in the middle of
the state, Sacramento, Marysville, Roseville, those
places. But we never did play in Lodi. That was a
title I'd had in my mind since I was about 12 or 13. I
thought it would be cool to have a song called
'Lodi'. It was very representative geographically. I
could picture what it was I was trying to say
happening in Lodi. We played all kind of onenighters under less than glorious circumstances, a
typical roadhouse band where you unload all the
band's equipment out of the back of a VW microbus
and saunter in and plug into the club and the first
thing the guy who owns the place says is "Don't
play loud."

Fogerty chose well. Performing primarily in small

clubs and concert halls, he conjured up a seamless
mixture of CCR classics with more recent material.
Inspired by the enthusiastic responses of fans and
critics, Fogerty decided to document the concerts
with the recently released live album. Premonition,
which in effect represents a retrospective of
Fogerty's career. The album, which was recorded
on the Warner Brothers Sound Stage opens and
closes with CCR material, ranging from the group's
first hits ('Suzie Q', 'I Put a Spell on You') to the
classics that earned it induction into the Rock and
Roll Hall of Fame, among them 'Proud Mary',
'Green River', 'Down on the Corner' and 'Who'll
Stop the Rain'. In between the CCR sequences,
Fogerty plays songs from Blue Moon Swamp

What were the crowds like?

736

We were all younger people. Most of the time the

places that would book the Golliwogs were not
grizzled old Hell's Angels biker bars with 45-yearold tattoo guys. They were mostly younger places.
We used to joke that Thursday night was divorce
night. There were women that were probably 25 but
already divorced and we used to joke that
Thursdays were the nights all the women would
show up looking for a date. But they end up just
sitting around talking so each other about how bad
those men are. They've got the knowledge and the
experience of the world and they were 24 years old,
not much older than we were.

sitting literally in the doorway and people could walk

by when they had the door open and see the
drummer. So this crowd that was on the radio and
the TV news was being stopped a half a block away
at the line but they could hear the music coming out
of this joint and that was us. Some time went on
and the band evolved. I got my guys in there. I got
Tom and Stu and Doug playing the steady gig
rather than that other band. And that really the first
steady gig the guys in Creedence had. [John's
brother, CCR rhythm guitarist] Tom didn't really play
guitar at the time. He just played tambourine.
Then, after we were calling ourselves Creedence
Clearwater Revival, we got a regular gig at a club
called Deno and Carlo's. We had that engagement
in 1968, beginning in March or April. The tape of
'Suzie Q' it wasn't a record yet the tape that
was being played on [San Francisco underground
station] KMPX, they were playing it a lot because it
was groovy psychedelic music. Each week I'd send
Ralph Gleason, who had a column in the San
Francisco Chronicle, a card with simply the
information that we were playing at Deno and
Carlo's on Monday night. Basically I turned that into
Creedence night. So dutifully every Sunday or
every Monday morning in his column he would
report among other tidbits of local news that
Monday night Creedence Clearwater is playing at
Deno and Carlo's. As long as I kept sending the
letter, he would report it. I was afraid if I didn't send
him the letter he might miss so I sent it to him every
single week. That was great. That was free
publicity. The record company sure wasn't doing
anything. That was John Fogerty's approach to
management and publicity. I was the PR guy. And it
was kinda working.

Did playing for those kind of audiences have any

impact on the sound you developed as compared
with the Airplane or the Dead, who were playing
mostly in San Francisco.
It really came natural because I grew up in the East
Bay and rock 'n' roll radio and R&B radio were my
teachers. The few shows I went to were usually at
the Oakland Auditorium and the large majority were
black entertainers doing rhythm and blues. This is
the late fifties and early sixties, people like James
Brown and the Midnighters and B.B. King and Ray
Charles, Jackie Wilson, people that were rhythm
and blues or else they were considered funky. I saw
Duane Eddy there, believe it or not. I saw a show
there that still sticks out in Duane's mind because
he played there with B.B. King. B.B. King and I both
for years have been telling Duane we sure liked that
'Three Thirty Blues' he played there. I also went to a
lot of folk music things, especially the old folk boom
thing 1959 or so. But I never considered that a pop
music form, I considered that more my educational
form...

The crowd would get steadily larger each week. I

suppose we were there for three or four months.
One time I came to the crowd and announced that
LBJ had just been on TV and said he's not running
for president. PR guy and newsman. And then
another time when all the KMPX DJs walked out
and said "at twelve o'clock we're all leaving" that
famous strike, Tom Donahue was the leader of the
whole gang. We heard about it, we were playing at
Deno and Carlo's, and we rushed right over to the
station and set up all our equipment. We were the
first band, in fact we were the only band until the
next morning about nine o' clock, more famous
people got there like the Grateful Dead. But actually
Creedence Clearwater played there at one in the
morning and people talked about the noise. It was
the famous underground radio strike of 1968.

Were there any clubs in the Bay Area where you

played regularly when you weren't on the road?
The Monkey Inn was our first steady gig. It evolved
as early as 1964. I went up to Portland with a
couple of musicians and we went up there for about
a month, wound up getting one gig for about two
weeks. We came back to California, one of the guys
in that band reformed essentially that same group
and called it the Apostles. I was the guitar player,
Doug [Clifford, CCR's drummer] was the drummer
and two other guys were playing keyboard or guitar.
He got the gig at the Monkey Inn. It's on Ashby
Avenue in Berkeley just across the line from
Oakland. I remember that because when the Free
Speech Movement started a demonstration march
(they) came marching up Ashby Avenue and the
police made them stop right at the line which was
about one block from the door. We played in the
club but the stage was on the wall where the door
opened to the sidewalk. So Doug's rear end was

When you talked with Goldmine last year, you said

that at times you felt like an outsider in the San

737

Francisco music scene. Did your support of the

KMPX strike have any effect on that?

say way back in 1968 was "we don't have any

money, so we're going to have to overcome them
with ideas." If you have a strong idea, it's worth a
million dollars.

I felt that we had something to offer and we were

sort of adopted. They were playing 'Suzie Q' and
they were probably playing it eight times a day.
They really liked it even though it was eight minutes
long or maybe that's why, gives the DJ a chance to
take a break. They embraced us right away. When
the first album came out with 'Suzie Q' and 'I Put a
Spell On You', that's where we went. I took it to the
station and did an interview with a guy named Tony
Pig. It came out on my birthday, so that was a very
memorable thing to me. I felt that we were very
much part of the local scene. There's two or three
levels to what I'm calling the scene, but I think we
were embraced. Certainly with a name like
Creedence Clearwater Revival. I don't think we
were really outsiders other than that fact that when
it became known we made hit singles and pop
music and it became known that John Fogerty was
kind of straighter than others when it came to
chemicals.

You talk a lot about building CCR's image. Did you

think of the songs you were writing as part of the
band's myth?
I used to use the word "Biblical". When I would write
a song like 'Who'll Stop the Rain' I made it general
and epochal. I tried to stretch it and make it bigger
so that it wasn't just a song about me, so that lots of
other people could look into the song and see
themselves in it to. I did that on purpose. I was the
opposite of somebody like Joni Mitchell who would
write these very personal songs and then hope, I
suppose, that everyone else would relate to it that
way, as if the person were them. I tended to make
the song very broad and hope that lots of people
would see it that way. Now I'm trying to go the other
way, like in 'Joy of My Life'. I tried to make that very
personal.

The picture on the cover of Willy and the Poor

Boys, where you're playing on a street corner in
Oakland, may be the most famous image of CCR.
Were you consciously reworking your image as an
alternative to the psychedelic San Francisco
scene?

When did it become obvious that CCR was bigger

than the San Francisco scene?
That started to happen in the late part of 1969. That
was always my dream. You can dream something.
It doesn't mean you're not living in reality. If
somebody comes down the street and says "come
on, be real", you can do that too if you're not one of
those crazy people. But you have your dream and
your dream is full of great expectation. Hey man, I
wanted to be Elvis. By the time we got to
Woodstock, I felt we were the number one band.
Assuming that the Beatles were God, I thought that
we were the next thing under them, that our rocket
ship was blazing through the hotter and higher and
faster than anyone else's.

All the mythology, the choice of songs by Leadbelly

and all that came from John Fogerty. That was the
world I live in and still do. The musical choices and
influences were influences on me. I think it's
obvious the way my career has gone that that fits
perfectly with John, you can see my personality
thirty years ago. The other guys weren't really into
that stuff. I had grown up with a very musical Mom.
The folk music thing was something I was very
much a part of. I went to lectures and forums so I
knew who all the old musicians were and had met a
lot of them and people like Alan Lomax. So I was
talking all of that in and it came out in Willy and the
Poorboys. In a loose American a way it was kind of
tribute to them. I didn't have it all worked out but I
thought in those terms. I wrote the song first, 'Down
on the Corner' and peopled it with those guys Willy,
Blinky, Rooster. They were kind of cartoonish
characters and I made a little washboard band and
then I choose to take a picture that reflected the
song. I thought it was a very clear image, a good
solid image. You didn't have to work real hard to get
what the guy was talking about. I wanted to take a
picture that looked like what the song was. With
hindsight, you can see that John the PR guy was
working overtime. There was no money, we didn't
have Columbia Records putting out nine billion
posters in every mall across the country. I used to

What do you remember about Woodstock?

We didn't do very well at Woodstock because of the
time segment and also because we followed the
Grateful Dead, therefore everybody was asleep. It's
true. They put half a million people to sleep and in
hindsight, since so many more people profess to
having been at Woodstock, it's probably five million
people. It seemed like we didn't go on till two
o'clock in the morning. It was way later than we
were supposed to go on. We were supposed to be
in the prime spot for that evening. But it's an old
story, the Dead went on and pulled their usual
shenanigans. They tuned like for forty minutes and
then they played a while and then all their
equipment broke and it's like classical mythic
Grateful Dead and it seemed like an endless

738

amount of intermission and guess what? They

started playing again. So they were on the stage
literally for two and a half hours and we had to go
on after that.

you're a die-hard fan and you want to hear an

outtake or something.
How does the material from Centerfield fit into your
sense of your career?

Not many people know this story, but after six

straight songs of John and the band giving it all our
energy and hoping we can win the day. But you look
out and it's dark and you see all these people
asleep and they're intertwined like muddy halfnaked bodies like pictures of souls coming out of
hell and I look out there and I say into the
microphone "We're really having a great time up
here, we hope you're having a good time too." And I
look out and see all these mouths open and asleep.
But one guy way way way out there flicks his lighter
and he says "Don't worry about it, John, we're with
ya." And I played the whole rest of the show to that
guy. It really is true. Even though in my mind we
made the leap into superstardom that weekend,
you'd never know it from the footage. And that's
why we don't show up on the album or in the film.
It's a famous moment in Creedence history. Even
though the other three wanted us to be in them, I
said no. All that does is show us in a poor light at a
time when we were the number one band in the
world. Why should we show ourselves that way? So
I prevailed.

I feel very up about that. I'm really glad that's there,

otherwise I look like a schmuck for 30 years. There
were really three songs on that album, the song
'Centerfield', 'Rock and Roll Girls' and 'Old Man', I
think I was still somewhat confused about who I
really am. I always thought Centerfield was a good
pop album, but I thought it was kind of like a
Whitman Sampler. I was hitting all around but really
wasn't definitive about who I am, what kind of a
musician I am, what kind of a writer, what my true
persona is. With Blue Moon Swamp, I think I finally
nailed a 30-year question. I feel like I've got it right.
Would you look at Blue Moon Swamp as a
restatement of some things you were getting at with
CCR?
Yeah, things I did unconsciously when I was in my
early twenties and being Creedence. Because of all
the trails I went off on for various reasons, finding,
rediscovering who I am was quite a process for me.
I used to literally ask that question, "what am I?
What do I feel most comfortable being?" And I
finally found that.

The Premonition album includes a couple of songs

from the John Fogerty album ('Almost Saturday
Night' and 'Rockin' All Over the World'). How does
that period of your career look to you now?

Why did you decide to release a live album now?

The suggestion was made by Russ Syrette, the
CEO of Warner Brothers and the timing was great.
It was right at the start of the tour last year. I was at
the House of Blues here in LA for the first of three
shows. He came to the first two shows but on the
night between, he went to the Fleetwood Mac
taping and he came back to me and he said "man, I
know what we should do." He came to the show not
really expecting what he might see. Let's face it,
John Fogerty had been out of the limelight for years
and years and years and his records, though of
mythical properties, had been off the charts forever.
He got what I am immediately. He saw an existing
performance and he saw a guy really having a great
time at the top of his game. His imagination was
fueled and he told me about his idea and I agree
with him. Because what the tour reflected was a
guy coming home, a guy who's finally gotten his
whole life's work together, that he's comfortable,
maybe even prideful, of who and what he is.

I call that album the Shep album, that's my dog

Shep on the cover. That record wasn't a good
record and of course it was not a commercial
success. I view that as a disappointment, but those
two songs are good songs. I still view those two
songs as among my very best songs that I've ever
written. That's why I wanted to rescue them from
oblivion. For years and years I've thought I should
go back and redo those songs one way or another
because more people ought to hear them. Breathe
some new life into them. That period of my life was
not very happy either so when I look back at that
album, it doesn't look any better to me now than it
did then.
Why was there such a long lay-off between the
Shep album and Centerfield?
For Asylum, I actually completed another album, the
Hoodoo album that's, I think you used the word,
mythical. It never was released but it was almost
pregnant. I really wasn't very good, it was pretty
bad. I haven't heard it since. I understand it's a
lukewarm bootleg album. It's only interesting if

Craig Werner, 1998

739

the Who

hits. Though without the overwhelming success in

America that makes pop stars millionaires who can
retire from public life while still adolescents, the
Who are in a secure middle status: not as big as the
Beatles or Rolling Stones, but with a demonstrated
staying power, both creative and popular, lacked by
groups like Cream and Jimi Hendrix.

The Who in San Francisco

Michael Lydon, New York Times, September 1968

The men Who are: saucy-faced Keith Moon,

presiding madman at the drums; the painfully
skinny and bleached blond Roger Daltrey, who
sings lead and writhes for the ladies; stolid basist
John Entwhistle, who writes a few songs, including
the groups most requested number, Boris the
Spider; and Townshend, a pleasantly moody 23year-old who, besides playing lead guitar, is the
groups leader, main songwriter, spokesman and
theorist. "Talk to Peter," said Entwhistle, "hell spin
out the rubbish as long as youre willing to listen."

THE WHO PLAY rock "n roll music ("its got a back
beat, you cant lose it," says Chuck Berry). Not artrock, acid-rock, or any type of rock, but an
unornamented wall of noise that, while modern and
electronic, has that "golden oldies" feeling. Four
Mod kids who started in 1963 as the High Numbers
in Londons scruffy Shepherds Bush, the Who play
a tight driving music which is a descendant of the
rock of Elvis, Bill Haley, Gene Vincent, and even the
early Beatles.

Townshend did, sprawled out bonily on a sofa in his

motel room. "Maybe we play rock n roll, but if we
play it, its because were in the one big rock n roll
movement. Theres not Chuck Berry and Fats
Domino and the Beatles and the Who, all playing
different music. Theres just rock n roll, full stop.
Were in it, its not in us."

In San Francisco near the end of a ten-week, fiftycity tour, the Who were at their best, packing the
huge Fillmore West three nights straight, their
single show nightly as an hour and a half of
brilliantly intense excitement capped by the
climactic smashing of the guitar and drums that is
their trademark. They played old songs and new,
drawing each out into long rocking statements that
had wild but economical power. The smashing is by
now almost off-hand, and gone is their audience
hatred (almost: Pete Townshend did kick the fans
who scrabbled too eagerly for his broken guitar).
Jumping around with smiling hilarity and dressed in
street clothes rather than their former outfitspop
art suits and Regency lacethe Who just played the
music.

He stopped and sneered a classic Townshend

sneer. "Rocks just about dead in England, the
scene there has had it. England is a European
country filled with boring people who like boring
things. It must have been an accident that the
Beatles got their sound together there. Do you
know that Engelbert Humperdinck"he almost spat
at the name of a currently popular English ballad
singer"is a bigger property now than anybody?
Rock n roll is happening in America like it always
did. We love it here. The Byrds, Steppenwolf,
Booker T., Moby Grape, thats rock n roll.

"Were getting used to the fact that to play more

music we have to sacrifice some of the visual bit,"
said Townshend. "The costumes used to get in my
way, and I dont want to look like James Brown
anymore. The whole violent style happened
because we couldnt playit covered that up and
expressed our frustrations. Now were getting more
musical, so we dont need the anger like we did."

"You can tell what is and what isnt rock n roll. To

be the real thing, a song has to have an awareness
of rock history. It has to have the beat, that
undulating rhythm. Even while it feels history, it has
to say something new. And, most important, it has
to have crammed into it all the poignancy and
excitement of youth because thats what its really
all about."

He scratched his neck for a moment, grinned

dourly, and continued in thick cockney. "But we still
like the smashing. If some creep yells for it, well do
it and be happy. Whatever there is in our systems
we dont get out playing, we get out with the
smashing. Its inherent to us. It is the Who."

The Who live the definition. Their biggest early hit

was My Generation, with the lines, "Things, they
say, look awful cold, Hope I die before I get old."
Summertime Blues, a hit of singer Eddie
Cochrans from the mid-50s, is still in their
repertory. Townshend carries tapes of Cochran
(killed in a car crash in 1960) wherever he goes. All
four are big fans of what English pop fans call
"flash," the hard-edged charisma of fame, sex,

But the Who are more than their nihilistic ritual

(from which Antonioni built the nightclub riot scene
in Blow-Up). In their five years they have toured
England endlessly, done five American tours, and
produced several polished albums and a series of

740

power, and lavishly spent money. While in San

Franscisco, Townshend bought a Lincoln
Continental Mark II and will have it shipped to
London. "I love American cars and this ones a
classic," he said. "All gold paint, leather seats, and
the engine is painted bright blue." They tour not just
for they moneythey make up to $7,500 a nightbut
because gruelling one-night stands are part of rock
tradition.

down as though hurling a boulder into the innocent

sofa, "and bomb them open!"

"Were travelling on our own now, but Id rather tour

with a lot of groups, a couple of dozen blokes
jammed into a bus having the time of their lives. If
we stopped touring, wed go off. Dead.

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, May 1969

Michael Lydon, 1968

The Who: Tommy

A DOUBLE ALBUM can often prove a boring

disappointment these days, with the gimmick
presentation becoming more important than the
quality of the music. Pete Townshends opera for
the Who succeeds in maintaining interest and a
high standard throughout the four sides.

"Playing on stage, though, were playing history.

New ideas come from sitting down by yourself and
working. Thats where the spark is, work. I dont
respect groups who wont work. And the spark, you
have to get that on the records. So we dont mess
around with all the fancy studio stuff, tracking and
tracking a thing into obscurity. We want to make
sure that on record the impact of the idea is
captured in all its vibrancy and dynamitethats
what were after. Weve never put out a record that
didnt say what it was supposed to."

His story of a blind deaf and dumb boy has already

aroused controversy, but as a serious work it cannot
really be accused of being in bad taste except by
those who have not listened. The Whos dynamic
instrumental power and Townshends writing (not
forgetting John Entwistles writing), plus fine
production by Kit Lambert results in music which
covers a variety of moods.

What Townshend and the group want to say has

changed. From the first days of pure aggression,
they have moved through the humor of Happy
Jack and Tattoo to the zinging unearthliness of I
Can See for Miles and Magic Bus, their latest
release. Some of the anger is still there, in part
because Townshend grew up hating people who
laughed at his enormous nose; his songs often
feature deformed little boys who get back at the
cruel world. Now Townshend is testing new
directions for the album the group will record in the
fall.

It can be disturbing, faintly vicious but generally

compassionate. The story is concerned with mind
expansion under extreme circumstances. Before
the afflicted child is cured, he undergoes assault,
cruelty and an LSD experience. From his ordeals
he emerges with great sensibility and awareness.
His genius as "a pinball wizard" is merely a kind of
parable device by Townshend.
Pete has planned a pop opera of some kind for
years, and many others have talked about such a
project. At a time when pop is undergoing a period
of heavy criticism, the Whos achievement is
creating something worthwhile and valid, and
should be acknowledged as an important facelift to
the somewhat battered image of pop.

"I am incredibly excited. I know people want

something new. They want a new reason to go to a
rock n roll concert. What we are going to try is
opera, not something trashy like the pompous arty
types do. They do fancy things because they cant
play. Weve done mini-operas, now we want a long
thing around a themeIve been thinking about a
story about a blind, deaf kidwith dialogue, songs,
and an incredible finale. I want to get into stuff that
will leave the smashing way, way behind."

Chris Welch, 1969

Keith Moon
Keith Altham, Rave, July 1969

Townshend started to pace the room. "Well be into

impressionistic music, music like Wagner and
Mahler, music that conjures up things more
powerful than you can handle. Music can create
fantastic high points in peoples minds. We want to
take those minds," and as he spoke, he raised his
hands high above his head, then whipped them

CONDUCTING an interview with Keith Moon is

rather like running a mental obstacle course with a
megalomaniac (his manager's reference, not mine),
with imminent danger to your own person. I have
always felt that Moon should be made to wear a
placard reading, "Those riding on this machine do

741

so at their own risk". I also feel that he deserves,

along with the Beatles, a monument to testify to his
outstanding irreverence for jingoism and "The
British Way Of Life".

Do you feel any necessity to do anything other

than be a drummer would you like to
produce?
"I am a producer I've produced a little three-yearold daughter Mandy. I'd like to play Hamlet but he
wasn't a drummer, was he? I suppose it could be
written in that he was a drummer in his spare time
a bit of a dab hand with the sticks. Let's face it, he
must have been cos he had a sense of rhythm.

The first attempt to tape his interview got me

involved in a suicidal drive around the West End
with Moon in the guided missile he is disposed to
call his car. After the series of cover reverses and
three-point turns in the middle of Whitehall, we
returned to Track Records where I got a new taped
version of 'I'm The Face' (the who's first abortive
record over five years ago) and an exclusive on
how he intended to do a drummer's tour of Sweden
with Gary Leeds, where he once had a number one
record with 'Bucket T' during the Who's surfing
phase!

"It was a bit of a fluke that I can play drums really or

that I can't play 'em really. I'm not a great drummer.
I don't have any drumming idols I know a few idle
drummers. And they come over here after having
the National Health and move in next to you. It's
disgusting that's what it is!"
Have you ever wished you were someone else
someone that you admire for any reason?
"Sometimes I think I'd like to be King Arthur I liked
his taste. Sometimes I think I'd like to be John
Entwistle. Sometimes I think I'll be sick.

The second attempt started in a pub some days

later (always a dodgy venue to start anything with
Moon) and came to a disastrous halt back in Track
Records where he contrived to completely
dismantle my microphone and explained he was
very sorry but needed to be somewhere else. I
stumbled brokenly away from that one to repair my
machine after having gleaned just one story about
the burglar who had tried to steal manager Kit
Lambert's record player that afternoon and
electrocuted himself in the process.

"No I'd like to be John because he hasn't changed

since the day I met him five years ago. Still wears
the same clothes in fact. I'd like to be a large
cauliflower no, that's in bad taste."
What has been your most miserable moment
with the Who?
"That would be when we nearly lost John in a hotel
swimming pool in Spain some years ago. He leapt
into the four-foot-six with his snorkel and something
went wrong with the ping pong ball. He nearly
drowned true story.

Third time lucky they say, and so it is that we

present with much pleasure in glorious black and
white the unexpurgated edition of the thoughts of
Chairmoon Moon.
You may read between the lines:

"I'm a person who always does things to extremes

extreme happiness or extreme depression, when
things get too heavy I just go away or jump out of a
window. I don't get depressed unless I'm around
people who are depressing I reflect their feelings.
Sometimes I think I have death wish. I'm happiest
playing drums. I likes to hit I likes hitting."

What would you say was your most lunatic

achievement?
"Ah yes, that would be my birthday party in Flint,
Michigan, when I was arrested by the Sheriff while
in the nude covered in birthday cake. I think it had
something to do with the bottle of vodka I drank at
the time.

What are your views on the permissive society

and censorship?
"I suppose you have to draw the line somewhere. I
mean I don't think I should be allowed to sit in the
front row of the cinema.

"We hired this motel for the party and it got rather
out of hand. Some television sets were found lying
at the bottom of the hotel swimming pool and one or
two of the changing cubicles were damaged. While
attempting to evade arrest I tripped over and
knocked out my two front teeth.

"People have been saying 'don't do it' 'don't do it' for

so long that everyone is now having a ball doing it.
Sex is now out in the open hooray. Everyone is
putting on plays where the plot is rubbish but they
are leaping around in the nude so people go to see
it. That can only be a good thing because everyone
is eventually going to get the thing in a proper
perspective.

"The following morning the Law invited me to get

out of Flint, Michigan, and never come back, which
was a bit awkward as the rest of the Who had gone
on to New York and I could not get on a plane so I
hired one, a jet. That party cost approximately
$25,000 everyone was very good about it!"

742

"That John Lennon and Yoko Ono sleeve was just

funny. There were two not particularly beautiful
people starkers and everyone making a fuss about
it. I'm sure Lennon was making just that point. Then
all that bit about them in bed what's so
outrageous about two nude people? The Americans
get all up-tight about it. What do they do over there
go to bed with their boots on? I mean it wasn't like
the Hendrix album sleeve with all the nudes on it
that was revolting sick!

THE WHO is a group that was nurtured in

gimmickry. I remember five years ago Brian Jones
calling me up on the trans-Atlantic phone to play me
the Who's first record from London. "That's not
atmospheric interference you hear," he said. "That's
the guitar player banging his guitar on the amp."
How far has the Who progressed since then? Their
latest achievement has been to become the first
rock group ever to play on the stage of the
Metropolitan Opera House, an event which turned
out to be as transparent as all the fancy, tie-dyed
silken see-throughs it attracted.

"In my opinion the standard of theatre, film and

records has improved out of all recognition in the
past few years and as the aesthetic aspect
improves so greater licence must be given to
aspects which demand lewd or bare essentials to
amplify the theme."

To see through one see-through is not to see

through them all. Tommy is no more an opera than
Albert Goldman is Renata Tebaldi, and to place the
Who at the Met was less a contribution to music
than to showmanship. In the end, it is the music that
must stand on its own feet. The booking at the Met
was just another gimmick.

Do you believe in anything sacred?

"My dear old manager Kit Lambert's favourite
phrase is 'Is Nothing Sacred Moon?' I read my
horoscope. Truth I believe in an ultimate force,
that's all. My spiritual force is confined to 'De Hems'
and 'The Avenue Bar'."

Let this not be an indictment of promoter Nat Weiss,

who arranged it al, like some hip homeroom teacher
who keeps thinking up far-out field trips so the class
won't lose interest in him. Can you imagine 4,000
stoned kids on their first visit to the Met suddenly
being retracted up from the golden ceiling as the
house lights dimmed? This was the moment that
brought the most spontaneous applause of the
night. All the rest was conditioned response, like
Pavlov's dog.

Where do you stand politically?

"Well, I've got a picture of Che Guevera in the loo
like everyone else, of course, and I once canvassed
for our publicist Brian Sommerville when he was
running I understand he's still running!
"Did you know I was brought up Church of England
every morning they used to whip me into
assembly."

Put a group of rock stars on a stage for a

performance and the audience will keep applauding
until there's an encore or a reasonable explanation
for the lack of one. That is, if the group has at least
enough hype going for it.

Do you think there is any kind of prospect for a

cultural or political revolution in this country?
"I think it's possible but not likely to be one of those
things with people leaping up and down with
pitchforks in their hands. It's got to be a lot more
subtle than that. In a way I suppose it's happening
with censorship and art at present. We are not
suddenly going to have no wars and no hang-ups."

At the Met, the demand for the encore went on for

some ten minutes before the Who's Peter
Townshend came back out to tell how exhausted
the group was after doing tow shows. "Boo!"
someone in the front row hollered out. "After two
fucking hours, boo to you, too," Townshend
answered, and, angrily, he threw the mike down into
the crowd.

Do you think there is any truth in your

manager's statement that you are a
megalomaniac?
Well, I looked it up in the dictionary and no there is
not and again yes there is."

It wasn't the only untoward incident. The event was

presented by Weiss in association with Bill Graham
and the Fillmore East, who provided special ushers
to act as troubleshooters when the Met's regular
staff didn't know what to do. "Shall we call one of
the Fillmore ushers, or what?" you kept hearing the
Met's ushers ask one another each time a problem
arose. At one point, Bill Graham himself helped
eject a gate crasher, storming out after him into the
crowd on the promenade. When the crowd started

Keith Altham, 1969

The Who: At The Metropolitan Opera House
Al Aronowitz, Rolling Stone, 9 July 1970

743

calling Graham a fucking capitalist, he answered

that he'd take them on five at a time. When Sid
Bernstein rushed into the crowd to pull Graham to
safety, Graham pushed him away.

some sort of symbolic revolutionary act. It was

alright with Townshend, who later admitted he didn't
really want to have to do it every night, but guitars
were cheap enough.

"I work for my money," Graham shouted at the kids.

"I work 24 hours a day. I work around the clock.
What do you guys do? Do you get out of bed in the
morning?" Graham won the argument.

All right, so now he's a star.

Even Cassius Clay confesses he used to have to
do a lot of dumb things to get everybody to pay
attention to him. But Cassius knew he could put his
fists where his mouth was. As John Mayall says,
"The more power you get, the more important
things you have to say. That's the obligation and,
more important, that's the opportunity of being a
star... When you have that much power, then you
want to make damn sure that what you're saying is
worthwhile."

Oh, what a gala night it was, with the smell of reefer

so thick that the Met's unaccustomed ushers had to
hand onto the railings to keep from being pulled up
to the ceiling along with the chandeliers. Outside,
the ballet customers at the New York State Theater
kept ignoring the curtain bell to jam the second-floor
terrace so they could watch all the hippies parading
across the Lincoln Center plaza beneath them.
Beneath them? Of course, beneath them.

Townshend may be an expert with pirouettes,

entrechats and other dazzling leaps in his jump suit,
but is that his music standing on its own feet? The
Who is going to need more to vindicate itself than
Tommy.

Was it the Who that drew this crowd or was it the

what? As Townshend, in a new John Lennonish
haircut, explained to the audience, this was going to
be the final performance of Tommy in its "full
extravaganza." The Who was tired of doing it and
who could blame them? From the audience, there
were calls of "LOUDER! . . LOUDER!. . ." "It gets
louder later," Townshend replied. Actually, it got so
loud it hurt your ears and you still couldn't hear
anything beings sung or said.

Al Aronowitz, 1970

From the Marquee to

the Met: Watching The
Who

Tommy is the story of a boy who became deaf,

dumb, blind and mute after witnessing the murder
of his mother's lover by his natural father, who has
just returned from among the missing at the close of
World War I. Before he is cured to become a
religious leader, Tommy turns into a pinball wizard,
gets molested by a perverted uncle and is slipped
some LSD by an unscrupulous gypsy. We learn all
this from the program. Otherwise, the whole thing
may as well be sung in Italian. Not that Tommy
doesn't have its moments.

Miles, Crawdaddy!, September 1970

SAY THE WORD. "Who". Who did you think of?
Pete Townshend, great underrated rock guitarist
adrift in a Sargasso sea of eulogies to Clapton and
Bloomfield? Or was it just a sound you heard, the
complexities of Tommy, or still their only really
commercial hit, 'My Generation'?
Pete: "it was the stutter that turned it over. Its a
very big social comment, 'My Generation'. Its the
only really successful social comment Ive ever
made: some pilled-up Mod dancing around, trying
to explain to you why hes such a groovy guy, but
he cant because hes so stoned he can hardly talk.
People saw different aspects of the record. It was
repetitive, there were lots of effective key changes
in it so it didnt bore you too much. And there was a
bit of feedback at the end to keep people happy. It
was our biggest seller and we never hope or want
to produce anything like it again." (Feb. 1967)

"See me . . . feel me . . . touch me . . . heal me,"

Roger Daltrey sings in one of the few intelligible and
truly moving episodes. But then how can you take
Daltrey seriously when he persists in fulfilling some
16-year-old's image of what a pop star should look
like, with his frizzly hair and bare chest and idiot
attempts at twirling the microphone on its cord, like
a rookie cop still trying to learn how to swing his
night stick?
When the Who first came on the scene, with
Townshend smashing his guitar to bits while the
rest of the group blew off smoke bombs and
committed other acts of destruction, the
Underground hype machine extolled this practice as

Then there was the time that The Who were playing
at the Empire State, MCd by Muray the K, four
shows a day on their first tour, hot, sweaty New

744

York, uptight and no money. Pete found that the

more energy he put into his act, the more he
cavorted, kicked and contorted, the less the
audience responded. In fact, they were positively
recoiling in horror.

The messy, dirty Happenings were those that the

artists nearer to the tradition of Jim Dine, Wolf
Vostell, and Jean-Jacques Lebel were creating.
Gustav Metzgers Happenings were on The Whole
well-organized and consisted of getting an audience
of construction workers at a building site to smash
huge panes of plate glass which they did, with
great relish.

After the show he found the reason why: he was

covered in blood. The hospital had to stitch his
head together, though on stage he hadnt felt a
thing.

After the shiny-suit brigade, the Mohair-men and

the syncopated lifeless stage mobility of the
Shadows and other tame British rock groups, The
Who appeared in a cloud of smoke which caused a
lot of attention. They reacted to the audience, they
obviously didnt like the audience, they didnt smile
at the people; in fact, they were often very rude to
the people:

The Who often used to attack each other on stage

in the early days: sometimes the curtain would open
and the audience would gasp at the terrible fight
occurring. The curtain would close and everyone
would troop out and get his money back.
At the time that Pete was at Ealing Art College, the
colleges were very much into the European aspects
of Happenings European rather than the
Greenwich Village art of Alan Kaprow. In Germany
they were staying live chickens and throwing vomit
over the audiences. To placid England this seemed
a natural extension of pop art.

Pete: "When youve got an audience it is one of the

most exhilarating experiences you can have, like
dropping your trousers in front of the people. Its the
exhibitionists delight, to do something really big in
front of people. Okay, they know youre going to go
out there and sing and play, so it becomes nothing.
For the first couple of years thats great, but then
you want more. You want people to tear their hair
out when you appear, and when they dont you feel
youve got to extend your end a bit; youve really go
to make them spew up. I think a lot of groups just
now are finding out what audiences want. This is
probably why acids popular, because it makes you
part of the audience. You take it, you sit back,
theres no work, and off you go. Its 24 hours of
touring. I think everyones a member of an
audience, everyone wants to sit back and watch. I
do." (Feb. 1967)

Pete: "When I was at art college I got fantastically

interested in auto-destructive art. Gustav Metzger
did a couple of lectures and was my big hero. He
comes to see us occasionally and rubs his hand s
together and says, How are you? I got very deeply
involved in auto-destruction, but I wasnt too
impressed by the practical side of it. When it
actually came to being done, it was always
presented so badly: people would half-wittedly
smash something and it would always turn around
so the people Who were against it would always be
more powerful than the people that were doing it.

The Who have gone through major changes since

that interview. Pete no longer takes any drugs,
being a strict follower of Meher Baba. The Who now
like each other, a condition which came about just
before they recorded Tommy, which enabled that
album to have a greater cohesiveness than any
previous ones. Though even when that early
interview was done, Pete was talking about the big
secret.

"Before The Who got big, I wanted them to get

bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger until a
number one record and then wrap dynamite around
their heads and blow themselves up on TV. Its just
been one of those things. Well-presented
destruction is what I call a joy to watch, just like
well-presented pornography or obscenity. Although
destruction is not as strong as obscenity, its not so
vulgar but its rare, you dont see destruction so
often, not malicious destruction just for the sake of
it, and so when you do, you normally stop and
watch. Ive always thought that high class, high
powered auto-destructive art, glossy destruction,
glossy pop destruction, was far far better than the
terrible messy dirty disorganized destruction that
other people were involved in Ive really done it,
on a couple of occasions, glossily and flashily."
(Feb. 1967)

"The idea weve got will answer all the problems.

The group will be able to do what they like. I can
bring out an opera day if I want to, or conduct at the
opera house, and they would all be tremendous
successes because of this little secret." They had
already recorded A Quick One at this time and Pete
was already mulling over the possibility of a major
work. It took a long, long time. But it worked.
Tommy as masterpiece. Pete: "I wanted it t be a big
step in terms of rock and roll and in terms of Who
history and in terms of just what weve been

745

doingI didnt really want it to be incredibly

produced or anything, so Im kind of glad that the
sound is very simple and that the basic ideas
strength as a Whole came over as being the
important thing.

Pete worked on the basic idea for the album for

about eighteen months, then began writing the
songs during The Who's American tour of July
1968. Recording began in September of that year,
five evenings a week for ten weeks. A great deal or
re-recording was done because when tracks were
backed against each other in the final arrangement
they didnt work, though they stood perfectly well on
their own, so they were redone with their basic
natures changing in reference to each other. No
rewriting was done, which is unusual.

"It wasnt incredibly produced, of course. In fact, I

wish they would re-mix some section of it,
particularly those in which Moon performs so,
beautifully and yet cannot be heard, or else his
sound is dead (not enough echo, maybe treble
boost?)."

The album opens with a statement of theme, as in

straight opera, and the story-line emerges. It is not
made very clear how it is that Tommy became deaf,
dumb, and blind. I asked Pete if he made this
purposefully difficult:

Pete as producer gets better and better and his

single with Thunderclap Newman is a technically
perfect achievement.
Tommy was written not only as an album, but also
to be the new stage act for The Who. I asked Pete
how much it was a stepping-off point for
improvisational work. "Far less a stepping-off point
than I imagined. I always imagined it was going to
be sort of a big thing, all that happened was that
when we actually got to do the numbers, they all
came out just so, sort of normal WHO funky, that it
was just like doing a basic stage act. I felt that a lot
of numbers were very anti-Who music for the stage,
but in fact it came out quite easy to do.

Pete: "It would have been quite easy to do it

straightforwardly, but I felt there was no way of
covering over the basic acceptance of it as a kind of
hype way of getting the boy deaf, dumb, and blind. I
tried six or seven ways of doing it and each one
worked lyrically well and scanned well and all that
bollocks and none were exactly a brilliant piece of
architecture. So, I felt it would be much better to
indicate it in a very loose way with just a switch of
events. Its meant to be something thats not too
direct because its a very delicate part of thing. Its
very brusque, it makes the thing start off like an
excerpt from a detective story and I wanted to avoid
that.

"The mini-opera changed in character an incredible

amount in the act, Ive got very high hopes for
Tommy. I think the stage version is more concise as
a section of numbers, less padding, less fills, less
bullshit, so it tends to be more concise and more
effective lyrically." (May 1969)

"I would have preferred it if he could have been

born deaf, dumb, and blind, but this made the cure
so much more difficult to accept in terms of normal
entertainment. You see, apart from the spiritual
connotations, I wanted to have the normal
entertainment connotations of a plot, etc., so that
those people Who couldnt get into the spiritual end
of it could see it as a huge cartoon strip if they
wanted to. I think this is necessary in order for it to
be successful rock."

It certainly got off the ground during the Fillmore

concerts of last summers possibly the most
powerful musical statement that was being played
at the time. At a concert with Chuck Berry and B.B.
King, The Who closed the show and stole it as well.
The Who had taken rock, polished it, elaborated on
it, framed it, injected it with European art forms, and
twisted it like taffy to suit their personal creative
needs. After all that it was still rock, you can dance
to it and they sometimes use rock and roll triplets
just like the Moonglows did.

The first dream sequence is a very arranged,

worked-on sound. On the original tape it was much
like the 'Son of Monster Magnet' freak-out track of
Zappas, only looser and more "hazy." It is an
unusual treatment as Pete usually constructs his
music in architectural terms, particularly post and
beam construction and a well-defined dynamic
curve. Here he is more concerned with music as a
condition; an arrangement of vapors, colors,
zephyrs over a solid surface.

Much has been written about Tommy. Most people

know the story and so in the following
examination/interview I am examining only the
structural points of the album which arent
immediately clear. All quotes are from Pete
Townshend from interviews between January and
May 1969.

"Its a theme that weve lived with for like hundreds

of years, which weve done a lot in the past. We fall
into it a lot on stage as a riff and used it once before
on 'Rael'. The full 'Underture' dream sequence is

746

something Ive had in my possession as a demo for

about three years and which the group have had
copies of and have lived with for various purpose in
the past. Always with some sorts of opera in mind.

"The degree of menace and violence in the album is

there so that we can draw the line, show the degree
of Tommys attitude and reactions to god and bad
good experiences and bad experiences. And to
accelerate his experience so that its acceptable
that he becomes God-realized in a period in which
normally a man just about get it together to make a
living. His remoteness made it easier to get away
with all this because he was safe inside his
affliction. We could really be that much more cruel
to him on the outside drum home to the listener
the feeling that there were really incredible
traumatic events happening to him."

"This theme is an archetypal Who sound. I always

had my eye set on it as a positive musical piece
which I could use, no matter what the song was
about. I wanted to use the theme in the original
'Amazing Journey' idea of a series of converging
dream sequences. It would be usable for that. Then
came the point in the album when we wanted a
really strong musical theme to indicate the timeless
sea of consciousness that Tommy was going
through.

Much of this information is rendered symbolically to

suggest a general pattern of events: "Theyre meant
to capture periods of his life. 'Cousin Kevin' is not
meant to be an event, but what happened to him
when he was a kid, what the other kids did to him.
'Pinball Wizard' is supposed to represent a much
nicer time for him when kids were being much more
groovy to him because he had something going for
him. If youre a good football player, everybody digs
you; if youre deaf, dumb, and blind, nobody does.
Nobody digs a fat kid. Also, its meant to represent
the disregard of his family for him and his
remoteness
from
personal
affection,
and
everything. From 'Fiddle About', and the parents
getting angry with him in the 'Smash the Mirror'
song, and 'Tommy Can You Hear Me?' And the
fathers remoteness. This feeling of the family
accepting him as a burden and the father and
mother being even more unsympathetic because
they know its a block, whereas no one else does
because they obviously cant mention it. But they
know and so theyre harder on him than anyone
else. The immediate family and everyone else
around him are all out to exploit else around him
are all out to exploit his disability."

"The solidarity of his evolution underneath all the

trauma of the events that were going on in the
outside world. For the feeling that everything was
going very smoothly for him. And this piece of music
just fit perfectly. Thats the reason sit sounds so
arranged, but actually its ad-lib. Its bits laid on top
of it, its tracking over [overdubbing] that makes it
sound arranged."
The logic of the story was disrupted a little by the
changes made in music as the opera progressed,
the most major of these being the positioning of the
Sonny Boy Williamson number before 'Cousin
Kevin' and 'Christmas' which suggests that
Tommys age is still only pre-teenage, may be about
seven years old, thus eliminating the possibility that
the number can be read sexually. Pete agreed that
it was a bit disrupting so early in the story. 'The
Hawker' was originally meant to go before 'Acid
Queen' and now its overall connotations are only
indicated by its title.
Pete wasnt the only one to write material for the
opera. 'Cousin Kevin' was written by John Entwistle
at Petes request. The others in the group thought
that it was a very down feeling and too successfully
menacing to have on a rock album, but Pete
thought that this was needed and that the song was
successful.

Tommy is purposely made as remote as possible.

Pete consciously avoided building him as a
character, and instead built up those around him.
Uncle Emie becoming a lovable figure because he
is so human. Sally Simpson for her failings, etc.
"I wanted Tommy to be very remote up to the point
of where he actually first gets a buzz and then he
becomes very remote spiritual figure, kind of
saintly."

"I think that 'Fiddle About' is a sick song, but 'Cousin

Kevin' is a menacing song, so that the sick potential
of it goes by the board." It would be a mistake to
under-rate the superb musicianship which hold
things together 'Pinball Wizard', for instance, is
made by Entwistles solid bass-line.

Pete worked closely with Mike McInnerney on the

art work to avoid direct representation of him and
shied away from songs in which he spoke.

The album has a considerate amount of violence in

it. For a group so closely allied to the English
underground movement, this line of structure was
obviously important.

"Originally, 'Sensation' ran: He overwhelms as he

approaches, but I felt that he really needed to
assert himself, even if it was abstractly, in his own
head, in his own excitement. He had to assert

747

himself: 'Youll Feel Me Coming' because he was

going to play such a powerful role later on and
things were happening so quickly towards the end
that he really had to be established fairly ruthlessly
as a character, however remote."

Pete used images that he was familiar with, the

Sally Simpson episode being an actual event from a
Doors concert. "I did actually see a kid rush up and
try and touch God Jim Morrison and get hurled off
by a policemen and a metal chair leg go right
through her cheek. She went off, the gash wide
open, crying Jim! and they just carried her off. That
story seemed to lend itself very much ...Also the
point of Sally Simpson is that the kid had really
missed the point about Tommy. Shes built him into
the wrong thing. She hasnt realized why its good,
for example, to go and hear him speak, because of
what she can gain from it. Shes not religiously
selfish enough, so it were."

Pete assumed that people would actually identify

themselves with Cousin Kevin, the Acid Queen, and
people like Uncle Ernie and Sally Simpson, but
never with Tommy!
"They would assume they werent where Tommy is,
theyd never been where Tommy is, but they were
like other people, they wanted to be like Tommy. Im
taking this as a basic assumption. Tommy in the
position, not so much as teacher or master, as
Baba is a perfect master, but as a God-realized
person. Someone Whos evolved up through the
stages and reached it. Every character except
Tommy is supposed to be somebody people can
directly identify with in some way. What I really want
to put emphasis on is that it was a project. What I
want to be very careful to avoid is people reading
things into it which arent there. Weve gone to such
lengths to make the thing crude, as it were. Weve
wanted certain connotations for the first time
ever weve written connotations in. Normally weve
allowed people to make what they want from the
music."

I interpreted the fade at the end of 'Welcome' as

being the end of a section, which essentially Pete
agreed with, saying that this represents the first
beginnings of formalized religion, church, or holiday
camp idea.
"He welcomes them into his presence just because
they can benefit from being in his presence. He
wants them to enjoy themselves, drink, have fun,
and generally just the more the merrier. But
towards the end it starts to get very obsessional
and this is why there are a number of false starts in
the thing. Theres more at the door and We need
more room and Extension, and then this
obsessional ending to indicate the growing dissent
and unrest in his house in the circle of companions.
Theyre beginning to demand more action and its at
this point that Uncle Ernie reappears to establish
the holiday camp."

People have often suggested that Tommy is not a

real opera at all, the main argument being that it
cannot be "performed" in any visual sense;
however, most peoples experience of opera is in
recorded form which precludes the visualization.
Tommy does utilize some of the components of
opera: the "Its a boy, Its a boy" being referential to
the classical Greek chorus (forerunner of classical
opera) and the use of sub-plot in the Sally Simpson
story.

Pete elaborated on the meaning of the ending of

Tommy, and so Im including here his discussion of
the plot development and climax as the album itself
doesnt give such as clear picture of Petes
intentions: "The holiday camp starts and Tommy
starts to feel that the thing has got out of hand. He
still has an incredible love for everyone and its
because of this that he takes this upon himself ...its
a kind of crucifixion representation, he invites this
revolution. He realizes that he is going to have to be
rejected and abused in order for people to get back
to their world, their own path. He realizes that hes
instrumental in all these people thinking that if they
become deaf, dumb, and blind and play pinball, that
theyre going to be like him and get God-realized.

I asked Pete about his use of this technique: "It was

very difficult to get a theme which explained the
mind of aura which would be around the boy at that
particular time. Thats why I resorted to that "ExtraExtra-Read-All-About-It!" stuff. I had to really resort
to 1930s newspaper headlines flopping back and I
thought the best thing to do was completely leap
out of the story and go into a new objective: the little
girl and her family focused on him. Its a technique
which I really dig and Ill probably use it a lot more,
actually."

"He sees people like Uncle Ernie cashing in and

that The Whole thing is getting very concentration
camp-like so Tommy decides to use some of his
real power and become incredibly tough. He starts
to really lay it downHe welcomes them to the
camp, but he says like you gotta do it this way. If
youre going to do it the way I did youve got to put
the fucking eyeshades on and put the cork in the

The Sally Simpson story is a little jewel set into the

main corpus of the work. As well as giving this new
side, a completely different viewpoint of Tommy, it
strengthens the imagery of the opera by referring to
familiar experience in rock.

748

mouth and play pinball and NO SHIFT! And you

getting drunk thats out! And you smoking pot
thats out! And theres no use in trying to look
conventional because thats out too! Youve got to
do it my way!

Backstage, through the guarded inner gates, behind

the Union-Jack draped dressing-room door
nothing, just a pile of empty beer cans. The Who
didnt arrive till five minutes after the second house
should have started, and even then Decca wanted
to present them with more gold-plated trophics for
their walls. The Who smiled tiredly and posed and
made English jokes for the groupies while the
executives beamed.

"And then the dissent starts. He suppresses it in the

early days by laying down the law even more,
saying, You cant speak, you cant see, or
anything! And like: Here comes Uncle Ernie with
stage four and eventually the revolution does
completely break out and they completely reject
him. They say: We dont want the religion, we dont
want you.

They flew into New York the night before and had
already done a first house. There seemed to be a
tension in the air which came out on stage. The
vitality was missing, the reason for playing it was
gone, gone with the first house; this performance
was just mechanical. They tried hard to get the
thing off the ground, last performance, The Met and
all that, but it really didnt make it.

"Then afterwards he makes his reprise. He

establishes the fact that he is still the same Tommy,
still more or less deaf, dumb, and blind, only in a
different way. Hes still so very far away from them,
so far away as he was in the beginning, just to
emphasize that nothing ever really changes. Then
we go out on this devotional music, worshipping
music which just means to be like your heavenly
chorus! Or really its meant to be him worshipping."

Pete tried three times to float his famous solo in the

Tommy section of 'My Generation' (theres a good
version of the Live at Leeds album). Its the bit
where he plays four identical notes then runs three
more up. It is quiet. From the audience came voices
roaring. "Play Louder!" So it never happened,
though the audience thought it did. Afterwards
some shouting at each other, refusal to play an
encore, impossible for them to. Two long concerts
the day after a transatlantic flight is too much for
any group.

Tommy, as performed at the London Colosseum

Opera House, was amazing. Pete leading into the
air with great bird-flight solos arching over the
heads completing the circle. Last time I saw Tommy
it was supposedly the last performance. The Who at
the Metropolitan Opera House in Lincoln Center,
NYC

On Top-40 radio they are playing 'Overture From

Tommy' by the Brotherhood of Man as I write this.
The DJ talks his way in and out the beginning and
end as Radio WGY pours on and out, blissfully
unaware of who The Who are. They have been
creeping up, if you dont see them by now then you
wont know it till your whole room explodes with
their dynamite

The Met: a strange cemetery of stone plaques

recording, not the usual deaths with honor or lives
with valor, but money! Everywhere polished marble
slabs
and
tombstones
recording
the
megalomaniacal balance sheet of New York society
status, like the height of the audience like 'Nut',
crashing chords of rainbow-hue merging clouds,
shotgun-fire runs and grandiloquent licks like the
gestures of Oscar Wilde. The Fillmore East
performances last summer paralleled it with Pete
holding the people breathless by stealing the air
from their polluted lungs with a quivering minim or
landslide static feedback in a vibratory cadenza.
People sat bug-eyed as Moons drumsticks dropped
miraculously into his white spotlit hand s like a
movie in reverse your chair-back at the sun-king-s
court. Architecturally a modern-day miniature Saint
Mark's, a nice little piazza and a good feeling of
space. And everywhere, lurking round the fountain,
hustling on the steps, sedate queues at the box
office for returned tickets, surprising the operatic
ladies, bemusing the polite on-best-behavior police,
were a huge bunch of freaks like you never saw
before there.

Miles, 1970

The Who:
Who's Next
Dave Marsh, Creem, October 1971

WHO'S NEXT IS TO the Who what the

White Album must've been to the
Beatles. After Tommy,
Tommy, which was a
concept-rock summit, not, as commonly
supposed, an introduction to a new

749

genre,
genre, they were forced by their
audiences to come back with another
concept album, Live At Leeds which was
mostly old stuff (substitute Sergeant
Pepper and Magical Mystery Tour and
you've got it).

I'm gonna tune/Right in on you (right in on

you)/Right in on you (right in on you)" until it's
almost a round. This is pretty heady stuff for the
Who, but it works. Nicky Hopkins' piano has
something to do with it, because it's kept behind
Townshend's guitar playing. It isn't in 'Song Is Over',
and that is that tune's downfall. Here, the effect
becomes me I non-plastic beauty, and it's sheer fun
to listen to it do its job.

Now this. A fine fine record, one you can shake your
ass to and think about both, one that does
everything the Who can do in legend (which is a lot,
just like the White Album was a lot).

'We Won't Get Fooled Again' is the Who alone, with

Townshend adding organ and a VCS3 synthesizer.
Unlike the single, 'Won't Get Footed Again' is
spread over eight minutes here. It is the most
rockin' cut the Who have done in ages. You'd have
to go all the way back to 'Pinball Wizard' or maybe
even 'Magic Bus' to find a song that was, in
essence, so much what this group is about. It's the
perfect choice for a single, but the album version
really works much much better, because here the
way in which the music is structured supplies the
other half of the story the lyric seems to tell.

There are cuts here that aren't particularly

impressive: 'Blue Eyes', 'Goin' Mobile', Entwhistle's
'My Wife' which is a long way from 'Heaven and
Hell'. But there are also cuts here that are as good
as anything the Who have done.
'Baba O'Reilly' is a great starter, maybe about
Meher Baba, maybe about rock'n'roll "Teenage
wasteland, it's all a teenage wasteland" (Daltrey
shout: "We're ALL wasted"). It's weakened only by a
fiddle interlude that I must confess I don't
understand. It's not offensive, just sort of pointless.

In that respect, this tune is much like 'Revolution'

(which was on the Beatles' White Album, of course)
while Townsend's basic idea is cynical, the music
belies it all, and seems to set up a rhythm for some
scenario of "violent revolution".

Townshend plays a lot of synthesizer here; he's

basically the best we've got at it. He both
demonstrates how to use it with taste and
exemplifies its limitations. On 'Baba O'Reilly', the
synthesizer is kept in the background, which is
where it belongs for a whole lot of reasons, mainly
because it just can't compete with Townshend's
guitar work, always so powerful it eclipses
everything around him. (Except maybe Keith
Moon's drumming.)

I tip my hat
to the new prostitution
I take a vow
for the new revolution
I ain't free
but there's change all around me
Pick up my guitar and play
Just like yesterday
Then I'll get on my knees
and pray
WE WONT1 GET FOOLED AGAIN!

Proof of that is given on 'Bargain'. The use of

synthesizer is that otherwise fine song's downfall.
Had the song been shortened, with the moog
portion excised, it would be really fine.

Townshend knows what side he's on; he's also

sensitive to the way a lot of us feel about the
manner in which the "political" end of this
movement is being handled. In a lot of ways, it's as
bitterly disillusioned as anything anyone has ever
written about the youth movement, but that's
acceptable, because the song comes to us on our
own terms. The music the crashing guitar chords
that are Townsend's doomy signature is as
exciting as I said, but the key part is the
instrumental break: guitar synthesizer and organ
(which is to say Townsend alone), ominously
bespeaking the fact that no matter what we think
about this conflict, it is happening.

'Love Ain't For Keeping' suffers from a similar

problem: here, rather than the music forcing Daltrey
to strain over it (as on 'Baba O'Reilly' and 'Bargain'),
Daltrey against acoustic guitar, bass and drums
sounds merely strained. Even grating. When they
work together and when each does what he is
quintessentially best at, the Who bear no
comparison to any other rock and roll group around.
But when a tune falls short, it generally falls flat as
well.
Happily, there are two songs here that work
precisely the way the Who work best. 'Gettin' In
Tune' sounds like an especially well-proportioned
number from Tommy. Listen to the way that Roger's
vocal works off Townshend's call "I'm in tune/And

Townshend, like many of us, feels that the best he

can hope for is to "pull myself and my family aside/If
we happen to be left alive" and not be fooled again.

750

The most important realization, of course, is that the

time to stop being fooled, by anyone, is right now.
That's what the music says, over and over.

In 1964 there was a large group of English kids

known as Mods, trendy little devils who did nothing
but spend their paychecks on clothes (effectively
changing fashions on a weekly basis), consume
pills, and haunt the London night spots where the
likes of the Stones, Yardbirds, Small Faces, and a
dozen others were splitting the air with the best rock
to yet grace Britain's shores. Into the middle of this
came the Who. Situated in working class
Shepherd's Bush, they soon had an intense local
following of Mods who were enamoured of the
Who's avantgarde clothing Daltrey putting black
tape on t-shirts in pop art patterns, Townshend
wearing dozens of medals over his shirt and
having a penchant for destroying equipment on
stage, partly for flash and partly for venting of
frustrtion.

What the break says is that when the real thing

finally comes, it's going to be ecstatic and exciting.
The guitar chords suddenly end, the synthesizer
beginning a mad tonal run of ominous dimension.
Then several sets of Moon drum rolls, then
everything out as Daltrey releases the best scream
he's ever done on record: YEEEEAAAHHH! And
finally, "To me the new boss/The same as the old
boss", more guitar crashes, with the drums and
bass working in perfect Who symmetry, and
suddenly, it's over.
And what's next, if the record companies aren't
kidding me, just might be the very famous, but
hitherto nonexistant, The Who's Greatest Flops.

Outside of the local area, however, they were

virtually unknown, so with the aid of Kit Lambert
and Chris Stamp, they embarked on a campaign to
capture the world. The first single that brought them
success was 'I Can't Explain', a crude piece of
British pop that made headlines in England and
Canada, and was hardly even heard anywhere
else, an event which can be attributed largely to
Decca's lack of push. The follow up was 'Anyway,
Anyhow, Anywhere', which is easily the Who's best
song, perhaps equalled by 'I Can See for Miles'.
Recorded in one take, it is the epitome of the Who
trying to upstage each other, racing along at
breakneck speed, Daltrey screaming his head off,
Moon flailing like a dervish, even Entwistle seems
to be getting into the spirit of it. Then it's into the
break, and all hell breaks loose. It's utter chaos,
Townshend feeding back all over the place, Moon
utterly insane, Nicky Hopkins' piano occasionally
climbing above the melee. It sounds as if the next
moment everything is going to totally collapse, but
somehow order is always retained. That is rock and
roll.

Stay tuned, because it can't come any too soon.

Dave Marsh, 1971

The Who:

Meaty Beaty Big

And Bouncy
Jonh Ingham, Phonograph Record, December 1971

WELL, THEY'VE (and we all know who they are)

finally gotten around to putting 'I Can't Explain', 'The
Seeker', and 'Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere' onto an
album, as well as 'Substitute', and 'I'm a Boy',
previously available only on the English Direct Hits.
But what the bozos failed to do is put the B-sides on
the album, as well as neglecting both versions of
'Mary Anne With The Shaky Hands' (the single
version gets my vote), and have instead padded the
album with cuts from the Who's first few albums, as
well as those two standards 'I Can See For Miles'
and 'Happy Jack.'

'Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere' enjoyed moderate

success in England, wasn't given the merest budge
by American Decca, and Lambert and Stamp
moved their campaign into high gear, going so far
as to hire crowds to appear at the Who's Ready,
Steady, Go TV performances and go appropriately
barmy. Such tactics payed off, and 'My Generation',
the epitome of being a Mod, was a worldwide
smash and placed them firmly in the forefront of
Mod and 'avant garde' pop.

But in the end that's just a personal feeling,

because this is one of the most enjoyable, rollicking
albums to hit the bins this year, and I can only laugh
thinking of all the post Tommy Who freaks who are
going to listen to this thinking it's rock and roll circa
1971. If you fall into said category, pay close
attention, and be sure to take notes for the quiz at
the end of the lesson.

And then disaster struck. The next single was

'Substitute', and the group, disgusted at American
Decca, released it on Atco. Decca naturally issued
an injunction, and the next time the Who were
heard from here was 'Happy Jack' in 1967. In
England however, they were huge, enjoying

751

success with perfections of perversity like 'I'm a

Boy', about a little boy whose mother thinks he's a
girl, 'Pictures of Lily', with it's young boy, who this
time has trouble sleeping until his Dad gives him
some pictures of Lily to help him through the night,
and 'Mary Anne With The Shaky Hands', said hands
being the most interesting part of her according to
the local kids.

Spider', and 'A Legal Matter' again with so many

rare Who tracks languishing in the vaults.
But I look on the bright side. The songs are well
sequenced, and the inclusion of the more wellknown songs provides an opportunity to hear them
outside the context of their seminal albums. And
besides, this album contains some treats that
nobody expected or even knew about.

After 'Happy Jack' came 'A Quick One', the final

mini-opera, and the start of Townshend's
experiments which ended up as Tommy. It was
there that the world heard about the Who, and you
know the rest. So now it's nearly all on one album
a recording history of one of the ultimate rock
groups. And just to make it more interesting, there
are alternate versions of 'Magic Bus' and 'I'm a Boy.'
If the Who do break up as rumored, maybe we'll
start getting albums consisting of alternate versions
of all their songs. Think of what a treat that will be!

'Substitute' is here a pleasant surprise. Apparently

Atco, having released it three times unsuccessfully,
was persuaded to give up rights. It is of course an
instant classic, one of the anthems of the Mod
movement, capturing well the Mod attitude toward
appearances, their preoccupation with clothes,
cars, hairstyles, etc, on a superficial level. And a
damned fine rock 'n' roll song too. In this light 'Legal
Matter' becomes more interesting too, refreshing in
its punky attitude.

Now get out a sheet of paper and a pen; here is the

first question...

The Who's post-Mod, pre-Sell Out period, in which

most of their obscure records are to be found, is
represented here by 'I'm a Boy' and 'Pictures of
Lily', two of the best songs of Townshend's 'kinky'
period. What they are about is for you to discover
and I won't spoil it for you, but I will mention that
what we have here is a different, much longer take
of 'I'm a Boy' than what originally appeared on the
single. And for that matter 'Magic Bus' is an outtake
too, again longer and quite interesting, though it
lacks the sustained intensity of the original.

Jonh Ingham, 1971

The Who: Meaty,

Beaty, Big and Bouncy
Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, December 1971

As for the rest, well, it's nice to have 'Pinball Wizard'

outside of its burial place in Tommy, 'The Seeker' is
welcome though 'I Don't Even Know Myself'
would've been too, and then of course there's
'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere.' This is surely the
supreme example of the early Who-cocky, boastful,
hard as nails, exploding with drumsticks and blown
fuses. It is Townshend at his most pyrotechnical,
and it has always been the most sought after of
Who singles. Now it belongs to the world, if the
world can muster enough sense to know what to do
with it.

WHO FANS have been saying it for years: "Those

bastards at Decca! Why don't they put out an album
of early singles?" For the Who are one of those
bands whose singles seldom seem to make it onto
LPs. There was a great surge of hope when the
Magic Bus album was announced, yet although it
had a few interesting things there was a lot of
unnecessary filler, and the album was critically
denounced as the product of a company that just
didn't care. But poor old Decca how could they
put out a "greatest hits" anthology for a group that
had had only two or three hits, and what else could
a collection of singles be but a greatest hits
package?

It's customary at the end of reviews of Who records

to list the songs that could've been included but
weren't, and I'm not about to break with tradition.
Hey Decca, how about giving us 'Bald Headed
Woman', 'Heat Wave', 'I'm a Man', 'The Last Time',
'Under My Thumb', 'Anytime You Want Me', 'Shout
and Shimmy', 'Daddy Rolling Stone', 'In the City',
'Heaven and Hell', 'Here For More', 'Barbara Ann',
'I've Been Away', 'Dogs Pt.1', 'Dogs Pt.2', the long
version of 'Mary Anne With the Shaky Hands', the
studio versions of 'My Way', 'Summertime Blues'
and 'Young Man Blues', and all that other stuff
we've been asking for all these years? Some of it's

Well Dave Marsh suggested The Who's Greatest

Flops, which says it rather well for the Who's early
career. And now with three million-selling albums in
a row behind them, the Who have apparently been
deemed worthy of another try. They almost made it
too, but the temptation to do a greatest hits thing
was still a little too strong. The critics are sure to
inquire as to why on earth we need to hear 'I Can
See For Miles', 'Pinball Wizard', 'My Generation',
'The Kids Are Alright', 'Happy Jack', 'Boris the

752

no great shakes, I admit, but this is an important

group and The People have a right to their music!

"I will, I promise. Bye."

I was flabbergasted. I hadn't been at MM very long
but I'd written positively about a few other acts, yet
none had called to thank me. Now here was Keith
Moon, a member of a band that was far and away
the most skilled and successful of all the bands I'd
reviewed, calling up to thank me for a good review.
Neither he nor The Who actually needed a good
review to help their career at this stage - unlike
some of the others - yet Keith saw fit to call. I was
immensely impressed, and this certainly helped
cement my love for this great band.

Meanwhile, thanks for a good start.

Greg Shaw, 1971

The Who: (Keith) Moon Probe

Chris Charlesworth, Melody Maker, 22 April 1972
2005 note: As well as being their drummer and
resident comedian, Keith Moon was the Who's PR
man. Journalists unfamiliar with the group may
have had to contact the long-suffering Keith Altham
to obtain access but once the wall had been
breached Keith, uniquely for one in his position, not
only made himself available virtually any time to
anyone with a pen and notebook but pro-actively
sought out journalists to help boost the group's
media profile.

So it came about that like many a music writer

before me I developed a casual friendship with
Keith. This took the form of hanging out with him in
London clubs, a few visits to Tara House, his
Chertsey home, and pubs nearby, and being invited
to Who shows as his guest. His generosity was
legendary, as was his ability to keep going when
everyone else retired to bed. Somewhere along the
line Keith vouchsafed to me his home phone
number, the only rock star of his renown ever to do
so, and it was by calling him at his home and
arranging to drive down to Chertsey on a Tuesday
afternoon in April 1972 that the following interview
took place.

On July 25 1970, three months into a staff job on

Melody Maker, I reviewed my first Who concert at
the Civic Hall in Dunstable. Having already seen
them a few times (and been a fan for around five
years) by this time, and being as how they were at
the top of their game in 1970, I gave them a rave
review - "They lived up to their name as the most
exciting stage act in the world," I wrote, or
something to that effect.

Tara was on the outskirts of Chertsey, off St Anne's

Hill, down a private lane behind a pub called the
Golden Grove; a peculiarly-shaped modern
dwelling, consisting of five pyramids and too much
glass. It was set in extensive grounds and there
were at least half-a-dozen cars in the drive, all
belonging to Keith. At that time the household also
consisted of his wife Kim, daughter Mandy, motherin-law Joan and her son Dermott, all of whom were
dismissed as Keith and I settled down to talk in his
playroom/bar.

A week later the phone rang on my desk.

"Hello."
"Is that Chris?"
"Yes."

He took this interview quite seriously, for him at

least. He was sober and, I think, anxious for once
to come across as sincere, more than just the
legendary Moon the Loon. One thing I remember
most vividly was the awe in which he evidently held
Pete Townshend. "Pete's a genius," he said more
than once, clearly aware that his own good fortune
rested squarely on the rather skinny shoulders of
the Who's guitarist and principal composer. For
some reason this was edited out of the piece that
MM published...

"Keith here. Keith Moon. From the 'Oo."

Indeed, I thought. Is there any other?
"I'm just ringing to say thanks for the nice review of
the group you wrote."
"Er... it's a pleasure, Keith. I love the Who."
"So do I. We must have a drink sometime, dear
boy."

*
"I'd love to."
WHEN DID you first start playing drums?

"Meet me in La Chasse, or the Speakeasy. Come

and say hello."

753

Twelve years ago, roughly. A friend of mime had a

set and a record player in Wembley. I used to pop
over to his place and play to records. I had a job
selling sticking plaster at the time.

This chap from Philips turned up, and so did I, and

it was rather embarrassing. He set up his kit and I
set mine up and nobody was saying anything. The
rest of the band just didn't care. They were tuning
up in one corner and it was dead embarrassing.
Then they asked me to play in the first number, but
the man from Philips wanted to play. I can't
remember it he played or not, but the group said
they didn't want him. So I just stayed with them.
Nobody actually said I was in the group. I was just
there and I've been there ever since. They were an
amazing crowd and they still are.

What was the first group you played with?

I don't think we actually had a name. If we did it was
something like the Mighty Avengers or the Escort or
some polite name. We played Shane Fenton or
Johnny Kidd And The Pirates or Spanish Harlem,
and Shadows stuff, and Zoots. We played local
town halls or factory dances, weddings a speciality.
I played in several different groups and I joined one
called the Beachcombers.

How long were you with the group?

They were the Detours, then [early '64], on the
circuit. Then they changed their name to the Who
and they were the Who when I joined them. It was a
friend of Pete's idea to call them the Who. We went
through various names, like any group. We had a
manager called Pete Meaden who thought up the
High Numbers and the mod image. I don't think we
quite knew what we were doing, but before we
knew it, we had all this mod gear, feeling totally out
of place. This phase lasted a long time and at the
time there were these legendary fights within the
group.

How did you meet up with the High Numbers?

We were working a circuit which a group called the
Detours used to work, and people used to come up
to us and say, "You're not as good as the Detours.
They're a smashing band." After a couple of months
of this I was fed up of people saying this and I
decided to have a look at them. I had heard a rumor
their drummer was leaving, too, so I went down to a
pub near me, the Oldfield Hotel, to see them play.
They were outrageous. All the groups at that time
were smart, but onstage the Detours had stage
things made of leather which were terrible. Pete
looked very sullen. They were a bit frightening and I
was scared of them. Obviously they had been
playing together for a few years and it showed as
well. I asked the manager of the club to introduce
me to them. I was standing there and I had a few
drinks, so I thought I'd play. I crept 'round the side
and asked Dave the drummer if I could do a couple
of numbers. He said yes.

When did [managers] Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp

arrive?
They arrived when we were playing the Scene Club
as the High Numbers. Kit first saw us in Harrow,
and from there we signed with Kit and Chris. We've
been stuck with them ever since. Somebody's got to
look after them.
Is it true that when you first started playing the
Marquee, fans were paid to come and see the
Who?

They were doing a lot of blues numbers and

Roadrunner and really great stuff. I was fed up with
Spanish Harlem and wanted to get into this band,
so I got on the drums and I must have been
outrageous. I had dyed ginger hair, ginger cord suit.
I was horrible. I looked a right state. I did a couple
of numbers and broke the bass drum pedal, being
rather heavy handed.

This was the Shepherds Bush mod crowd who

came to see us at the Goldhawk Road social club.
Kit had an idea to get us into the West End and he
wanted to form a nucleus of hard-core Who fans
and call them the Hundred Faces. He would give
them all a ticket and membership in the Hundred
Faces, and make it very exclusive. This was the
start of the Marquee sessions. We took the club on
a Tuesday night because nothing ever happened on
a Tuesday. We moved in and gave all these free
tickets to these staunch supporters of ours from
Shepherds Bush.

They asked me over for a drink but they didn't say

much. They didn't ask me to join the group but they
said they were having a rehearsal at some West
Indian Club. Nobody said I had joined the group but
I went along. This chap from Philips Records, Chris
Parmenter, turns up with another drummer because
they had been offered a record deal by Philips and
they badly wanted the other drummer out.

A massive invasion took place with these guys

their chicks and friends and a few people must have
wandered in. Gradually we built it up so that by the
time we left the Marquee, it was getting packed.

754

That was all our London following. It started from

Goldhawk Road, the Marquee, and the West End.
People started coming from all over, the Elephant
and Castle and East End.

Were you having trouble with record companies at

this time?
One always is. The record companies are strange.
Some try harder than others, but the ones we had
weren't trying at all. There were hassles
everywhere. A lot of it was pointless. Now we get
together and thrash things out, but for that. We'd
just smash each other in the mouth to solve things.

Had you started breaking equipment then?

We started earlier than that, actually. It was an
accident at the Railway. Pete did it as a mistake.
We were very visual onstage with theatrics, and
Pete was always swinging his guitar about. One
day whack the head fell off! The drums used to
really disintegrate on their own I hit them so hard.
The fittings were designed for dance bands. When
you got somebody like me, they just snapped off.

When did you first go to America?

That was much later. We did the Ready, Steady, Go
things, and then the Ready, Steady, Who record [an
early EP]. Kit had some connections in Paris and
we did a couple of shows over there [in 1964]. That
was the first time we ever went abroad. I remember
Kit taking me to a bistro and I threw up all over the
drums. The group's music was a lot of Motown stuff,
which we got into at the Marquee. There was Baby
Don't You Do It, which we still do, and Barbara
Ann. That's the kind of music I was into then, as
well as Who music.

My whole style of drumming changed when I joined

the band. Before, I had just been copying straight
from records, but with the Who I had to develop a
style of my own. I took the ideal from Gene Krupa
with all the stick twiddling and thought it was great.
The sticks used to fly out of my hands because I
was sweating like a pig. They'd just slide out. All
these things had an effect on the audience. They'd
wonder what was going on. There was a lot of
raving going on in the States, but over here the
ravers were outnumbered by the Shadows-type
nice groups.

Were you ever a mod?

No, I was a rocker. Everybody was generally scruffy
except John. We wore jeans and T-shirt gear
basically. Pete would always wear comfortable
clothes. The pop-art thing was Kit's idea.

Can you remember making Can't Explain? [single

released February 1965.]

You were always looked on as being an arrogant,

nasty bunch.

Yes, for us it was phenomenally successful because

it got into the Top 20, and we can't even do that
now, not that we ever release anything. It was
released about the time Pete started getting into
writing. He had written a couple of things before,
but now he had bought a pen and paper because
we could afford it. We borrowed the money from Kit
because we thought he was a millionaire. He
probably had about 150, but that was a million to
us. Chris Stamp had to go and work on films to
keep us.

We were. We were very nasty, and still are.

Were you living on pills or was that a publicity
gimmick?
It was true. We had amazing things. We didn't go
out of our way to be nasty, we were naturally nasty.
The press would ask these bloody stupid questions
like, "What is the color of your socks?" and I'd think,
"What's that got to do with you?"

When did you start playing outside of London?

Was it My Generation that made it in England for

you?

We used to play some Sunday concerts with people

like Dusty Springfield, Gerry And The Pacemakers,
and massive bills. Each group had about three
minutes. It was one number and off. Our one
number used to last about 15 minutes, and we
weren't very popular so we didn't do many. We
invariably got into trouble for over-running and
being generally nasty. Then we did [early British
rock television show] Ready, Steady, Go and a
Beatles show in Blackpool.

Yes. We had Anywhere, Anyhow [sic] but that

didn't go well. My Generation made it over here but
I can't remember how we made it to America. The
first time we went was the Murray The K Show
[March, 1967]. He used to take a theater for two
weeks and put on as many shows a day as he
could possibly fit in. There was a minimum of four
with the first starting at 11:00 in the morning. You

755

could never leave the theater because you never

knew when the next one was.

In the States, I can't remember. Ready, Steady, Go

was the turning point here after My Generation
made it. Believe it or not it's only since Tommy that
we have started to have a bit of profit. Before that,
nothing, and we had to pay back everything we had
borrowed. We did a tour of the States with
Herman's Hermits and lost money. We did a tour in
a bus, which we thought was the cheapest way of
doing it, but once again the bus came to thousands
of dollars.

We had eight minutes and it was insane. We always

ran overtime, but the reaction we got was amazing,
because we were into smashing everything up.
Eventually he let us go on a bit. The Cream were
with us then on the show, and Wilson Pickett and
Mitch Ryder. The next time we went to the States
was for Monterey [July '67], but that was just in and
out. Then we concentrated on New York, which was
Kit's plan. He wanted to take New York and go on to
the West Coast using the same formula as we had
at the Marquee. We wanted to build up a solid New
York following and move out from there.

The money we were earning meant nothing. Going

from one gig to another would cost more than the
gig money, and on top of that we had the equipment
bills. Every night, regular, we'd break the gear. By
this time I'd got some stronger drums, but I
deliberately broke them.

Were you very much in debt by then?

Were you beginning to develop a following in the

United States?

Very much so. I don't think it was because of living

too well, although Pete and I are spenders. We are
extravagant, to say the least. The main things were
the instruments. We'd do a show and get 100, but
a guitar would be 150, and a drum set 100. The
debt got up to 30,000 or 40,000, and probably a
lot more.

On the Herman's Hermits tour we were second on

the bill, closing the first half, and about this time we
started picking up fans. It was by playing, not
records. It was a slog going around with a big
group. The turning point in the States was Tommy
in all respects: money-wise, audience-wise, and
respect-wise. That got a lot of hassles with the
record company sorted out because they respected
us then. They would arrange things like free
publicity and receptions for us.

Was there a time when the relationship within the

group worsened because of the mounting bills?
The thing that kept us together was the fact that we
knew all along we were going to get somewhere.
We didn't have to convince each other. We were
supremely confident. It was a very tough band and
nobody would concede. Nobody would say they
were leaving the group except in flashes of temper.

You had trouble following Tommy?

Yes. That's why we put the live album out [Live At
Leeds]. We couldn't really follow it up. We wanted
to do a positive step in another direction, otherwise
Pete would be writing Tommys for the rest of his
life.

How much did the debt reach?

The figures were astronomical. We used to have
meetings that were more like post mortems. Our
accountants were pale, ashen figures. We'd pick up
the accounts and throw them all over the office,
falling about with laughter. There was no account,
just debt, debt, debt, with nothing coming in.

Who came up with Summertime Blues?

We all had a meeting where we were rehearsing
and decided we needed some new material to
replace Tommy. We all went home and sorted
through old records that we could do a version of.
Some we came up with were no good, and others
were great, like Summertime Blues. We dug up
Young Man's Blues, too. The Live At Leeds album
represented the stage act as it was for a time, but
then we got to putting more of Tommy into it.

It became so huge with equipment costs, van costs,

costs for going to the United States which was
amazingly expensive. Over here we would get 200
a week, which sounded great, but it wasn't. We got
about 600 for the Murray The K Show, but we
were booked into one of the most expensive hotels
in New York. $5,000 would go in two days. We
should have had a broom cupboard, but there we
were in a suite ordering Oysters Rockefeller. We
didn't have any idea at all of money.

You have a reputation for wrecking hotel bedrooms.

When did this start?
When hotels started doing things to me. To be
treated like dirt is bad. That's not the way I want it. If
I have a room and the waiters won't send up drinks

When was the turning point as far as money was

concerned?

756

or room service in a couple of hours, it's bad. You

can't go onstage full of food. If a meal takes two
hours to arrive, I'll freak out and throw it against the
wall. The waiter will go and get the manager and
we'll be thrown out.

Why do you think the Who have stayed together for

so long while so many groups who started at the
same time have finished?
Because they're not the Who. Obviously their
personalities weren't meant to stay together. I love
the other members of the group dearly. You've got
to be involved with the people you are working with
and the people you are producing the act for. If you
don't get this involvement then the group breaks up.
We found we can get involved with each other to
mutual satisfaction.

Are you banned from many hotels?

We're banned from whole chains. Other groups say
it's bad for them, but if they're willing to put up with
that kind of treatment in hotels, good luck to them.
But I'm not.

Why don't the Who ever do encores?

There are lots of stories about you exploding doors

off walls. Are they true?

I don't think there's any point. If you've done all you

can, leave it at that. I don't agree with encores.
Sometimes it gets to the point where the crowd
won't leave unless you do, but I've seen so many
groups do an encore after very short applause, and
then they say they've done six encores. What's all
that about? We all feel the same way about that sort
of thing.

Yes. We went to one hotel and they actually locked

the doors with the suitcases in while we were out.
They demanded cash in advance. They hadn't told
us about this before. They just sealed them. Now
that's not nice, so I blew the door off the hinges and
got my luggage. A few hotels still remember us, but
now we have sussed out the good ones.

Have you a favorite Who album?

Is your reputation as a drummer overshadowed by

your reputation as a looner?

The one I have been playing recently, and which

has surprised me, is The Who Sell Out. I am
pleased with that now, although I didn't think much
of it at the time.

I've no real aspirations to be a great drummer. I

don't want to channel all my energy into drumming,
or to be a Buddy Rich. I just want to play drums for
the Who, and that's it. I think a lot of my lunacy is
because I want to do some film work. Pete has got
his writing, John has got his writing and producing,
and Roger has got his farm. My interest is into
filming and videoing. Since I've moved here I've
stopped raging around the Speakeasy and other
clubs as much as I did.

Do you have any favorite drummers from other

groups?
I think the drummer with Argent is very good, Bob
Henrit. And Ringo, whose drumming is incredible.
His bass drum work is great. Those two are my
favorites.

Do you get frustrated when you are off the road for
a great length of time?

You have an enormous drum kit onstage. Do you

play all of it?

Yes. This is why the video and film work come in.
Pete's writing and I don't feel I am a particularly
good writer. We intended to go back on the road
once we have something to go on the road with.
Pete's writing at the moment and we intend to do
our own film. That's what we'll be into later on this
year.

Sometimes I use the two tom-toms on my left for

sticks and drinks and towels.
You have a glass kit as well.
I got it in the States. I have never got a good sound
with it. Visually is all I got it for, for television and
miming.

Do you see much of the rest of the group when you

are off the road?

Why did you move out of London?

Not as much as I would like to. We had a meeting

the other day and it's amazing how much you miss
them. Pete came over once, and I've been to see
John a couple of times. The only reason I don't see
Roger is because he lives miles away.

I had a house in Chelsea and it just got ridiculous. I

could never get any peace. Regular, every night at
3:05 when the Speakeasy bar shut, the telephone
would go. Immediately the cars would arrive outside

757

the door. They'd all troop in and it was always the

same. I couldn't stand it anymore. I used to dread
going back there. I do have to get to sleep, believe
it or not. You just couldn't live there, so I got a suite
at a hotel, and then I found this place.

New York in 1977, a rather depressing episode

which I refer to in another piece elsewhere on RBP.
He was very podgy, glassy eyed and mournful, and
I knew something was wrong but like everyone else
I hadn't a clue what to do about it, nor was I in a
position to really. I was still in New York when he
died and though I'd left MM by this time the then
editor Richard Williams called to ask me to write
something, which I did, albeit hurriedly. Then, in
1995, Tony Fletcher approached me and said he
wanted to write a biography of Keith for Omnibus
Press. An eminently sensible idea, I thought,
though I wasn't to know then what pains Tony
would go to in order to re-create Keith's crazy
world. Only after he'd delivered his manuscript did I
fully realise what I'd often suspected: that much of
what Keith said in interviews could be taken with a
pinch of salt. Still, apart from the questionable
business about "auditioning" for the Who in front of
an audience at the Oldfield - which, like so many of
Keith's yarns, made for a great story, regardless of
whether it was true or not - I like to think that this
most captivating of rock icons was as truthful with
me as he was with anyone else.

Did you spend a lot of time going around clubs in

London in the early days?
Yes, I've always liked clubs. The Scotch of St.
James, Annabels, Tramps, or Speakeasy. You could
generally find John or me down there. We often
used to go clubbing together.
Do you think the Who would carry on if one
member had to leave?
I don't think it would carry on. It would naturally fall
apart. I don't think one member of the group would
get fed up before we all did. If somebody wanted to
leave they would have done it years ago. It will
reach a point where we can't do any more. I can
see us working together all our lives. Certainly
there's no one I'd rather work with than the Who.
Do you have a lot of respect for Townshend?

Chris Charlesworth, 1972

Yes. Pete and I didn't get on well at the beginning.

John and I were the only two who went out
together. We had respect for each other and that
has grown. Pete writes whatever he wants to say,
and always thinks about us playing it.

The Who: Four-Way Pete

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 27 October 1973
TOWNSHEND'S Quadrophenia is a rather daunting
proposition. Another Who double-album rock
opera? About a kid called Jimmy? With a massive
booklet of grainy monochrome tableaux stapled into
the sleeve? With titles like 'The Real Me', 'I Am The
Sea', Love Reign O'er Me' and 'I'm One'?

What kind of music do you prefer playing at home?

Surfing music and mid-'50s American pop. I love the
titles, and songs about ridiculous things, like
affection for two tons of metal. I find it terribly funny,
like Tell Laura I Love Her.

The mind boggles, and you get the sneaking feeling

that Pete Townshend has tried to out-Tommy
Tommy and gone sailing right over the top.

Do you still keep a hotel near Oxford?

I'm in the process of flogging [unloading] it. I want to
get one nearer London.

The impression even persists when you start

playing side one. The first thing you hear is a
Desert Island Discs surf-crashing-on-the-shore
sound-effect in sumptuous stereo while distant
echoed voices intone the four principal themes from
the piece.

Can you see yourself as a publican [bartender]

when you retire?
I'll either be on one side of the bar or another.

Then it suddenly cuts into 'The Real Me', and you

hear that sound, as uncompromisingly violent as a
boot disintegrating a plate glass window at 4 a.m.,
and simultaneously as smooth as a night-flight by
747.

*
2005 postscript: I saw less and less of Keith after
the Who stopped touring in 1976 and, in fact, didn't
see him ever again after he moved back from
California to the UK in early 1978. The last time I
saw him was at a Lynyrd Skynyrd album launch in

758

Prime-cut Who, and suddenly you realise that Pete

hasn't blown it after all. Face it, he very rarely does.

battles, the ultimate cool guy who everybody

followed and mimicked, working in a menial
humiliating job as bell-boy in a hotel.

Quadrophenia is both less and more ambitious than

its notorious predecessor.

When Jimmy eventually discovers himself on the

rock, he finds his own peace by realising what he
truly was even when stripped of his music, his
friends, his clique, his beliefs. All that is left is
himself, and that is more than sufficient.

Tommy tripped over its mysticism rather too often

for comfort, and after being the indirect godfather to
everything from Jesus Christ Superstar to Ziggy
Stardust, it didn't seem likely that Townshend
himself would return to the scene of his former
semi-triumph.

To say that Quadrophenia is an affirmation of the

strength of the human spirit is an invitation to
accusations of pretension and screaming wimp-ism,
but I'm afraid that that's the way it breaks down.

However, he has avoided most of the expected

pitfalls with his customary agility.

Beating a hasty retreat from the Philisophical

Implications, Cosmic Messages and Assorted
Heaviness Department, we can start looking at
Quadrophenia simply as the latest album by The
'Oo It would be an interesting critical exercise to
demolish it, and I've no doubt that there's more than
one typewriter jockey who'll try.

The hero of this little extravaganza is Jimmy, the

archetype mod. Frustrated, inarticulate, violent,
thoroughly confused and prone to all the ills that
teenage flesh is heir to.
Each member of the Who represents a different
side of his character, and a recurring musical
theme. Keith Moon represents the "bloody lunatic",
John Entwistle is "the romantic", Roger Daltrey
appears as the "tough guy", while Townshend casts
himself as "a beggar, a hypocrite."

In some ways, it's extremely vulnerable to adverse

criticism. Some of the more extravagant production
touches, for example, even after a half-dozen
listens, sound about as comfortable as marzipan
icing on a half-ounce cheeseburger.

His odyssey leads him away from the constriction of

his parents home to a dead-end job as a dustman,
and by way of various other adventures to Brighton
via a pill-crazed ride on the (you guessed) 5.15
train.

Also, the band have dubbed on so much

synthesizer, keyboard and brass parts that, at
times, one aches just to hear some unalloyed
guitar-bass-drums-and-vocals Who.
In any case, does rock and roll need masterpieces,
magnum opuses (apologies to my school Latin
teachers; I know you tried hard) or works of genius?
Isn't intensive listening to two-years-in-the-making
double-albums antithetical to the spirit of true rock
and roll?

Finally, he ends up dexed-up and pissed out of his

brain on a rock off Brighton Beach where he
achieves some kind of satori and reconciliation with
himself.
ON THE FACE of it, there's nothing very heavy
going on there, especially when synopsised as
ruthlessly as I've had to do.

Personally, I couldn't care less. If you're not

prepared to listen to Quadrophenia in the spirit that
it was made, then simply don't bother. If you're
going to sling it on at a party or walk in and out of
the room when it's playing, then you're not going to
get a damn thing out of it and you might as well
save your 4.30 for other purposes.

Whereas Tommy took a headlong dive into esoteric

symbolism, Quadrophenia is superficially mundane,
as far as subject matter is concerned but the
implications of this autobiography of a generation
go far deeper than those of the previous work.

On the other hand, if you're genuinely prepared to

work at getting into it and let it work at getting into
you, then you might just find it the most rewarding
musical experience of the year.

As the prose on the sleeve puts it, Jimmy feels "me

folks had let me down, rock had let me down,
women had let me down, work wasn't even worth
the effort, school isn't even worth mentioning. But I
never felt that I'd be let down by being a mod."

AS YOU JOURNEY through it, you'll find some real

classic Who crunchers carefully placed to waylay
you en route.

That particular piece of disillusionment occurs when

he discovers the King Mod from the-sea-side

759

The second track 'The Real Me' is almost as strong

as '5.15' with its ferocious splintered chord work
and vicious vocal, while Entwistle's bass seems to
be plugged straight into this planet's central power
source.

to do it, and I don't grudge a single day of the

waiting time.
***
FADE TO BLACK and cut to Twickenham.

'Dr. Jimmy And Mr. Jim' which opens the fourth

side, is as good an exposition of the raucous mod
stance as anything Townshend's written since the
'My Generation' days:

Pete Townshend opens up the door, immediately

preceded by a large and presumably amiable dog
named Towser (the facts, Ma'am, we just want the
facts). Townshend is clad in bovver boots,
extravagantly patched jeans and an Indian cotton
shirt. He whips up a couple of coffees in large
brown mugs and settles down on a sofa to get
quadrophenic.

"What is it? I'll take it

Who is she? I'll rape it
Gotta bet there? I'll meet it
Getting high? You can't beat it..."
Basically, the early Who classics were
straightforward expositions of an attitude, while
Quadrophenia is an investigation of what went into
constructing that attitude, and of its results.

Now, talking to Pete Townshend is always a treat.

He's intelligent, aware and articulate, qualities that
aren't as prevalent among rock musicians as one
might wish. Furthermore, he's capable of discussing
the more esoteric aspects of his work with a
remarkable detachment that's totally removed from
the self indulgent, egocentric ramblings of many
other acts.

It could be described as an obituary for the Mods by

the band who did most to define that attitude.
I mean, we've all heard about how the Who were
more a band who played to and sang about Mods
than they were actually Mods themselves, but for
those of us who were out in the provinces during
the Mod era, Mod was the Who. And it is only fitting
that the Who should be the ones to conduct this
lengthy exorcism of the Ghost Of Mod.

First off, if the word "quadrophenia" is an expansion

of "schizophrenia" as is indicated on the sleeve,
why the missing "r"?
"It's a sort of jokey expansion of it, but it's a bit of a
mouthful with the 'r'. It's something of a pun on
'quadraphonic' as well. The whole album has been
put together as a quadraphonic composition. I
suppose stereo is a bit of a compromise.

After all, the spectre of those days has hung over

the Who for the best part of a decade, and now
Pete Townshend has summed up every stage of the
Who's chequered past in one work.

"We're fairly happy with the quadraphonic mixes

we've done, but you know the problem with the
transcription down to disc. It's all very well on tape,
but when you try and get it down onto a record
everything goes completely bersek.

There's even a flash of 'The Kids Are Alright'

between 'Helpless Dancer' and 'Is It In My Head'.
Quadrophenia wipes the slate clean, leaving the
Who free, hopefully, to follow it up with their freshest
collection of new material since their very first
album.

"We were talking about a January 1st release date

for the quadraphonic version, but at the moment it's
a bit of a myth. I heard the Doobie Brothers' quad
album of The Captain And Me and it just doesn't
come anywhere near the stereo version."

The Americans are gonna love it. What today's

fourteen-year-old, who was six years old in the
heyday of the Pill and the Parka, is going to make
of it, Yog-Sothoth only knows. Ethan Russell's
photo-booklet is gloriously replete with period detail,
a perfect blend of documentary realism and the
curiously dreamlike quality of events long gone
imperfectly remembered.

Okay, onto the album itself. Is it in any real sense

an epitaph to Mod?
"It's probably a lot more than that. That's right in a
way, but then songs like 'My Generation' were that
kind of epitaph in a more realistic sense. This album
is more of a winding up of all our individual axes to
grind, and of the groups ten-year old image and
also of the complete absurdity of a group like The
Who pretending that they have their finger on the
pulse of any generation.

Quadrophenia is a triumph, certainly. It's by no

means unflawed, but a triumph it is. I'm glad that
Pete decided to write it and that the band decided

760

"The reason that the album has come out

emotionally as it has is that I felt that The Who
ought to make, if you like, a last album.

"It's very difficult to write like an enthused child,

which is really how rock should be written about all
the time. It's very difficult to do that if you don't feel
like an enthused child all the time, or if you're not a
showman and can't switch it on and off like a light
bulb."

"Also, in a way, I wanted to embrace the Who's

early audiences but also to give a feeling of what
has happened to rock and to the generation that's
come up with us. It's very peculiar that this album
has come out at the same time as some thing like
because, although that's a more direct thing, the
ideas are fairly similar.

A lot of people in my profession, I pointed out,

prefer their stars to be noble savages.
"A lot of them are like that. I've never been like that,
there's always been something missing. At times
when I was heavily doped I never got any chicks. At
times when I was playing good I never got any
chicks or any dope. You really can't have all three at
once unless you're a physical dynamo.

"What I've really tried to do with the story is to try

and illustrate that, as a study of childhood
frustrations, the reason that rock is still around is
that its not youth's music, it's the music of the
frustrated and the disatisfied looking for some sort
of musical panacea.

"In the case of Iggy, I think the music suffers. Look

at a band like Sweet, for example. They're probably
a very straight bunch, dope wise and wife-wise and
god knows what, but I think their music does
contain a lot of the tight, integrated, directed,
pointed frustration of a fifteen or sixteen year old,
although it doesn't quite get there and they're a bit
out of place time wise. They should have been
around ten years ago.

"Then we have difficulty relating to the business.

We're not pure innovators, and we never really
have been. We've always been people who have
latched onto things which were good and reflected
them, and I don't feel anything at the moment.
"I mean, if someone like Bowie, who's only been a
big star for eighteen months or two years, feels the
need to start talking about his past influences, then
obviously the roots are getting lost. The meat and
potatoes, the reasons why people first pick up
guitars, are getting forgotten."

"But someone like Iggy and the Stooges couldn't

grasp that if they stood on their heads, because
inside they're old men. I think that applies to many
people. I think in a way that is why the freshest
music that you can find at the moment is very, very
middle of the road stuff.

HARKING BACK to what Townshend had said

earlier about rock responsibility, there's a
considerable case for the view that when rock starts
thinking about what its doing instead of simply
reacting, then it's losing something of its essence.

"I think that there's a strong argument about

whether a journalist's idea of what a pop-star should
be really means anything. I think that our album
clarifies who the real hero is in this thing.

"The most hilarious thing about arguments like that

is the fact that people put forward the arguements
in the first place.

"It's this kid on the front. He's the hero. That's why
he's on the front cover. That's why he's sung about.
It's his fuckin' album. Rock and roll's his music.

"It shows that they're viewing the whole thing

intellectually, that they're arguing intellectually and
that what they're actually doing is putting forward an
intellectual argument to denounce their particular
rock star for becoming an intellectual which is
what they are. And they're blaming him for the fact
that they've crown old.

"It's got nothing to do with journalists, and it hasn't

really even got anything to do with musicians."
Charles Shaar Murray, 1973
John Entwistle: Quadraphenia Another Great
Who Opera?

"In actual fact, most of the American rock journalists

that use these arguments are suffering from
maturity, and it's unpleasant for them because
they're in the rock business. A Pop star somehow
seems able to get away with it, I don't know why.
Jagger and people like that are still able to getup on
the stage and prance about like idiots.

uncredited writer, Beat Instrumental, November

1973
JOHN ENTWISTLE is a happy man! He enjoys a
reputation as one of the world's best electric bass
players, he's had a decade of success with the

761

Who, and he enjoys all the luxuries of superstardom. He's also lucky enough to have the
steadying influence of his wife, Allison, and baby
son Christopher, to keep him on an even keel.

'Quadraphenia has been much easier for me

because I've had a free hand as to what I play on
bass,' continued John. 'In the past the
arrangements of each number have been set. For
instance, if you get a number like Happy Jack,
where the bass line is dunk, dunk-dunk;' that's the
nearest I can get to putting John's impression of a
standard bass line into words, 'you can't really stray
away from that.'

He's always been thought of as the strong, silent

member of line-up (hence his nickname 'The Ox')
but still waters run deep and Entwistle's enormous
talent has only recently begun to surface.

BASS MAN

It all started some two years ago when he was

pressured by friends into making a solo album
which was entitled Beat Your Head Against The
Wall. It continued through Wistle Rymes right up to
his rock and roll album Rigor Mortis Sets In. Now,
rather than rest on his laurels, Entwistle is preparing
for the next two years of his career which will be
busier, more demanding and, therefore, more
satisfying than anything that has gone before.

'That's not to say that I've never had any freedom,

but if the bass line conflicts with the rest of the
number it shouldn't be done. At no time has Pete
ever told me what to play but, as a bass man, I've
obviously been dictated to by the format of the
number.
'The new material from Pete, however, has given
me more opportunity for playing the bass part that I
actually want. I've been able to put all those little
embellishments in.

He'll be getting his own band, Rigor Mortis, on the

road. Making at least two more solo albums, plus
one with the band, doing session work, producing,
supervising the enlargement of his West London
home, breeding carp (their fishpond has to be
enlarged, too!) and on top of all this he'll be touring,
recording and enjoying his time-honoured role with
the Who.

'I think this represents a basic change in the

direction of Pete's writing. The songs are longer, but
I think the main point is that the chord progression
of each one doesn't happen so quickly, so one has
more time to explore. Instead of playing half a bar in
C and then going to G, the new stuff will have,
perhaps, a whole bar in C to play around with.

Ask him why he's doing all this and he'll reply with a
quick shrug of his shoulders: 'I'm not content with
just being known as the Who's bass player there's
still a side of me that wants to play classical and
brass material.'

'He's writing in a more classical style, too, and I had

to play an awful lot of brass for the album,' said
John.

It seems that his colleague in superstardom, Pete

Townshend, has the same sort of ideas regarding
classical and brass music. John described for us
how Quadraphenia the Who's new 'concept
album due out about November, and written entirely
by Pete has been shaping up.

'There's about seven numbers with huge, 14-piece

brass parts on them,' he continued, 'that I arranged
and played myself. Pete gave me a completely free
hand 'cause he knew where he wanted the brass
but he didn't exactly know what he wanted.'

'This album has been a lot easier for me,' he said.

'There aren't any of my compositions on it because
Pete had written too much material. Each number is
important to the story line, which is about a little
mod and all the things that go through his head.'

Townshend's and Entwistle's relationship is so close

that Pete can send John into the studio after having
only briefly explained what is required. Entwistle
then proceeds to deliver the goods. It's a
relationship which has developed over a 10-year
period, during which the Who have been through
everything, sometimes individually, but for the most
part together.

The Who, if you remember, were spawned and rose

to stardom in 1964 from among the ranks of West
London mods. Beginning life as The Detours, they
changed their name to the High Numbers and
finally became the Who. They were the darlings of a
whole sub-culture that thought of red socks, hush
puppies, parkas, blue-beat hats, chrome-laden
scooters, mohair suits and their very own band, the
Who as 'flash, very flash.'

'In the parts of Quadraphenia where Pete knew

exactly what he wanted, he put on horn sounds with
a synthesiser,' said John, 'so, as you can imagine,
the album is quite orchestrated. There's brass,
synthesised strings, flutes and things like that.

762

'It's taken us a couple of months to make the album

and we did most of the backing tracks using Ronnie
Lane's mobile studio (see April edition of Beat)
which we had situated at the Who's new studio in
Battersea.

'This next two years will be the busiest period in my

life. I'm excited and I'm worried all at the same time.
I'm worried, or should I say concerned, about the
time factor.
There's such a lot to do and between it all I've got to
find time for a holiday. I'm sure I'm going to need
one, it's either that or a nervous breakdown!'

'Our studio was completed by the time we'd done

the backing tracks and we used it to put on the
over-dubs. Ronnie's studio worked fine for us, me in
particular, because I like to get all the backing
tracks out of the way.

uncredited writer, 1973

The Whos Mod Generation: Quadrophenia
Through The Years

'The way we work is to make sure that the backing

tracks stand up on their own and then we use the
over-dubs to provide colour. It hasn't always been
the same. On previous occasions where we've got
a poor backing track we've tried to make the
number work by doing over-dubs

Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, December 1973

If I could somehow live my teenage years over
again, I think I would choose to live them as a Mod.
What it must have been like to be a Mod in London
in the summer of 1965! To walk around the West
End in a Carnaby Street parade, everywhere kids
blindly chasing the same absurd dream, lives
surrounded by and creating an atmosphere of the
purest pointless pop the world has ever seen.

LESSON
'We learned our lesson the hard way, we need to
work out good backing tracks for stage use 'cause
that's where the Who really gets off.
'The important thing about the new album, however,
is that people shouldn't approach it in the same way
they approached Tommy, 'cause it's not like
Tommy.

Mod was, when you come down to it, the first

outbreak of the youth cult that grew to such
immense proportions in the sixties. It had already
taken shape by 1964, a clearly-defined lifestyle
dominated by a rigorous code of trendy fashions,
picked instinctively on the basis of mere flash (opart clothes), snobbery (Italian motorbikes, French
haircuts, American R&B music), offensiveness to
parents (Union Jack coats) or just whatever
seemed right. They couldnt explain what they were
doing or why, and they never even thought to try.
They preached no tiresome sermons like their later
American counterparts the flower children. They
were Mods, thats all, and their lives were the only
statement they had to make.

'Quadraphenia is altogether more believable than

Tommy 'cause it deals more with everyday life. I'd
call it a period, historical opera, although I don't like
the use of the word opera, especially when the
storyline is about the scooter mods.'
When the album has been released, the Who will
take Quadraphenia on the road or, as is more likely,
parts of it. The rest of the Who's stage act on their
forthcoming European, British and American tours,
will be used to provide John Entwistle and Roger
Daltrey with the opportunity to perform some of the
material from their respective solo albums. The
band has seen such a growth in terms of output
from its individual members that it's hard to compile
a truly representative stage act these days.

The Mods devotion to leisure time activities was not

the casual laziness, or "dropping out" of Americas
hippies. Most of them were in school or holding
down jobs, it was just that they derived no
satisfaction from these activities. They wanted
glamour, excitement, action. So they created a
subculture all their own, and a rather large one at
that according to reliable sources, there were at
least a half million self-defined Mods on the streets
as early as 1964. And that was just the first
awakening of the movement. It kept on growing
through 1965, and by 1966 it had completely
engulfed British youth.

'After two years of hardly any stage work, I'm sure

we're going to enjoy ourselves immensely,' said
John. 'We thrive on work anyway, and I'll most likely
find that it'll be a lot easier to write material between
playing the live dates. If I'm up on stage and I think
of a good riff, then it could easily develop into
another number for me

Of course it had become watered-down,

commercialized and acceptable by then. The
original Mods were a fanatically tight in-crowd,

WORRIES

763

twisted with pent-up frustration, blocked up with

nonstop pills, and totally obsessive. Come Bank
Holidays theyd swarm down to Brighton and other
seaside resorts, rampaging and brawling in the
streets (like the American college kids who would
annually destroy Ft. Lauderdale in the early sixties),
and gathering in their numbers for pre-arranged
rumbles with their teenage adversaries, the
Rockers.

back up their position, and those images were seen

everywhere.
The Who were archetypal Mods: small round faces,
bobbed hair, and very high-contrast. Keith Moon
was most often seen behind bullseyes or in his
Elvis pullover, while John and Roger usually had on
jackets of clashing patterns, and Pete sported a
wardrobe that could well have been designed by
Andy Warhol. I used to go crazy seeing those
photos in Hit Parader and Flip why didnt the
shops in my town carry threads like that? The
closest we had to that look was those surfer t-shirts
with the wide horizontal stripes, worn with jeans or
tight corduroys. But how I wanted a shirt with long
tab collars and different prints on the sleeves and
opposite sides! By the time the stores had them, of
course, they were two years out of date.

These battles made little sense on the surface. The

Rockers were a minority of working-class kids from
the North and less fashionable provinces, and their
tastes ran to leather, booze, and Elvis Presley. The
existed somewhere on the continuum between the
Teddy boys and the Skinheads, but at the time their
frustrations and complaints were pretty much the
same as those of the Mods. Some say the conflicts
were staged more for the sake of theatricality than
anything else easy headlines, the eyes of the
nation, parents in outrage, etc. That seems as good
an explanation as any.

One thing you could get, though, was the music,

which meant the Who. Before the Who, Mods
listened to American R&B, along with the Beatles,
Stones, and other beat groups. Most of the groups
around London were playing pretty straight R&B in
1964: James Brown and Sam Cooke and Arthur
Alexander and Solomon Burke and Wilson Pickett.
It had a certain exotic appeal, encouraging pop
snobbery plus a strong beat for dancing. Dancing
was all-important; it was the premier showcase for
ones clothes, style, and overall sense of cool. The
Mods had a pill-inspired dance called the Block,
which went well with the chunky rhythm of R&B.

Nik Cohn, who lived through it all, recalls these

battles as "ecstatic weekends seventy-two hours
without sleep, and all you did was run around,
catcall, swallow pills, and put the boot in. For the
first time in your life, the only time, you were under
no limitations and nobody controlled you and you
caught sight of nirvana. When it was all over,
Rockers didnt change: they were solid, and they
went on riding their bikes and getting lushed and
brawling. But Mods were edgier, more neurotic, and
everything that happened now was anticlimax. They
were bored and they couldnt sustain. They lost
their dedication. Very soon, they began to fall apart.
At any rate, I have a memory of two fat years, 1964
and 1965, when you did nothing but run loose and
waste time, buy new clothes and overeat and gab.
It was futile, of course pop has always been futile
but it seemed elegant, it was easy living, and
English pop was better than its ever been, than its
ever likely to be again."

As early as 1962, Pete Townshend and Roger

Daltrey and John Entwhistle were playing together
in a band called the Detours, which also included
Colin Dawson and Doug Sanden, doing Cliff
Richard, the Shadows, the stuff of the times. By
1964 they were called the High Numbers, with a
record out called 'Im The Face', full of references to
fashionable discotheques, aimed at the Mod
audience. They were already among the most
popular groups with the Shepherds Bush Mods,
playing strictly R&B, when Kit Lambert and Chris
Stamp found them and signed them to an exclusive
management contract. Lambert recalls seeing them
the first time and being impressed, not so much by
their music as by the intensity of their audience,
moving frantically in a small West End discotheque.

Another English writer, Gary Herman, went even

further. He wrote a whole book about Mod, and
when it came time to put a title on it, his choice was
clear-cut, he called it The Who.
In as much as music was a key ingredient in the
Mod lifestyle, the Who were its focal point. They
had been Mods from the very beginning, and were
among the first of its spokesman to gain access to
the media. 'I Cant Explain' was issued in January
1965 and jumped right into the Top Ten. Now at last
the Mods had some faces of their own they could
see on the covers of Melody Maker, NME, and
Rave. And as youd expect, they had the image to

Lambert and Stamp initiated a crash image

program for the group, starting with their name. The
High Numbers had been pushed on them by a
former manager, and now they reverted to a name
theyd wanted before: The Who. It was perfect for
them, catchy and opaque. With the name came
new clothes, custom tailored by Carnaby Street to
the tune of $500 a week, careful biweekly haircuts,
and endless photo sessions and publicity releases.

764

Then came 'I Cant Explain', an instant hit on the

pirate stations, followed by a sixteen-week booking
Tuesday nights at the Marquee Club.

Who as conflicting, self-destructive egos. It was all

very, very Mod.
This alone would have been plenty, but there was
more. In addition to the James Brown numbers they
still performed, the Who (or rather Townshend) were
now writing songs of their own, and like the
instrumental backings these songs were nearly all
quintessential slices of the Mod sensibility. Like
most great rock songs, they were all written in less
than ten minutes, and without violating the basically
inarticulate Mod stance they managed to say a
great deal to and about their Mod audience.

At this point, not much more would have happened

had the Who been almost any of the countless
other bands around. Fortunately for us, they turned
out to be a very exceptional group of musicians
indeed. By early 1965 the Mod movement was well
established and already becoming a bit stale to
some. The Who sparked new life into it, and gave it
a substance it had never known before by creating
a style of music that was Mod, just as motorbikes
and Carnaby Street were Mod.

'My Generation' is the one everyone knows, though

probably the least of their early efforts in this style. I
find it much too literal, rescued only by Daltreys
inspired stuttering, a little inside joke for the
pillheads. During this period, for about a year,
practically every song they wrote was a pop
revolution. There was no formular beyond the hard
chunky beat and feedback, except that most of
them took a posture of arrogant teen braggadocio.
What they were about, mainly, was an attitude, an
outlook on life they shared with their audience.

Its an important distinction. Later in the year,

groups appeared with songs about Mod, and none
amounted to anything. All of them lifted their sound
shamelessly from the Who, but made the mistake of
writing songs about art school, fashions, Ready
Steady Go, and so on. Some of them were even
good. The Eyes did a great rip-off of 'I Cant Explain'
called 'Im Rowed Out', backed by a Who parody
titled 'My Degeneration'. The Creation made some
classic records, 'Painter Man', 'Biff Bang Pow',
'Making Time', 'Can I Join Your Band', 'Nightmares'.
They briefly included Ron Wood, now of the Faces,
and an album containing their best material has just
been reissued in England. None of them, however,
can be considered anything more than genre
records.

Of their early singles, the most sublime are 'I Cant

Explain', 'The Kids Are Alright', 'Out In The Street',
'Legal Matter', and 'Substitute', every one basically
about one thing finding self-image through the
release of frustration-born tension. Tension and its
release was the whole essence of the Who, both
thematically and musically. Their singles were
awesome bundles of charged dynamism, sparks
flying off every chord, all threatening to explode into
mayhem at any moment; somehow, though, a
shaky control was usually maintained.

There were other Mod bands too, notably Johns

Children (of which Marc Bolan was briefly a
member) who made a scorching pill stomper called
'Smashed! Blocked!' and the Small Faces, whose
story is well known. But even the Small Faces, who
were almost as archetypally Mod in appearance as
the Who and shared a similar approach to music
and song structure, fell short of the Whos mark.

When that control slipped, we were exposed to a

glimpse of pure chaos. Rock & roll had never been
this terrifying before and it was terrifying, in
1965, in a way nothing else, even the Stones, had
ever hinted at. Like 'My Generation'; how could you
react to a record whose ending was a minute or so
of furious vandalism, with all instruments feeding
back, amps and speakers blowing right and left,
bringing up images of lightning bolts arcing across
electrodes in some Frankenstein laboratory, and all
the while this maniacal beat like eight baboons with
heavy sticks in a tiny cubicle with walls of stretched
drumskin, fighting for their lives to get out? And on
the radio yet!

When the Who first unleashed their sound it had

two distinct qualities, each of which expressed in its
way the Mod attitude in musical terms, both working
together to created an impact that was shattering.
Most striking was their sheer sound, a totality more
monstrous than anything rock had yet seen. Keith
Moon drove them on with his murderous assaults
on the drums, his madmans eyes gleaming as he
kicked his kit across the stage and sent sticks
careening around the hall. Townshend fed off this,
spinning his arm like a demented windmill, pulling
the most amazing distortion and feedback from his
guitar and producing an incredible chaos of noise.
From this, the celebrated ritual destruction of
equipment that ended each show for two years
evolved quite logically, confirming the image
Lambert and Stamp had been trying to build of the

But that was their third single. The one before it was
still more impressive. I shouldnt have to transcribe
the lyrics to 'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere'; if you
dont know them by heart theres not hope for you,
although you might have a chance if you pick up
Meaty, Beaty, Big & Bouncy without delay. At any

765

rate, its simply the definitive Mod anthem, some

kind of ultimate brag song. Mod or not, every young
person feels like making a statement like this
sooner or later. Never mind the message, though
just listen to the record! They dont even wait for the
end; two verses and a chorus, then... blam!!! A
fuzzback space war unleashed before your very
ears, seeming battalions of guitars vying to see
which can self-destruct most spectacularly, Nicky
Hopkins bashing away on his piano, and always
that insane drumming. Really, just too much to take
in. I still hear something new in this record every
time I play it.

years later, it has lost none of its freshness. It is one

of a very, very few albums Ive had for that long and
never ever, not once, grown tired of. Its only low
points are two James Brown songs, 'I Dont Mind'
and 'Please Please Please', but every Who original
is a classic. 'Its Not True' and 'Legal Matter' were
as good as any of the singles, while 'The Ox' was
simply the first freakout instrumental in the history
of rock. I was living in San Francisco at the time,
feeling very smug about how avant-garde the
groups there were, and when I heard 'The Ox' for
the first time... well, it changed my thinking a lot.
It was almost mid-1967 before 'Happy Jack'
became the first Who single to really hit in America.
It made the Top 30, and many naturally assumed it
was the groups first record. And in truth, it wasnt
much like what had come before. Mod was dead,
Swinging London was being taken over by Flower
Power, and although the Whos orientation was still
strictly Mod, it was no longer quite so violent or
overtly generational. In England, their previous hit
had been 'Im A Boy', a kinky little song about a
young lad whose mum insists he dress up like a
girl. The Who were broadening their scope; like the
Kinks (with whom they briefly shared producer Shel
Talmy) they were making the shift from raving
rockers to more fully developed story-vignettes,
some with greater subtlety (such as their next
single, 'Pictures Of Lily', whose subject matter
masturbation slipped right past most radio
programmers it got to No. 4 in England and No.
51 here).

The Who were plain magnificent in those days.

Huge as they were in England, they were legend
here. All their early discs were heard on the air, all
over the country at scattered times, though none
did more than graze the national charts. So the
Who became the idols of a large cognoscenti, who
slavered over each new picture in a teen magazine,
and lived for those infrequent appearances on
Shindig. They made three in 1965. The first time
they just did 'I Cant Explain', the second gave us
an unexpected taste of 'Daddy Rolling Stone', a
British B-side that never came out here. Third time
on, though, they assaulted American eyes as well
as ears with a performance Ill never forget.
It was a Shindig special, taped live at something
called "The Richmond Jazz Festival" and including
Manfred Mann, the Yardbirds, the Animals, the
Graham Bond Organisation, Gary Farr & the TBones (doing 'Wooly Bully'), the Moody Blues and
the Who. Each group got only one song, and the
Who didnt waste any time. They tore into a frenetic
version of 'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere' that made
the record seem pale. Townshend was battering his
guitar mercilessly, hurling it around the stage, into
the drums, through the amps and into the air, all the
while producing storms of noise the like of which
has never been equalled, not even by Jimi Hendrix,
who at the time was playing 'Night Train' in some
New Jersey bar. But the Who, there on TV in 1965,
were more than just ahead of their time. Following
the basically tame R&B reworkings of the other
groups, they were like nothing any of us had been
exposed to before, an inkling perhaps of the
violence to which the younger generation would be
driven in years to come by the same pressures of
society and sheer teenage rebelliousness.

The groups other interests were coming out as

well. Pop art was more than Union Jacks and autodestruction, and it was all creeping into the Whos
music. They released an EP cut live on Ready
Steady Go! that revealed Keith Moons absorbing
interest in surf music; it contained versions of
'Bucket T' and 'Barbara Ann' as well as 'Batman'.
John Entwhistle began his long series of odd Bsides: 'Ive Been Away' (a man is sent to jail for a
crime committed by his brother, who owns the local
brewery), 'Whiskey Man' (the narrator is carried off
to the mental ward because of hallucinations),
'Doctor Doctor' (hypochondria) 'Dr. Jekyll & Mr.
Hyde' (schizophrenia), 'Heaven And Hell' (religion)
and so forth. And in 1967, the group issued a single
of 'The Last Time'/'Under My Thumb' in support of
Mick Jagger and Keith Richard, whose drug case
was then before the courts.

That was the early Who. Despite all efforts America

was less than saturated with Whomania, and by the
time they really broke through many things had
changed. The legend was steadily growing, spurred
on by the release here of their first album. As
somebody said, it was like one great single, you just
kept flipping it over and playing it again. Now, eight

Much of their best material of this period was

released in England only, but between Magic Bus
The Who On Tour, Meaty Beaty Big & Bouncy
and an English compilation called Direct Hits plus
various Backtrack LPs, most of it can still be
obtained. The point is, though, once again we got

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only echoes of what the Who were doing. But at

least 'Happy Jack' did well, which meant the
subsequent album was also a success. 'Happy
Jack' was the only single on it, the rest were
uniformly excellent songs in a style that, in
retrospect, occupied an all-too-short interim in the
Whos development. Its best material consisted of
simple pop songs, only peripherally Mod, such as
'Run Run Run', 'Dont Look Away', and the
exquisite. 'So Sad About Us'.

desperately individualistic, but somewhat more

mature.
'I Can See For Miles' was essentially a brag song in
the same mold as 'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere' but
using a whole new approach; the machine-gun
guitar is still there, but contained in a structure that
builds the tension more slowly and deliberately,
over a wider range, so that when it is released the
impression of omnipotence created by the lyrics is
further underlined. This was one of what
Townshend once described as "plane songs",
written during those many interminable hours flying
above the Atlantic. Sell Out is full of them;
according to Pete you can tell a plane song by the
imagery of freedom and space. 'I Cant Reach You'
is the classic example: "Im a billion ages past you,
a million years behind you, a thousand miles up in
the air, a trillion times Ive seen you there... " And,
on 'Our Love Was Is', "our love was flying, our love
was soaring... " 'Armenia City In the Sky' (written by
Speedy Keen) and 'Relax', as well as an outtake
called 'Grace Space Race', exhibit the same
influences.

Of more lasting significance, however, was the

albums closing number, 'A Quick One While Hes
Away'. No mere vignette, this was a fullblown minioperetta, simple theme of infidelity and redemption
carried through several movements and meant to
be enacted on stage. This was an extention of the
theatrical leanings of the Mods as discussed earlier,
and it also signaled the Whos entrance into the
"progressive" era, that period of a couple years in
which every group felt compelled to invent things
that had "never been done before" in pop music.
The Beatles, Stones, and every other major group
with the exception of the Kinks fell into some
painfully pretentious experiments during this era,
but the Who alone proved able to explore the most
valuable products of progressivism (technical and
conceptual) while avoiding the pitfalls and turning
the whole thing to their own ends, which were still
basically Mod.

But these songs are of note for more than just these
images. Lyrically, they show greater awareness of
the complexity behind problems people have to
face, though not (as other rock groups all seemed
to do at this realization) supplying what seemed to
be easy answers. Mods still, they kept asking
questions and insisting on their own right to a fair
deal and a good time. Musically, the album also
represented something new. To match the imagery,
they created a sweeping, airy sound using
orchestras and electronic devices, with Pete
doubling on organ on many tracks, and altogether
thinking in much broader terms when structuring the
songs.

Their next album was easily the best marriage of

pop and underground rock to take place in 1967.
The Who Sell Out was a pop-art concept from the
start; with everyone doing Sgt. Pepper-copy
concept albums, trust the Who to do one both
celebrating and chiding the commercial
consciousness of pirate radio (the British equivalent
of our AM pop stations) by linking each track with
mock jingles, and including among the tracks
several numbers dedicated to commercial products
such as baked beans, deodorant, and zit cream.
These were all quite amusing and very much in
keeping with Mod values (and, incidentally, the
mono and stereo pressings of the album bore
entirely different sets of jingles).

I say "they" but of course I mean Pete, who wrote

and arranged all the groups songs with the
exception of the odd Entwhistle or Moon B-side.
From the beginning he would make demo tapes,
overdubbing all the parts including vocals, before
presenting his ideas to the rest of the group. They
didnt mind, recognizing Townshend as the leading
creative force; anyway, Entwhistle had his own
plans for an album of childrens songs and a
symphony of sorts, being at heart a classical buff,
while Daltrey took satisfaction in organizing the
bands stage act and Moon, well, Moon was just
crazy.

Among all this, and three songs in the Happy Jack

style ('Silas Stingy', 'Tattoo' and 'Mary-Anne With
The Shaky Hands') were seven numbers
representing a new sound for the Who, and a
startling progression of the Mod mentality.
Originally, their songs had shared an extremely
adolescent frame of reference, implying much but
expressing little more than inchoate frustration and
hot-tempered confusion, in a musical setting tight
and bristling with tension. Now they returned to
some of the same problems, but as older Mods, still

Pete was always the intellectual in the group, the

one looking for answers and posing all those
difficult questions. And, like many of us in 1967, he
began flirting with mysticism. 'Rael', on Sell Out,
was a long yet incomplete work, structured in

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movements like 'A Quick One' but consisting mainly

of repeating riffs and themes. It had no story line to
speak of, aside from a confusing quasi-religious
search ending in unresolved ambivalence.

answers, and its intent is plainly to start others

asking questions rather than to shove Meher Baba
down their throats, as any lesser convert would
have done. Baba is not mentioned on the album,
nor is his philosophy there in any but the most
circumstantial sense.

The Who released no new albums for nearly two

years. In this time there were some great singles,
more Mod brag songs like 'Call Me Lightning' and
'Magic Bus', and a lot of touring. Everyone was
expecting a live album, and many were fooled when
Decca issued Magic Bus The Who On Tour,
which turned out to be a collection of studio tracks.
At this time they were performing songs from all
periods, mixing Sell Out material with songs from
their High Numbers days like 'Fortune Teller' and
Eddie Cochrans 'Summertime Blues' (a 1959 song
with, like 'Blue Suede Shoes' from the same era,
distinctly Mod sentiments) and closing with a
medley of early hits including a smashup 'My
Generation' in which, for the last time, guitars were
destroyed and smoke bombs set off. As an
interesting sidelight, both 'Summertime Blues' and
Mose Allisons 'Young Man Blues' as well as
another Eddie Cochran song, 'My Way', were
recorded in the studio for Sell Out but never used.

I think Tommy could be more correctly seen as the

meeting of the questing Mod mentality with the
world of metaphysics. "Why am I not free?" asks
the young Mod. First its parents, girls, jobs... now,
those forces vanquished, it turns out to be
something a bit more intangible. Its interesting in
this light, that the Who only turned to political
questions after the spiritual quest but hardly
paradoxical considering that the Mod stance was so
fanatically individualistic, even during the most
collective phase of the movement. One person
seeking his place in the scheme of things, whether
at school or in the universe, is still a more Mod
concept than the idea or organized political activity
or even politically-inspired anarchy.
At any rate, Tommy concerned a young persons
search for meaning, in the broadest sense. That he
was a most unique individual, deaf, dumb, and
blind, and that he found meaning through
something as unlikely and pop-art absurd as
pinball, adds character and pop appeal to the story.
There is also a humorous irreverence running
through Tommy that sets it apart from every other
rock concept album I can think of (with the
exception of Arthur) as a work of basic human
appeal whatever its ultimate message. Its also full
of anomalies Sonny Boy Williamsons 'Eyesight
To The Blind', 'Sally Simpson', and the great single,
'Pinball Wizard'. And at the end of it all, nothing has
been resolved. Much has been raised, much vivid
imagery and some moments of very acute
observation, wills have been asserted and desired
thwarted. In the very end, to quote a brief synopsis
that came with the original promo package, "Tommy
is completely isolated and unable to communicate."
He cant explain, but he thinks its love. Mod to the
very end.

All this time, Pete was devoting every spare minute

to an idea that had been building in his mind for
some time. Taking fragments from uncompleted
projects a minor-chord progression and guitar riff
from 'Rael', and a song called 'Glow Girl' that he
prepared three different ways for a single before
discarding, plus another almost-single titled 'Its A
Girl, Mrs. Walker', he planned and meditated and
fooled around with his eight-track home tape deck.
A recent convert to Meher Baba, an Indian avatar
claiming to be the incarnation of Jesus and all the
worlds highest spiritual forces (whose claim to fame
was forty years without speaking what better
guru for an Mod who viewed himself as basically
inarticulate!) Townshend quite naturally conceived
Tommy as a spiritual parable.
Of course the story of Tommy, of how it became the
worlds first rock opera and changed the course of
rock music and all that, needs no reiteration. Nor
should the fact that many critics found it lacking in
substance and indicative of the Whos downfall.
What is interesting, in terms of this discussion, is
the way in which Tommy can be seen as a still
further extension of the Mod value system.

The implications of Tommy were impossible to

avoid. The Who toured endlessly, performing it for
growing crowds to whom they were, at last,
superstars. Imitation rock operas appeared in
profusion, and there was constant talk of making
Tommy into a film, a Broadway production, a ballet,
a ponderous institution. I found myself hoping that,
having done it, Townshend could put it behind him
and get back to the business of making singles
where, musically at least, the Who had always
excelled. Instead, Townshend announced plans for
another rock opera, mentioning a few song titles
including 'Water' and 'I Dont Even Know Myself'.

Those who confuse Tommy with the Moody Blues

brand of blarney are missing some important
distinctions. Mainly, theres a big difference between
pushing ones own opinions as gospel and trying to
maintain integrity in a confusing situation. In other
words, between giving answers and asking
questions. Tommy raises more questions than it

768

But it was not forthcoming. There was 'The Seeker',

a good rock & roll single with the same kind of
chunky rhythms as on their earliest records. It too
was about the spiritual quest, in more obviously
Mod terms. "I wont get to get what Im after, till the
day I die!" laments the protagonist, frustrated again.
Hes sharp, though, he knows better than to accept
the simplistic explanations of the Beatles, Timothy
Leary and the rest. Hes lookin out for himself all
the way, and he wont be fooled.

precepts alive through the increasingly complex

ramifications of 60s youth culture.
Where were the Mods of yesteryear? Rod Stewart,
Marc Bolan, David Bowie: all the rest had changed
with the trends. The Who alone carried the mantle
of Mod, and after all what can you do having
immortalized a lyric as unequivocal as "Hope I die
before I get old!"? Theres no way to back down
from a statement like that, and growing old is the
last thing you can allow yourself to do.

Then came Live At Leeds. Everyone whod ever

seen the Who had wanted a live album immediately,
and by 1970 it was ridiculously overdue. In
interviews, Townshend claimed theyd been trying
for years to achieve a usable tape, the Who being a
very difficult group to record live. With the wide
circulation of bootleg tapes, some far superior to
Leeds, that seems unlikely, but whatever the case I
found it to be a highly unsatisfactory album,
completely lacking in the sense of dynamics that
had been at the core of the Whos music from the
beginning, substituting drawn-out guitar solos for
those beautiful, smashing chords, and free of
feedback save for a few token seconds at the end
of an obese 'My Generation' stuffed with 'See Me,
Feel Me'. Townshend, it seemed, was the electronic
guitar wizard no longer; now he was merely another
lead guitarist, and a rather ordinary one at that. For
me, Live At Leeds was a tremendous letdown.

So you stay young as young as you can, being

30-year-old rock superstar institutions, with operas,
benefits for charity with royalty in attendance,
millions of dollars, and a vested interest in an
Eastern religious sect. And theyve done all right
too. No other rock group has managed to stay
together so long without losing any of its personnel
or its knack for rock & roll honesty, and it seems
that no matter how far the Who digress they are
always capable of jumping right back to the basics.
'Lets See Action' was such a return, a solid followup to 'Wont Get Fooled Again', and inexplicably it
was the first Who single since 'Dogs' not to be
issued in the U.S. Instead we had 'Join Together', a
nice song with decent sentiments, which I hated.
Maybe it was just that I remembered a time when it
would have taken teams of doctors to remove all
the drumsticks and guitar shards from anyone who
tried to climb up onstage and "join together with the
band." This was an open courting of the hippie
harmonists, there was nothing Mod about it, and
maybe thats what offended me. In any case, I was
more pleased with 'Relay', which proposed basically
the same thing but in a more indirect fashion, and
sounded a bit more like 'Lets See Action'. And I
loved the flip, a crazy Keith Moon song called
'Wasp Man' that recalled the days of 'Cobwebs And
Strange'.

They bounced back, though, Ill give them that.

'Wont Get Fooled Again' signalled their entry into
the realm of street politics, Mods on the march and
all that. It also introduced Petes latest sound, an
organ-like beeping produced by an ARP synthesizer
that ran through the song and most of Whos Next.
As rock politics go, 'Wont Get Fooled Again' was
good. It took no stand except for the individual,
asserted implicitly that all governments and forms of
authority were not to be trusted, and suggested
merely that people wise up. As much as Mod could
be political, this was it.

Whatever else, Ill always respect a band that puts

odd cuts on flip sides to encourage people to buy
singles. Almost every Who single has had one, right
up to the present. 'I Dont Even Know Myself' turned
up on the back of 'Wont Get Fooled Again', with
nothing said of the rock opera it was supposedly
written for. A sigh of relief; maybe well be spared.
Then came 'Water', backing 'Love Reign Oer Me'.
'Water' had been touted as the best thing since 'I
Can See For Miles' by those whod had the tape for
a couple of years, and of course it wasnt too
modern, no dynamics, and most disturbing of all, an
official outtake from the forthcoming rock opera,
Quadrophenia.

And it was definitely Mod. Townshend knew it, too.

He gave long interviews rhapsodizing on the Mod
movement and how it had influenced his thinking.
He must have realized his unique position, as first
and last spokesman for the Mods, former ace face
of a movement already becoming history. Mod
couldnt have lasted on its own terms, of course; it
was too alienated, and too existential to fight the
current of youth consciousness, which throughout
the late '60s was toward harmony and organized
utopianism. And few Mods were as intellectually
committed to (or conscious of) what Mod
represented to care enough to try and keep its

Uh oh, I thought, now were in for it. I dreaded

hearing it, expecting the worst, hoping for the best,

769

knowing the Who still had it in them, but knowing

better than to think that meant anything. Then I got
the album. And it was the biggest surprise the Who
have thrown me since... well, since I first heard one
of their records.

Now, being older, and having developed endlessly

more subtle and complex means of expressing
themselves, it could be they were intrigued by the
prospect of returning to that same theme, from the
other side, in third person rather than first as it
were, to see what further realms they could
illuminate. That angry feedback was all right for
capturing the Mods hostility, but what of the great
sense of aloneness and uncertainty that were also
part of the young rebels life? For that you need
those orchestras and stately, sweeping movements,
which the Who have employed with great
effectiveness.

Quadrophenia is at once nothing like Tommy and

everything Tommy should have been. Its theme is
also a young mans quest for meaning, and it is also
a fully developed opera, with movements, themes,
and roles assigned to each member. In fact, taken
together it is meant to add up to the groups
collective state of mind schizophrenia split four
ways: quadrophenia.

Anyway, thats how I choose to look at it. Better this,

I suppose, that an album like Pin-Ups. The old can
stand on its own, pointless to try and mimic it. And
its a good album overall, even if I fear itll be one of
the last albums I pull out when I want to hear some
Who, in the days to come.

Theres nothing abstruse or remotely arcane about

it. Everyone will understand it, on some level. Those
having some experience with Mod will revel in it.
Plain and simple, its a Mod nostalgia trip, set in
1965, the story of a young Everymod, the things he
does, and the forces that make him do it. There are
exquisitely apropos liner notes and a picture book
of faultless imagery.

One thing that would excite me would be a film

based on Quadrophenia. A really intense black and
white adaptation, like Some People, which drew a
stark and fascinating portrait of English youth ca.
1962. Or in full Carnaby Street color to match the
brilliance of the times. It could be done any number
of ways, and with the Mod movement as its theme,
it couldnt fail to be great.

And the album is packed with in-jokes for those who

know enough about Mod and the Whos early
career. The best of these is buried in the middle of
side three, in a song called 'Sea And Sand'. One of
the few real rockers in the set, its a fine song on its
own terms. But theres more. As the last of the lyrics
on the libretto are sung, there is a moment of
silence, then a hard 'Got Love If You Want It' riff
comes in while a voice mixed low on the left
channel starts singing "Im the face if you want it,
babe... "

And the soundtrack, Id like to suggest, ought to be

done by a group like the Sweet, only not so well
known. One of the new Mod bands that are
beginning to appear around England. Thats how I
think of them, anyway. There has been some
argument as to whether its kosher to speak of Mod
without meaning the whole social movement, but I
think if theres one thing the Who have proven, its
that Mod can be reduced to an essential attitude
that is applicable at all times and places... And from
the look of it, that attitude seems to be gaining
acceptance once again, as the last echoes of
underground consciousness, pops arch-foe, slowly
fade out with the dead sixties. Suddenly the English
pop papers are full of pictures of young groups with
strings of flash-bam hit singles and the latest in
bright, trendy clothes. And the look is very Mod as
well, with neatly-trimmed longish hair, fresh
scrubbed faces, clean new clothes, and image,
image, image. Plus, the records these groups make
are strongly rooted in 1965, hook and chorus songs
with hard chords and dazzling guitar riffs,
aggressive drumming, high harmonies, and lyrics
about women who just wont behave.

Touches like that go a long way toward making up

for the albums deficiencies. Which, unfortunately,
do exist. Reading the lyrics gives rise to
anticipations of an album full of uncompromising
mid-'60s rock & roll. The songs are full of all the
right references and attitudes regarding clothes,
pills, social relationships, and all they would need to
have been right at home on The Who Sings My
Generation. Musically, however, theres no
mistaking that this is the modern Who. They rock
hard enough, when required, and there are some
nice riffs. But there is also a profusion of symphonic
and electronic sound effects, and a lack of really
blazing dynamism in even the most driving
segments.
Which is not to say that Townshend should have
tried to recreate the groups early sound, just
because that era is their subject matter. Even if it
might have resulted in a more exciting sounding
album. I suspect he had something more in mind.
The Who have already dealt with the problems of
the adolescent Mod, from that side of the fence.

So maybe Mod is coming back, and maybe the

term Glam will stick, or maybe itll be called
something else. Thats all very nice, but not terribly
important where the Who are concerned. Because

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where these groups are just starting, the Who have

been through it all.

The hero of Quadrophenia is Jimmy, a young

motor-scooted Mod in the throes of self-doubt and
alienation. Unlike Tommy, to whom he's destined to
be inevitably compared, Jimmy is no simplistic
parable or convenient symbol. His loner qualities
set him apart from both friends and foes, and
though he's more than willing to be led, somehow
even that security seems to elude him. Torn
between identities, Townshend has gifted him with
four, all competing for top seed in Jimmy's confused
psyche. In one he is forceful and determined, a
master of his fate; another finds him full of brazen
daring and rollicking jingoism; yet another softens
and romanticizes his nature, giving him a quiet
inner strength; and still another reveals him as
insecure, searching, the promise of salvation
granted and hovering over the next hillrise.

Whether or not Mod returns in some form, the Who

have already proven that there was more to it than
most people thought. It was not merely another
transient teen fad; rather, as Townshend maintained
all along, it was a distillation of the basic value
system every teenager has struggled to formulate
since Elvis first shook his hips. In our culture, in
1974 as much as 1964, theres no need for any
child of rock & roll to respond to his environment in
any other way. We all experience frustration and
alienation to some degree, and for those it hits most
deeply, the adolescents, there can be no more
correct or satisfying response, than to work it out
through pop music, fashion, or whatever other
channels exist in their own peer culture. No politics,
no organized structures of any kind are to be
trusted. Stick with your own and you wont be
fooled.

Such is quadrophenia, schizophrenia times two,

and Townshend maneuvers this conflict on several
levels, each to noticeably good (if fairly evident)
effect. Most important of these manifold hooks is
the Mod generation out of which the Who sprang,
and only secondary (though admittedly the most
personally interesting) is the Who itself, four themes
('Helpless Dancer', 'Bell Boy', 'Is It Me?' and 'Love
Reign O'er Me') wrestling, congealing, splitting
apart throughout the album. As for Jimmy, his
frustration at being unable to resolve his separate
selves suddenly overwhelms him, so that he
smashes his scooter, flees to Brighton on the shore,
finally putting to sea in a boat with the vague aim of
suicide. This is where we find him at the beginning
of side one, lost amidst his flashbacks and
disjointed memories, and this is where we leave
him, on a note of spiritual uplift and transcendence,
at the end.

Thats the Mod outlook, and it has carried the Who

through the years in good stead. Somehow, no
matter what their age, no matter how subdued their
music might become, I dont think anyone will be
able to say the Who have gotten old as long as they
keep it alive inside them. And in the end, when all
possible follies of youth culture have come and
gone, I wouldnt be the least bit surprised if they
turned out to have been right all along.
Greg Shaw, 1973
The Who: Quadrophenia
Lenny Kaye, Rolling Stone, 20 December 1973
Quadrophenia is the Who at their most symmetrical,
their most cinematic, ultimately their most
maddening. Captained by Pete Townshend, they
have put together a beautifully performed and
magnificently recorded essay of a British youth
mentality in which they played no little part, lushly
endowed with black and white visuals and a heavy
sensibility of the wet-suffused air of 1965.

These are not new concerns for the Who, by any

means. Whereas the Kinks always seemed
preoccupied with the staid and comfortable middle
class in an archetypal love-hate relationship,
Townshend and Co. early on turned an affectionate
camera eye to their contemporaries, culminating in
such landmark classics as 'Substitute', 'Anyway
Anyhow Anywhere' and a flailing 'My Generation'
yet to be equaled in definitive power.

Nonetheless, the album fails to generate a total

impact because of its own internal paradox: Instead
of the four-sided interaction implicit in the title and
overriding concept, Quadrophenia is itself the
product of a singular (albeit brilliant) consciousness.
The result is a static quality which the work never
succeeds in fully overcoming. Townshend has taken
great pains with the record, has carried it within him
for over a year, has laboriously fitted each piece of
its grand scale in place. Yet in winning the battle,
he's lost the war and more's the pity.

Quadrophenia, in taking that time in retrospect and

examining its implications, lingers over the artifacts
of the period as if they might in themselves provide
a clue. Tea kettles whistle over the ominous
voicings of the BBC, hints of the Who in concert cut
in and out of Jimmy's fragmented dreamings, slim
and checked jackets mingle with seersucker and
neatly cut hair. To the American mind,
Quadrophenia might thus seem as strange as
portions of American Graffiti could appear to
English experience, but it's to be assured that the

771

appeal of semi-nostalgic shared memories must

perforce work as well for one as the other.

when they should rise to shoulder the lead, pressed

on all fronts by the sweep of Townshend's
imagination.

It is to Townshend's credit that his is not a

disengaged overview, pious and self-righteous after
all these years. In seeking to understand Jimmy, he
apparently is also trying to understand the roots of
the Who, its attraction as rallying point and its
eventual rejection by such as Jimmy ('The Punk
Meets the Godfather') and more appropriately
himself. To set the stage for Jimmy's final leap to
faith, Townshend must question why the religion of
rock & roll (as well as GS scooters and purple
hearts) had to be replaced by something less
temporal and untrustworthy, detail the steps toward
the higher goal, describe its draining holocaust.

On other Who albums this might be acceptable,

even welcome; surely Pete has been the Who's
guiding force, their hindsight and hellbound
inspiration. It is his mastermind that has created the
tour-de-force recording breakthroughs of the album,
the realistic and panoramic landscape of preCarnaby Street England, arranged the setting so
that each member of the band could give full vent to
his vaunted and highly unique instrumental
prowess. Indeed, it might easily be said that the
Who as a whole have never sounded better, both
ensemble and solo, proving unalterable worth and
relevance in an age that has long passed others of
their band's generation into fragments of history.

The interior episodes where all this is hashed out

are the most successful on Quadrophenia,
impeccably outlined by Townshend and stunningly
executed by the Who. Jimmy attempts to mesh with
his family, his peer group, his girl, and yet remains
an outsider, wondering why in his just-so clothes
"the other tickets look much better/Without a penny
to spend they dress to the letter." Meeting an old
idol on the beach, now reduced to subserving as a
local hotel bellboy, he is moved to remember: "Ain't
you the guy who used to set the paces/Riding up in
front of a hundred faces?"

But on its own terms, Quadrophenia falls short of

the mark. Jimmy Livingston Seagull, adrift on a
stormless sea, with only his shattered wings and
sharded memories to keep him company so
close, and yet so far.
Lenny Kaye, 1973
The Who: Exorcizing The Ghost of Mod
Charles Shaar Murray, Creem, January 1974

An effective moment, yet when judged against the

broader scope of Quadrophenia it seems as if all
Townshend has constructed is a series of such
effective moments. Pete, for better or worse, is
possessed of a logic riveting in its linearity, and if in
effect we are being placed in the mind of an
emotionally distressed adolescent, neither the
texture of the music nor the album's outlook is able
to rise to this challenge of portraiture. Despite the
varied themes, Jimmy is only seen through
Townshend's eyes, geared through Townshend's
perceptions, and the aftermath as carried through
four sides becomes a crisis of concept, the album
straining to break out of its enclosed boundaries
and faltering badly.

The Who: Quadrophenia

Townshend's Quadrophenia is a rather daunting
proposition. Another Who double-album rock
opera? About a kid called Jimmy? With a massive
booklet of grainy monochrome tableaux stapled into
the sleeve? With titles like The Real Me, I Am The
Sea, Love Reign O'er Me and I'm One?
The mind boggles, and you get the sneaking feeling
that Pete Townshend has tried to out-Tommy
Tommy and gone sailing right over the top.
The impression even persists when you start
playing side one. The first thing you hear is a
"Desert Island Discs" surf-crashing-on-the-shore
sound effect in sumptuous stereo while distant
echoed voices intone the four principal themes from
the piece.

This is reflected in the songs themselves, vastly

similar in mode and construction, running together
with little differential to separate them. Only a few
stand on their own as among the best the Who
have done ('The Real Me', 'Is It in My Head?', '5:15',
the Townshend theme of 'Love Reign O'er Me'), and
of those it's interesting to note that several are
holdovers from the lost Who album Glyn Johns and
the band worked on before the onset of
Quadrophenia. Also, given the inordinately complex
personalities that make up the group, little is sensed
of any Moon, Entwhistle or Daltrey contributions to
the whole. Their roles are subdued, backing tracks

Then it suddenly cuts into The Real Me, and you

hear that sound, as uncompromisingly violent as a
boot disintegrating a plate glass window at 4 a.m.,
and simultaneously as smooth as a nightflight by
747.

772

Prime-cut Who, and suddenly you realize that Pete

hasn't blown it after all. Face it, he very rarely does.

Quadrophenia simply as the latest album by The

Who. It would be an interesting critical exercise to
demolish it, and I've no doubt that there's more than
one typewriter jockey who'll try.

Quadrophenia is both less and more ambitious than

its notorious predecessor.

In some ways, it's extremely vulnerable to adverse

criticism. Some of the more extravagant production
touches, for example, even after a half-dozen
listens, sound about as comfortable as marzipan
icing on a half-ounce cheeseburger.

Tommy tripped over its mysticism rather too often

for comfort, and after being the indirect godfather to
everything from Jesus Christ Superstar to Ziggy
Stardust, it didn't seem likely that Townshend
himself would return to the scene of his former
semi-triumph.

Also, the band have dubbed on so much

synthesizer, keyboard and brass parts that, at
times, one aches just to hear some unalloyed
guitar-bass-drums-and-vocals Who.

However, he has avoided most of the expected

pitfalls with his customary agility.

In any case, does rock and roll need masterpieces,

magnum opuses (apologies to my school Latin
teachers; I know you tried hard) or works of genius?
Isn't intensive listening to two years in the making
double albums antithetical to the spirit of true rock
and roll?

The hero of this little extravaganza is Jimmy, the

archetype mod. Frustrated, inarticulate, violent,
thoroughly confused and prone to all the ills that
teenage flesh is heir to.
Each member of the Who represents a different
side of his character, and a recurring musical
theme. Keith Moon represents the "bloody lunatic,"
John Entwistle is "the romantic," Roger Daltrey
appears as the "tough guy," while Townshend casts
himself as "a beggar, a hypocrite."

Personally, I couldn't care less. If you're not

prepared to listen to Quadrophenia in the spirit that
it was made, then simply don't bother. If you're
going to sling it on at a party or walk in and out of
the room when it's playing, then you're not going to
get a damn thing out of it and you might as well
save your money for other purposes.

His odyssey leads him away from the constriction of

his parents' home to a dead-end job as a dustman,
and by way of various other adventures to Brighton
via a pill-crazed ride on the (you guessed) 5:15
train.

Basically, the early Who classics were

straightforward expositions of an attitude, while
Quadrophenia is an investigation of what went into
constructing that attitude, and of its results.

Finally, he ends up dexed-up and pissed out of his

brain on a rock off Brighton Beach where he
achieves some kind of satori and reconciliation with
himself.

It could be described as an obituary for the Mods by

the band who did most to define that attitude.
I mean, we've all heard about how the Who were
more a band who played to and sang about Mods
than they were actually Mods themselves, but for
those of us who were out in the provinces during
the Mod era, Mod was the Who. And it is only fitting
that the Who should be the ones to conduct this
lengthy exorcism of the Ghost Of Mod.

On the face of it, there's nothing very heavy going

on there, especially when synopsised as ruthlessly
as I've had to do.
Whereas Tommy took a headlong dive into esoteric
symbolism, Quadrophenia is superficially mundane,
as far as subject matter is concerned but the
implications of this autobiography of a generation
go far deeper than those of the previous work.

After all, the spectre of those days has hung over

the Who for the best part of a decade, and now
Pete Townshend has summed up every stage of the
Who's chequered past on one work.

To say that Quadrophenia is an affirmation of the

strength of the human spirit is an invitation to
accusations of pretension and screaming simpism,
but I'm afraid that that's the way it breaks down.

Quadrophenia wipes the slate clean, leaving the

Who free, hopefully, to follow it up with their freshest
collection of new material since their very first
album.

Beating a hasty retreat from the Philosophical

Implications, Cosmic Messages and Assorted
Heaviness Department, we can start looking at

773

"Also, in a way, I wanted to embrace the Who's

early audiences but also to give a feeling of what
has happened to rock and to the generation that's
come up with us. It's very peculiar that this album
has come out at the same time as something like
Pin-Ups because, although that's a more direct
thing, the ideas are fairly similar.

Pete Townshend opens up the door, immediately

preceded by a large and presumably amiable dog
named Towser (the facts, Ma'am, we just want the
facts). Townshend is clad in bovver boots,
extravagantly patched jeans and an Indian cotton
shirt. He whips up a couple of coffees in large
brown mugs and settles down on a sofa to get
quadrophenic.

"What I've really tried to do with the story is to try

and illustrate that, as a study of childhood
frustrations, the reason that rock is still around is
that it's not youth's music, it's the music of the
frustrated and the dissatisfied looking for some sort
of musical panacea.

Now, talking to Pete Townshend is always a treat.

He's intelligent, aware and articulate, qualities that
aren't as prevalent among rock musicians as one
might wish. Furthermore, he's capable of discussing
the more esoteric aspects of his work with a
remarkable detachment that's totally removed from
the self indulgent egocentric ramblings of many
other acts.

"Then we have difficulty relating to the business.

We're not pure innovators, and we never really
have been. We've always been people who have
latched onto things which were good and reflected
them, and I don't feel anything at the moment.

First off, if the word "quadrophenia" is an expansion

of "schizophrenia" as is indicated on the sleeve,
why the missing "r"?

"I mean, if someone like Bowie, who's only been a

big star for eighteen months or two years, feels the
need to start talking about his past influences, then
obviously the roots are getting lost. The meat and
potatoes, the reasons why people first pick up
guitars, are getting forgotten."

"It's a sort of jokey expansion of it, but it's a bit of a

mouthful with the 'r'. It's something of a pun on
'quadraphonic' as well. The whole album has been
put together as a quadraphonic composition. I
suppose stereo is a bit of a compromise.

Harking back to what Townshend had said earlier

about rock responsibility, there's a considerable
case for the view that when rock starts thinking
about what it's doing instead of simply reacting,
then it's losing something of its essence.

"We're fairly happy with the quadraphonic mixes

we've done, but you know the problem with the
transcription down to disc. It's all very well on tape,
but when you try and get it down onto a record
everything goes completely berserk.

"The most hilarious thing about arguments like that

is the fact that people put forward the arguments in
the first place.

"We were talking about a January 1st release date

for the quadraphonic version, but at the moment it's
a bit of a myth. I heard the Doobie Brothers' quad
album of The Captain And Me and it just doesn't
come anywhere near the stereo version."

"It shows that they're viewing the whole thing

intellectually, that they're arguing intellectually and
that what they're actually doing is putting forward an
intellectual argument to denounce their particular
rock star for becoming an intellectual which is
what they are. And they're blaming him for the fact
that they've grown old.

Okay, on to the album itself. Is it in any real sense

an epitaph to Mod?
"It's probably a lot more than that. That's right in a
way, but then songs like 'My Generation' were that
kind of epitaph in a more realistic sense. This album
is more of a winding up of all our individual axes to
grind, and of the group's ten year old image and
also of the complete absurdity of a group like The
Who pretending that they have their finger on the
pulse of any generation.

"In actual fact, most of the American rock journalists

that use these arguments are suffering from
maturity, and it's unpleasant for them because
they're in the rock business. A pop star somehow
seems able to get away with it, I don't know why.
Jagger and people like that are still able to get up
on the stage and prance about like idiots.

"The reason that the album has come out

emotionally as it has is that I felt that The Who
ought to make, if you like, a last album.

"It's very difficult to write like an enthused child,

which is really how rock should be written about all
the time; It's very difficult to do that if you don't feel
like an enthused child all the time, or if you're not a

774

showman and can't switch it on and off like a light

bulb."

After receiving numerous requests to find out what

happened to the rest of it, and seeing The Who give
a performance at Charlton that some say was
slightly below standard (but which I found
unbelievably good), I decided to obtain the interview
and see if we could use the rest of it. When I'd
finished reading it through, I quite frankly found it
difficult to believe that it hadn't been printed before,
so here's another installment (there'll probably be
another two after this), and although it's dated, it
nevertheless remains absorbing and is still, in my
opinion, relevant. It also effectively illustrates
Townshend as a refreshingly articulate and
intelligent person, as well as a true rock giant.

A lot of people in my profession, I pointed out,

prefer their stars to be noble savages.
"A lot of them are like that. I've never been like that,
there's always been something missing. At times
when I was heavily doped I never got any chicks. At
times when I was playing good I never got any
chicks or any dope. You really can't have all three
at once unless you're a physical dynamo.
"In the case of Iggy, I think the music suffers. Look
at a band like Sweet, for example. They're probably
a very straight bunch, dope-wise and wife-wise and
god knows what, but I think their music does
contain a lot of the tight, integrated, directed,
pointed frustration of a fifteen or sixteen year old,
although it doesn't quite get there and they're a bit
out of place time-wise. They should have been
around ten years ago.

Is there a new 'real' album, or are you going to

leave that for a bit?
Well, at the moment when we made Who's Next
one of the things about that...it's a long story... it
isn't my idea of a new Who album and to a staunch
Who fan it's not their idea of a new Who album, and
so I suppose The Who and a lot of other people are
waiting for the next Who album which should really
be some event in and around the Who which is a
logical next step from Tommy, which Who's Next
wasn't. Who's Next wasn't a logical step in anyone's
language. Who's Next was a stepping stone, if you
like; as Roger says, it's like The Who treading
water. It was a big step for us, as it was our first
major break away from Kit Lambert as a producer
and it was a big step in sound 'cause Glyn Johns
has got a characteristic knack of getting really
excellent sounds in the studio and so he made The
Who sound a little bit more polished and
professional, but as an album I was really quite
disappointed in it. I quite liked bits of it, like
everyone else. A week after it was out and in the
charts I forgot about it and now the public's
forgetting about it and I think it's good thing.

"But someone like Iggy and the Stooges couldn't

grasp that if they stood on their heads, because
inside they're old men. I think that applies to many
people. I think in a way that is why the freshest
music that you can find at the moment is very, very
middle of the road stuff.
"I think that there's a strong argument about
whether a journalist's idea of what a pop-star should
be really means anything. I think that our album
clarifies who the real hero is in this thing.
"It's this kid on the front. He's the hero. That's why
he's on the front cover. That's why he's sung about.
It's his fuckin' album. Rock and roll's his music.
"It's got nothing to do with journalists, and it hasn't
really even got anything to do with musicians."

A lot of the songs have musical images: "pick up

my guitar and play", 'Getting In Tune' and so on.
Was this accidental?

Charles Shaar Murray, 1974

Well, that really stemmed from the project we were

involved in at the Lifehouse. The whole thing was
based on a combination of fiction a script that I
wrote called The Lifehouse which was the story
and a projection within that fiction of a possible
reality. In other words it was a fiction which was
fantasy, parts of which I very much hoped would
come true. And the fiction was about a theatre and
about a group and about music and about
experiments and about concerts and about the day
a concert emerges that is so incredible that the
whole audience disappears. I started off writing a
series of songs about music, about the power of
music and the mysticism of music. 'Getting In Tune'

Can You Believe It? Chatting with Pete

Townshend
John Tobler, ZigZag, June 1974
I bet you'd given up all hope of seeing the second
part of this little epic, eh? How many of you even
remember the first part I wonder? Well, just to
refresh your memories, in issue 24 (now completely
sold out) there appeared a miniscule fraction of an
enormous interview with Pete Townshend
conducted by Connor [McKnight] and John [Tobler].

775

is a straight pinch from Imrat Khan's discourse of

mysticism of sound, where he just says music is
one way of individuals getting in tune with one
another, and I just picked up on that. And there's a
couple of others which I don't suppose you've
heard. One's called 'Pure And Easy'. You hear the
beginning of it at the end of 'Song Is Over'.

have you got now?" I'd say, " Well, nothing, but I
never do at this time of the day," and he'd say,
"Well, unless you've got anything now I think the
best thing to do would be to put the album together
this way." Of course, half way through Tommy, if
he'd asked me the same question, I'd have had to
say nothing, 'cause we had nothing a lot of
disconnected songs about a deaf, dumb and blind
boy.

"There once was a note pure and easy

Does this lead you to think that perhaps you

shouldn't have split from Kit Lambert as producer?

Playing so free like a breath rippling by."

It's about this note that pervades everything.

We didn't split with him. Our relationship drifted. It

was very much one of those situations where I
think it was Tommy that destroyed the relationship.
It was so exhausting. It was incredibly long and
drawn out. It took about two years of active
involvement. Kit's real contribution will never, ever,
ever be known because of course it wasn't
production at all, it was far deeper. The word
producer is, I think, an absurdly misused word
anyway. Kit was much more involved in the overall
concept of the thing much more than the people
imagine. Not all that much, in fact, with the overall
sound. Although he did produce it and mix it and he
did make us work at it still the main thing was that
he thought of the idea of Rock Opera.

Is this the same song as 'The Note'?

Yeah, it's a song about reflecting creation musically,
i.e. there being one infinite consciousness
everything in infinity being the one note and lots of
other consciousnesses being us and vaguer
consciousnesses being gas and grass and space. I
just wrote a lyric about all this talking about it as
music. That is really one of my favorite songs, it
really should have been on Who's Next if nothing
else as a culmination of the frustration of The Who
trying to go somewhere. We didn't get anywhere
near where we were going on the album 'Baba
O'Riley', 'Won't Get Fooled Again', 'Getting In Tune'.
There were a few things in there that had nothing to
do with it at all 'Behind Blue Eyes', 'Going Mobile',
which were really throwaways. There's a few things
in there that are really worthwhile. We could have
put together a really tight concept album, I think.
Roger thought so too at the time but Glyn Johns
was very adamant that from his point of view as an
observer he couldn't see any concept. And I think
maybe he could have been wrong. I don't really
know. I think that as a producer he perhaps stands
a little too much away from the ethereal concepts
that a group gets involved in because it's active, it's
working and it's exciting, and tends to just listen to
what comes out of the speakers and take it at its
face value without realising, of course, that a whole
lot of people who are interested in The Who are
very deeply into everything that we're doing, all of
the time.

What, with A Quick One?

Yeah, and I just did it. He thought of it.
Did he suggest Live at Leeds?
No, that was pretty much a group idea.
You said once that you'd been asked to do a live
album.
Slip of the tongue, I think maybe I was talking
about fans. I mean a lot of kids have asked us to do
a live album. They'd often say: " I can't understand
it because your live sound is so far removed from
your recorded sound how about a live album?"
And of course we'd been trying from the year dot
and none of the stuff was any good.

So he's taking a Steve Miller producer type

attitude?

What about Ready Steady Who?

I think he's very much a musical producer. He's very

much a musician and he's not creative in the way
that, say, I am. The way I create things is that I blind
myself and I go behind for a year, come up with
something at the end and then I explain it to people
in the following year, despite the fact that I didn't
know what I was doing or how I came about it.
Glyn's much more considered. He would say, "What

That wasn't live.

Well, what are those whooshing noises when you
play 'Disguises'?
That's just a special cymbal effect dreamed up by
Kit. No, that's how we sounded in the studio. We

776

made records to sound tinny recorded tinny to

sound tinny. It's no good recording things to sound
hi-fi-if they're gonna sound tinny. It was just a real
clangy sound. I think Shel Talmy first invented it. But
that early clangy Who sound was very much suited
to the Dansette record player with the tin speaker
and two watt amplifier.

two and a half hours. It fails when a group like Floyd

try anything fancy. It really fails because what has
gone down before prescribes a new limitation which
is the limitation within which you have to work.
You're defined by it. And it's a bloody good thing
obviously, because if you didn't have limitations you
wouldn't know how to judge one group against
another. But at the same time, the recorded
medium offers another kind of limitation. It offers a
limitation that you start the tape knowing, and
although you get several stabs, what you get, what
you do, is proven you know what I mean, it's on
the tape. There's no escape from the fact that what
you've done is still there. So what I mean is that
Thunderclap Newman did the f**king playing. All I
did was play engineers. They played. I came up
with the arrangements. Jimmy played every solo on
that album straight off. Some of them are fantastic,
spontaneous chipped solos, considered solos.

You said you went blind for a year and came up

with something. Was Thunderclap Newman a
product of that?
That was really a chain of events. It wasn't any part
of my creative process. Let's just say that I'm very
organised when it comes to recording. I mean I've
got a studio here that I work in and write in. I built it
myself and run it myself and service it myself and I
do that because I enjoy it it's like a hobby but
which is an extension of my work... much more
fruitful a hobby than playing golf. I get all the
exercise I need playing on the stage, thanks. Look
it's part of what I'm normally involved in and I
think Thunderclap Newman were more a part of that
than my own creative processes. In other words,
they were of their own making. A lot of them would
say, if asked now, that we were a figment of Pete
Townshend's imagination but they weren't. It's not
true. Independently, all three of them came to me
with a view to helping them and then suddenly I
realised or rather, again, it was Kit Lambert who
said to me, "you haven't got time for all of them,
why not try them together." I thought, "impossible,
three more unlikely people you couldn't get," but
they got in a room together, they played together on
some film music for a friend of mine and they were
really great and I played them back the tapes and
they said "Yeah, seems to work," and they liked it
and they were all enthusiastic about it as a concept,
as it were. We recorded, we made 'Something In
The Air', it worked out great, it got to number 1 and
from then on it was a downhill slide.

So was Andy's piano playing and weird clarinets,

yet at the live gigs you couldn't hear them and this
is where the loss came.
Yeah, I said always, right from the beginning, that
they should never play live. But... Jimmy
desperately wanted to play live. You can imagine,
he's a good guitarist and he was brought up in the
tradition of loud, young, arm-swinging guitarists and
he was into Clapton and Hendrix and The Who
groups of that ilk, guitar groups, and he wanted to
play and so I suggested that he got his own group
and that Andy got his own group, but Speedy, for a
start, should never, ever, ever have got on the stage
because he's not constitutionally built for it, he's
incredibly nervous. Well, Speedy and I have like
parted company for about [pause] a year. And at the
end of that year I hope Speedy's going to have
enough songs to do a solo album. Because I think
Speedy's a genius, I really do. Andy's finished his
album it was finished today.

No! No! The album was fantastic.

Did you produce that?

Well, I think so.

No, a friend of mine called Dick Seaman did it. I

wouldn't have had time, it's taken Dick Seaman 18
months. I've edited it and done some mixing and
stuff like that...sort of "creative production".

I saw them at a gig, and they were terrible. Surely

the special ingredient was yourself?

You say you didn't do much to make Thunderclap

Newman gel, but Speedy told us that you used to
come out yelling "F**king get it together!"

No, no. The ingredient was that I gave them a

process to work in, which wasn't the formal process
that musicians are usually asked to work in. I mean,
I'd bloody well like to work in a process that didn't
consist of just going onstage and jumping about all
over the f**king stage and turning full up, but that's
the only way to play live these days. If you play any
other way it fails. It fails when Neil Young goes on
the stage and strums his f**kin' acoustic guitar for

That's not me. Glyn does that to The Who, mate. It's
not making a creative contribution. I mean, Speedy
very much needs me to tell him that he's written a
song. He doesn't know until I've told him. That
doesn't mean that I've written it. I mean, he will

777

stand in front of me and I'll say, "Well, what have

you got?" and he'll say well, nothing." So I say, "We
can't record then, can we. You must have
something what's on that bit of paper there?" "Oh,
that's just a few lines I wrote down the other day."
"Well, has it got a tune?" I ask..."Yeah a bit of a
tune, but it's not very good." "Well, play us that,"
and it's a great song like 'Something In The Air'. He
wouldn't play me 'Something In The Air' because it
was originally called 'Revolution', so Speedy
wouldn't play me 'Revolution' which was a number 1
hit. We just changed the title to 'Something In The
Air' and it was alright. That's the sort of phobia he
has. Like, a lot of the songs he won't play me
because I don't take drugs any more and he does
and he thinks I'm gonna get all upset if it's a song
about drugs. That's the sort of guy he is. There was
an incredible amount of misunderstanding, because
I suppose they did look like a manipulated group, or
a dreamed-up group. But a lot came out of the top
of their heads. Stuff like 'Hollywood Dream'.

it's nice to have as much as you can. They

obviously had something different. They were a
novelty band but still musical.
Yeah... I'm glad you listen to it. I mean, a lot of
people haven't. The album's sold very badly. Alright
in the States.
Andy said he wanted to get something acoustic. He
obviously wanted to get something quieter so
people could hear him play. What's on the new
album?
No, he's done one track with a friend that's
acoustic, but Andy's real talent lies with himself, not
with organising, not with playing with other
musicians. He wants a band, I suppose, because
the human being is a social animal and likes to
work in that way. But really, again, and it points right
back to the fact that Thunderclap Newman had
brilliant potential as far as recording it's that Andy
has always done what I have done, since, before I
even knew what tape recording was, he was into it.
Multi-tracking bird songs and locomotive
recordings, you know, special effects, echoes. I've
got a stack of tapes upstairs that he did as early as
1960 which are all done just on piano, or his
version of 'Rock Around The Clock' with Andy
Newman's saxophone sixteen times. I think the
album he's just done is good because he's done it
all himself. There's a couple of things that he's done
with other musicians.

Who picked 'Open The Door, Homer'?

I think I chose that, it wasn't one of the more
successful songs on the album but... it was a song
that Speedy and I have always mutually liked and
we had the "basement tapes" before they were
released as an album they came from a publisher
or something. No, Arthur Brown had 'em, that's
right, so they were at Track. There was a good
quality version there and we listened to them and
liked them. It was the only unreleased one of the
basement tapes, so we figured we'd put it out as a
single. So it was recorded as a single. It was
recorded at I.B.C., but everything else was
recorded in my studio up here. Some of it was
actually done on stereo recorders, not on 8-track.
We got the 8-track half way through the session.
'Accidents', which is the best track on there, was
done on two Revoxes. The other ones 'When I
Think' and 'I Don't Know' were done on Revox
and 'Old Cornmill' and 'Hollywood 1'. The ones that
were done on Revoxes have a sound I don't know
what it was they have a sort of silky sound. I can't
explain it. The ones that were done on the 8-track
had that typical rock hardness, but 'Accidents', for
example, has got an incredible spacious hi-fi stereo
feel about it. I dunno what it is. As an album, I feel
that my biggest mistake was the way I put the
tracks together. I don't think I really did it correctly I
was far too into the group: like, putting two versions
of 'Hollywood' on was daft. I should have made a
choice. A few other things like that. It could have
been shorter. It's about 22 minutes a side and it
could have been shorter and tighter.

Does Andy resent the "freak" image at all?

No, he doesn't but I do. I mean, on his behalf and
so does his producer at the moment, Dick. Dick was
at school with Andy and was the first guy to play me
the first Thunderclap record, which I've actually got
here, which is absolutely amazing. If you hang on I'll
play it for you.
We'll bootleg it.
It's the right quality for bootlegging. He played me
this acetate of tapes. Thunderclap Newman with
Richard Cardboard on drums. This was when I was
at art school.
Who is Richard Cardboard?
Co-producer of Stormy Petrel. Well, that's him,
Richard Seaman. That record was the beginning of
Andy's image as a freak. We all played the tape and
it built up an incredible mystique. Is he a jazz
musician? Is he dead? Who is this guy? And then
suddenly there he was on the Wall, Thunderclap
Newman. The people who hadn't heard of him

Well, as it turned out it's the only thing to remember

Thunderclap Newman by except the singles, and

778

thought he was, like, a jazz sax player come to play

in lunch hours at college.

listen to now because they are so strongly related

to periods of my life, and I can't take the music at
face value, even though at the time nothing in
particular was happening. Album buyers get into an
album buying rut. They collect albums like people
collect stamps or coins or banknotes or whatever.
They develop into two distinctly different markets for
some reason. People who buy the Tommy album
would never dream of buying a Who single at all.
They would sit back and hope that one day unless
they were avid Who fans they would hope that
one day a Who single would come out. In fact until
a Who single came out, was played in the charts,
on the radio, they may not have heard of The Who,
despite the fact that we might have had an album
high in an album chart. In the States they might not
listen to FM radio and over here they may not buy
the trade papers. And if you don't buy the trade
papers you don't know what the latest albums are.

Well, a lot of my friends think he's a freak but in

the best sense of the word, a real individualist.
Yeah. He's certainly eccentric, but above that, the
word "freak" means different and he is different to
other people he's a darn sight more talented than
most people and he's a musical genius. That's what
I think and I'm right about a lot of other people and I
think I'm right about Andy. I think he's a genius. I
think he's better than a lot of other minority
geniuses, like John Fahey, for example, who I like,
people of that ilk. Andy's new record is like a work
of art and that's the end of it. It stands up against
'The Ring' or anything Debussy did. I mean, it really
is incredibly heavy stuff fantastic stuff. It's the
perfect bridge between the rock educated ear, the
trad-jazz educated ear, which is really what I am I
mean, I was brought up on a mixture of trad-jazz
and the Shadows and the classics. He has an
incredibly spontaneous way of putting things down
and I suppose he is a freak, but I'm worried that if
we get a contract for this record, that the record
company will decide "It's another R.R.S. Hey,
some of this sounds humorous let's just dress him
up in a top hat and put an ad in the paper." This is
why I don't think Andy should go with Track,
because Track have got a bit of a reputation for
tasteless ads in the paper and they might be
tempted to do that because this album really does
what should have been done, eventually, by the
Thunderclap Newman. It brings Andy out as a
musician, 'cause we never really got the time to do
that on the first album. I suppose the only section
where he got full rein was in that little bit in
'Accidents' where I just surprised him by saying,
"Why don't you do that bit on your own and
multitrack it?"

Well what about the single that was brought out and
pulled back?
What single was that?
Well the EP had 'Overture', 'See Me, Feel Me',
'Christmas', and something else, but there was
single that was just 'Overture' and 'See Me, Feel
Me'.
I'm not quite sure what happened there. I think
'Overture' was put out I think I'm right here, but
'Overture' was covered in the States by Assembled
Multitude, it got to number 2 or something fantastic
and so we released our version, right, because
naturally we wanted our version if they were
gonna buy someone else's version, they might buy
ours as well, 'cause I'd make a fortune out of it as
writer, so why shouldn't the rest of the guys have a
bash too. So we put out 'Overture' backed with
something else in the States and so we thought if
it's coming out in the States, English people were
gonna sort of say, "What about us?" so we put it out
over here. I think the group and Kit and Chris got
together and said "Tommy's been out, done its thing
it was incredibly highly priced in this country
how about releasing everything from Tommy on
singles everything. So that if somebody wanted to
buy Tommy as a serial, as it were, they could do it."
So we started off with the Overture and we put out
another two EPs which contained four tracks
some of which never even reached the shops
because there was no record company interested at
all, and Track is actually marketed through Polydor
and we're dependent on their distribution a lot. It
was a nice idea but the public didn't really want to
buy Tommy on singles. I suppose they wanted all
the trimmings. As far as I can remember, that's what
happened. Also Track pioneered the whole concept

You put out a single of Tommy and you withdrew it

after about a fortnight and put out an E.P. What was
that about?
Well that was all company policy. We've always
been a group that's said that the singles market and
the album market are distinctly separate. I still hold
that in America and England I think it's true. So it's
not so much a class thing lower classes buy
singles or that kids buy singles and students buy
albums. It's much more that if you're into buying
singles and the process of buying singles it's the
neatness of the brain. The brain stacks singles on
piles and people relate bits of music to bits of their
life. You know, they say, "This single here, say
'Surf's Up' was when I was going out with Tony
and it was a lovely sunny day." Not only nostalgia is
involved in that. A lot of my albums I can't really

779

of really cheap singles. They took no profit

whatsoever. They gave away their whole share and
forced the distributor to go without a share. On
'Voodoo Chile', for example, a number 1, nobody
made any money at all.

things. Kit would probably scream with laughter and

say that it was him getting screwed by Polydor aw
f**k, I dunno. I think that if Track continues they'll
probably continue just for The Who, in which case
why should we go with anyone else. Track gave us
75% more than we were ever getting on our original
deal with Decca.

What about Backtrack or Track Tones? There were

six to start with. Then there were gonna be another
25. We've got eight of them. Then there was talk of
putting out Electric Ladyland at 25/- and
presumably Tommy as well. What happened to that
idea?

What about with Reaction, then?

That was a stepping-off point. That was really
Robert Stigwood putting his foot on the legal
connection between Track and Shel Talmy.
Because Shel Talmy had to be got rid of and the
only guy that was really powerful enough, that was
concerned with The Who in any way whatsoever at
the time and who wouldn't suffer by it, was Robert
Stigwood. So we were temporarily on his label.

I dunno. Backtrack sells very well Whenever you go

to Track offices there's always a lot lying about
which is a good sign that there's turnover.
Would you like to see Tommy out now?

It seemed to be a pretty potent label because it had

Hendrix, the Cream, the Bee Gees. Started off with
a bang and then just sort of disappeared.

Maybe, but it's important if you're gonna have

Tommy that you have the artwork. The artwork is
intrinsic to it in a lot of ways. And the Backtrack stuff
has got cheap covers that's where it saves a lot of
money, in fact. On Electric Ladyland I could do
without the cover quite easily it's bloody horrible.
A lot of Dave King porno rubbish.

Well, there again I don't know that much about it.

'Substitute' was a bloody amazing session Keith
can't even remember it. That was the first Whoproduced session. Kit didn't slide naturally into the
seat of producing The Who he kind of arrived in
the position of producing The Who because we
desperately needed a producer. It was obviously
logical that I should produce The Who even then.
So it was logical that when it came to 'Substitute'
and we got out of Shel Talmy's clutches we should
enjoy ourselves and go into the studio and work, so
we went in and there was a blonde guy... Chris...
the first Olympic Studios in Baker Street. We went
in and we played through the thing and we went up
and heard the playbacks and they sounded alright,
mixed it, and Robert Stigwood came in and listened
to the vocals and said, "Sounds alright" he didn't
really know much of what was going on at the time.
Keith doesn't remember the session, Roger was
gonna leave the group. It was just an amazing time
in The Who's career. We were more or less about to
break up. Nobody really cared about the group. It
was just a political thing. Kit and I used to go for
walks in Hyde Park and talk about combining what
was gonna be left of The Who with Paddy, Klaus
and Gibson. Things like this strange things.
Anyway that's as much as I know about Reaction. I
know I've borrowed a few quid off Robert Stigwood
at various points tapped him for a few knickers. I
also wrote a song for his artist who was called
Oscar, who later reappeared in Hair, called 'Join My
Gang', which was a f**king good song [sings]:

And what it didn't have was the names of the

people playing on it, which would have helped.
Yeah. That's another incredible thing. Dave King is
a genius, I think, but he's got a bit of an obsession
with pornography. Who's Next nearly came out with
the most revolting pornographic cover you've ever
seen. In the end it turned out to be mildly
pornographic, but slightly boring at the same time.
Dave King was commissioned to do a cover and he
came up with one cover with a huge fat lady with
her legs apart and where the woman's organ was
supposed to be would be a head of The Who
grinning out from underneath the pubics. Anyway I
don't really know that much about Track or Track
policy or Track history. If you really wanna know
that, the guy to talk to is Kit Lambert, but then on
the other hand that would be a 50 page article full of
history that really nobody is interested in. Track was
good not because of the small details but because
of the intentions really. It's unfortunate that Kit and
Chris [Stamp] weren't able to concentrate only on
Track but really had The Who at their most difficult
stage which was before Tommy, during Tommy and
at the time two years after Tommy which proved to
be just like a huge hump in the Who's career, which
was just where we needed management most
crucially and it caused everybody to go through
incredible traumatic experiences and Track just got
lost along the way because of it. Yet maybe I'm
talking out of the top of my head maybe it's other

"You can join my gang

Even though you're girl"

780

which he did. Unfortunately, Robert Stigwood owns

the publishing, so I haven't even got a demo of it to
listen to but I really like it.

adagio and pay 36 bars modulating to the key of E

flat," which was all total bullshit he used to fall
asleep at the desk; Glyn Johns used to do
everything. Eventually we ended up in court with
Quintin Hogg he was the attorney for Shel and
we dreamed up an even more preposterous thing.
"Shel Talmy certainly did not tell us at the 36th bar
to play a diminuendo. He told us to do this and we
suggested blah, blah, blah." All in incredible, grand,
grandiose, musical terms and then we produced the
demo which was copyrighted with Essex Music a
good year before it was recorded. And it was
identical to the record. As far as the judge could tell
obviously. I mean, he'd listen to 'Help', 'The Last
Time' and 'Respect' and think they were all the
same song. I mean, probably to him they sounded
identical. That was a real triumph and a very funny
day too.

That's an interesting topic the songs of The Who

that have been covered. For example, the
Untamed's version of 'It's Not True' another very
good song. Any that we might know about?
Yeah, maybe. There's one called 'Lazy Fat People'
by that comedy group . . . The Barron Knights
[sings]:
"Lazy and fat they are, they are
And because they are all the same
They laugh and complain
The young are so ugly."
That song was about Allen Klein. Allen Klein tried to
get hold of The Who as being the first of his purge
on rock. I mean he shat all over the Beatles and the
Stones. F**k knows how we managed to get out of
it. But we took along our solicitor, who is still our
solicitor today... an austere, conservative, almost
Edward Heath character called Edward Oldman,
who just took two looks at Allen Klein and said,
"We're leaving." So we ate his caviar, had a look at
the Statue of Liberty from his yacht, shat in his toilet
and went back to England. In fact he paid my firstclass fare to the States four ways. I went over there
to talk to him, came back to England to do a gig
which I missed at Sheffield University, which got us
a bad reputation for missing gigs and then flew
back again. That was also when Andrew Oldham
was trying to take over our management.

But you didn't win it, did you?

We won that particular thing, so they weren't able to
stop our particular release of 'Circles', but Shel
Talmy ended up getting a piece of our recording.
Didn't he put out a song called 'Watt's For A Pig',
with The Who Orchestra?
We had to, because the single was out by the time
we won it. Obviously we had to take it off the back
because...
It was only a 'B' side after all.
Yeah. Last time I saw Shel he was gloating at our
success, 'cause he gets quite a large chunk of our
recording royalties even today.

[Inaudible question on tape]

...It was just after 'Substitute'. See, about the time of
Substitute we were still having a lot of problems
breaking with Shel.

Good lord! He can't see, can he?

I don't really know about him. I've seen veiled hints
about The Who in interviews he's done, like "Snotty,
East End kids would come up to me and ask me to
record 'em and I'd make 'em stars and a week later
they'd start getting to big for their boots." And it was
obviously directed at groups like us because we're
the only group ever to have argued with him. The
Kinks have never argued with him, as far as I know,
and until quite recently they still used him. I mean,
he never said a word to me. On 'I Can't Explain' he
brought in the Beverly Sisters to do the backing
vocals, and Jimmy Page to play lead guitar. I said to
him "F**k that, I'm the lead guitarist in this group." It
was incredible, it was a typical Love Affair scene
we were the 1965 Love Affair. We were The Who
a few chart successes and then we were gonna be
out we were on, like about half a percent.
Because he was The Kinks' record producer we

Yeah, you had 'A Legal Matter' out on both labels...

no, 'Circles'.
Yeah we did two versions of 'Circles', which were
both identical because they were both copies of my
demo. Shel put in a high court injunction saying
there was a copyright in recording: in other words, if
you're a record producer and you produce a song
with a group and you make a creative contribution
then you own that sound there's a copyright in
that sound, that arrangement. I suppose it's so that
you can't steal the John Barry sound, as it were, or
copy 'Apache' exactly, while it's in the Top Ten. Well,
he took it to the high court judge and he said things
like, "And then on bar 36 I suggested to the lead
guitarist that he play a diminuendo, forget the

781

thought he was alright. But he underestimated Kit's

venomous intelligence.

The Who: Odds & Sods/Them: Backtrackin'

Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, November 1974

Did you ever use any of these other musicians?

'Daddy Rolling Stone' doesn't sound like your
guitar.

1974 HAS CERTAINLY been a good year for

reissues, even if UA's Jan & Dean set didn't quite
make it to the starting gate. Four Beach Boys
packages (of varying quality, admittedly, and
nothing startling), plus the superb Zombies set, the
truly fabulous Creation album (actually out late last
year on English Charisma only, but an album not to
be missed), and now Backtrackin' and Odds &
Sods. A retrospectacle to delight the ears....

It was.
That's an old Muddy Waters song, isn't it?
Probably. Derek Martin. We picked it up from where
he was on the Island label. The only song we ever
used other musicians on apart from Nicky
Hopkins was 'Bald-headed Woman', which was
on the same session as 'Can't Explain'. Jimmy
Page played lead guitar, 'cause he had a fuzzbox
which went 'urggggh'... and three guys on backing
vocals on 'Can't Explain', who turned out to be the
Ivy League I was joking about them being the
Beverley Sisters.

Backtrackin' is something of a sleeper, one more

attempt to exploit Van Morrison's current popularity,
but it's quite a pleasant surprise. Nothing on the
album has ever been on an American LP before,
and it's definitely first-rate stuff (incidentally, to get a
little pedantry out of the way early, the back-cover
asterisks conveying release information aren't
entirely error-free 'Just a Little Bit' was never
released here, while 'All For Myself' and 'Half As
Much' were both American singles). Them were a
superbly versatile and accomplished band, with an
added raw edge that rivalled the Stones and
Animals in the revved-up R&B department a
monumentally great group. Backtrackin' serves as
further confirmation and helps round out the total
picture.

What about these demos? Has it ever occurred to

you that you could do one of these, bring it out as
The Who and nobody would be any the wiser?
Well, that's never occurred to me. That's something
I'd never wanna do. If I put out a record I'd wanna
take the credit. It's occurred to me to put out a solo
album and it's also occurred to me to put out an
album of demos, because I would find it very
interesting and I think a lot of people would. Not
because the demos are similar to the finished
product, but really because of a consistency all
along. The group's relationship to me and my
relationship within the group, as it were, has always
been separate as a writer but very much part of the
group as a musician and guitarist. And it's been
something that I've never been able to fathom and
the groups never be able to work out 'cause it's
never really gone wrong up to now and it looks like
it's gonna continue. So really there's not any need
to prove it because it's painfully obvious. It works
and all putting out an album of demos would do
would be to say "Look, this is amazing because
these are the songs that I wrote, the group did and
this is the way I suggested the group do them and
the group did them in the way I suggested, because
the way I suggested it was tailor-made in the first
place." It's not that interesting. Far more interesting
to me is John's solo album, which is interesting
because of the fact, I suppose, that there should
have been John Entwhistle singles. 'Boris The
Spider' should have been a single, and maybe even
'Heaven And Hell'.

The opener, 'Richard Cory' (an obscure single), is

an agonized, more compelling version of Paul
Simon's poetical adaptation. 'I Put a Spell on You'
and Morrison's original 'Hey Girl' aren't at all
outstanding, but 'Just a Little Bit' is a British
Invasion chestnut recorded by everyone from the
Undertakers to Slade, it's attacked with a chugging
'Green Onions' beat and is top-notch.
'I Gave My Love a Diamond' is basically the same
song found on the back side of Fess Parker's
'Ballad of Davy Crockett', but Morrison and
producer Bert Berns wreak a magical
transformation, investing it with a shimmering
'Could You Would You'-style treatment. 'Half As
Much' was the American followup to 'Here Comes
the Night', and is a good slow bluesy track; while
'All For Myself' ('Here Comes the Night's' flip) is
another blues item, one of an endless series of
Anglo-American 'I'm a Man' variations, closest in
spirit to the Animals' 'I'm Mad' and the Blues
Project's 'Two Trains Running'.
'Don't Start Crying Now', Them's first single, is an
abrasive triple-speed Little Richard-style number
and makes a nice antique; 'Baby Please Don't Go',
their second, is still a stunningly vicious rocker.

John Tobler, 1974

782

Finally, the one unreleased track, 'Mighty Like a

Rose', is a very pleasant druggy number whose
origin is quite mysterious.

The remaining four tracks, dating from 1968 or

earlier, are my favorites, though. 'I'm the Face', the
legendary, fabulously rare High Numbers single,
turns out to be a variation on the old Slim
Harpo/Warren Smith number 'Got Love if You Want
it', with great Mod lyrics and a solid '64-style
performance. 'Faith in Something Bigger', religious
lyrics aside, is a lovely tune, as close as the Who
have ever come to a Spector-styled ballad.

The obligatory nitpicking would have to center

around the fairly laughable liner notes or some
other ancillary aspect, since the track selection is
quite good and should please all but the most
snobbish completists. It would have been nice to
see the delightfully melodic 'You Just Can't Win' and
'My Little Baby' (from The Angry Young Them)
included, but other British LP tracks like 'Bright
Lights Big City', 'Hello Josephine' and 'I Got a
Woman' are dispensable and were, probably wisely,
dispensed with. There's some later material like
'Friday's Child' and the unlistenable 'Story of Them',
and some unreleased tracks recently unearthed in
Europe; but if Van Morrison stays popular in the
next year or two, London will probably release all
that too. Meanwhile, Backtrackin' makes a highly
purchasable album.

'Little Billy', a rejected lung cancer commercial long

cherished in memory from the 1968 stage act,
sounds like 'Odorono' but is far superior,
epitomizing that marvelous combination of feathery
vocal/melody line and frenetic guitar/bass/drums
undercarriage which the Who employed so well in
the two years between 'I'm a Boy' and 'Dogs', 'Glow
Girl', once scheduled to follow up 'I Can See for
Miles' as a single, captures that '66-'68 Who
essence even better. Only the Stones ever rivalled
the Who in the capability for creating the hardest
rock and the most delicate melodies, and only the
Who successfully combined the two. 'Glow Girl', a
typically outre tale of air disaster and reincanation,
is a pure delight, with a plane-crash break that
challenges 'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere' in feedback
ferocity.

The Who's Odds & Sods, in contrast to the Them

LP, is a carefully and consciously-contrived
collation, assembled, remixed, and rescued from
oblivion by John Entwistle with revelatory liner
notes by Pete Townshend. For Who fanatics and
rock lovers in general (not that there should, by
rights, be any distinction between the two), no
matter what qualms may arise about what's here
and what isn't (and there's plenty left unissued...),
Odds & Sods is nothing short of a dream come true.

I should try to refrain from frothing over here, but

Odds & Sods seems almost miraculous. An
assemblage of rejects, it cuts almost anything in
release today. And believe it or not, there's a
significant amount of similarly superb material still
languishing in the vaults, or on the backs of English
singles. In fact, a whole album could be compiled
from American B-sides alone (from 'Bald Headed
Woman' to 'Water'), and it would stack up pretty
well, too. Then there's the half-dozen studio tracks
that didn't make it onto Sell Out, the legendary 'Join
My Gang' (and maybe even a 'Lazy Fat People'
demo), and more well-known material like 'Dogs',
'Let's See Action', and (leave us not forget) 'I'm the
Face''s bizarre flip, 'Zoot Suit'.

The Who's Next-era (and beyond) tracks are very

strong, qualitatively equal to that fine album itself.
'Put the Money Down' has echoes of 'Bargain' and
'Sweet Little Sixteen', a raucous rocker. 'Too Much
of Anything' is extremely pretty, and 'Long Live
Rock' is one of the very best "self-conscious hymns
to the last fifteen years" (as Townshend puts it),
especially now when half the songs with rock & roll
in their titles bear no resemblance whatsoever. It's a
colorful raver with strong 50's over/undertones and
a real heart-tugger of a bridge. 'Pure and Easy' was
the standout track on Townshend's solo album, and
it's nice to have a Who version, though the
differences are not dramatic.

Perhaps the Who should consider releasing an

Odds & Sods-type album as an annual event it
would make the wait between new albums a lot
easier to take and would free some of the most
fascinating vault material in existence. The Who
have become much more conscientious about their
loose ends recently, so, why not get our hopes up?

The 1969 maxi-single that never quite made it to

the shops is finally represented by three tracks
here. 'Postcard' is a fairly trivial Entwistle song, on
the level of 'I've Been Away' ('Happy Jack''s British
B-side), but possessed of very clever, funny lyrics.
'Now I'm a Farmer' is also lyrically amusing, a pretty
fair rocker with a ricky-tick slowdown interlude later
adapted to fit 'I Don't Even Know Myself'. 'Naked
Eye' is the best of the three, a complex song with a
powerhouse chorus, surprisingly revived in the
group's 1973 live performances.

Ken Barnes, 1974

Tommy on the Silver Screen
Bud Scoppa, Phonograph Record, April 1975

783

Pre-release skepticism was clearly in order. The

handing over of Townshends likeable but jumbled
spiritual parable to filmdoms master of the
Technicolor sick joke seemed artistically foolhardy,
to say the least.

played with broad effectiveness by Ann-Margaret,

who acts for Russell less than she reacts to him.
Ann-Margarets Nora Walker goes through one of
the most distressing of Russells degenerative
progressions, as her angelic loveliness becomes
eventually a grotesquely overripe caricature of
womanly beauty. But heres another twist: Nora
rebounds from repulsiveness into the blatantly
seductive form of a mother-siren with a cure for the
vacantly beautiful Tommy. In her final and least
compelling stage, shes the mother superior of
Tommys spiritual army. Despite her corruption, she
survives (at least until the too-pat killing-off during
the finale), partly because shes adaptable, but
basically because Tommys presence gives her
continuing hope and an ongoing belief in the
romantic dream. In her resiliency and awareness of
whats at stake, Ann-Margarets Nora is both the
films central character and Russells alter-ego.

Given Russells predilections, we might well expect

some orgiastic variation on the crucifixion in
blushing pink as the grand finale. But oddly
enough, the teaming of theme and director has
done both Russell and Tommy a lot of good, and its
produced what is easily the most penetrating rock
film yet.
In Russells world, human beauty is always being
defiled by the ravages of time and macabre fate,
and by mans propensity to violence and cruelty.
The resulting transformed being is always more
repugnant by sheer contrast to his original elevated
state. Even the lovers in The Devils were made to
seem repulsive in their mortality. Humans are
abhorrent creatures to Russell because theyre
weak and smelly, but mostly because they die.
Russell seems to be a failed romantic whos turned
in his rage at mans mortal trap to the absurd and
grotesque and like Ann-Margaret in one of
Tommys most unsettling scenes, he rolls around in
it almost erotically.

Russell does inhabit this film, and in a genuinely

involved way, in marked contrast to his disdainful
condescension toward the characters in The Boy
Friend and his tense ambivalence toward the lovers
in The Devils. Hes sufficiently engaged by certain
elements in Townshends sketchy story the
Oedipal possibilities and the conflict between
innocence and corruptibility, for example that he
invests the story with some clearly personal
elements, most notably the several horrifying primal
images snakes coiling through a skeleton, the
knightly and handsome Captain Walker with half his
face a singed, twisted mass, the heaving sweating
parent-lovers discovered wide-eyed in the heat of
illicit lust by son and true father alike, the
transfigured father holding the globe of sun in his
hands. These combine with Russells aggressively
visual style to become riveting and fixed indelibly in
the mind. Its these crucial images some
presented as farce some with classic formality and
dead seriousness that give the movie its
breathtaking dramatic punch.

The saintly Tommy is the first Russell character to

exist outside of this horrible progression, and his
transcendence of the universal contamination
despite the constant efforts of the films major
characters to pull him down into the general morass
turns this Tommy into an almost Dantesque moral
allegory. After each of the successive attempts to
sully Tommy that together form the frightening first
half of the film, he miraculously recovers and his
white pants never even get soiled; genuine
innocence (he is deaf, dumb and blind, after all) still
prevails over human corruptibility.
If Russells Tommy (and it is his Tommy, not
Townshends) is a moral tale, its also a classic
psychological fable centering on the Oedipal
triangle. This triangle, though, has a twist, since the
only father Tommy knows is his step-daddy, played
leeringly by Oliver Reed, and Reed murders the
real father as the boy looks on in a vividly multileveled and nerve-shattering evocation of the
classic primal scene. From that moment on and
its a moment at which Tommy simultaneously
experiences the sacked traumas and loses his
sight, speech and hearing the boy becomes ever
more closely identified with the real father and in
direct opposition to the step-father. The result of this
complex system of relationships among the three
male figures is an inevitable focusing on the mother,

The movie runs, like the album, in a succession of

self-contained scenes, each elaborating a song
(additional music and lyrics were written by
Townshend to accompany this fleshed-out
rendering), and each, again like the songs on the
album, eliciting its own response. These scenes
vary widely in effectiveness, and most of the really
powerful ones are in the first half of the film, but
there are enough electrifying sequences to keep the
viewer tight in his seat through the lulls in
anticipation of the next explosion. Here are some
unforgettable moments:
An ingeniously concise opening sequence which
delivers with clarity and force not just the terms of

784

the plot but also the range of moods and tones

contained in the film as a whole. We get a
reverentially romantic and pure view of the lovers at
the point of Tommys conception, then we witness
their separation and Noras vision of her husbands
(apparent) fiery death in a dream. The staginess of
the sequence strengthens its metaphorical power
and at the same time gets the viewer acquainted
with the films unusual conceits.

Its no accident that these most vivid scenes are

accompanied by Townshends most exciting
compositions; Tommys best music presents its
greatest dramatic challenges. Complemented by
Russells apt and inspired visuals, the music of
Tommy (newly performed by The Who and other
top-notch British rock & rollers, and greatly
broadened by Townshends uniquely styled rocksynthesizer playing) simultaneously possesses a
raw-boned power and an orchestral grandeur. As a
soundtrack album apart from the film, however,
Tommy is impaired by the quirky vocals of AnnMargaret and Reed, which work both dramatically
and comically, in the original filmic context. Because
of the combined power and momentum of its music
and images, Tommy has finally become literally
what it was up to now only euphemistically a rock
opera.

The shockingly brilliant nightmare rendering of the

primal scene, its Oedipal complexity expressed with
grace and precision.
An uncomfortably unholy mass/revival meeting,
with the Virgin replaced by a towering papier-mch
figure of Marilyn Monroe, with pills and Johnny
Walker Red as the Eucharist, and with authentic
disfigurement among the members of the
congregation, all of whom can walk marching to the
swaying rhythm of Claptons snaky blues guitar.

There are flaws, though. Townshends denouement

was vague and incomplete, and Russell builds in a
resolution he seems to have arrived at more by
process of elimination than by inspiration. Its all the
more satisfying in light of all the complex and
ambiguous issues hes dealt with. But then, how
could one gracefully tie all these tendrils together
into a coherent final statement? If the very final
scene atop the mountain is dramatically pat, its
nevertheless visually and musically beautiful, in an
unabashedly majestic way.

Tina Turner romping and ranting lewdly as the

Acid Queen while a psychedelic suit of armor puts
Tommy through a succession of terrifying
transformations.
The pinball championship match as a battle of the
bands between The Who and Elton John, filmed
with apparent spontaneous abandon in a packed,
steamy concert hall (you can see Russell working
his hand-held camera at certain moments, the
director caught up in the action hes initiated). An
impressionistic but dramatically vivid evocation of
the hot and intense sexual violence that occurs
during a rock & roll concert in the coupling of band
and audience.

That reservation aside, theres no doubt that

Russell has invested Tommy with style, wit, and
passion, and that hes made an extravagant,
unconventional, rousingly affecting film that is to the
original text as florid, corpulent flesh is to the bones
beneath it. His tendency to excess has never been
better served, and neither has his fidgety
ambivalence in regard to morality, sexuality, and
propriety. For an all-out extravaganza (after seeing
Tommy for the first time, I remarked to a friend that
Russell might well be characterized as "the Cecil B.
DeMille of bad trips"), this is a curiously personal,
even intimate film by a director whose previous
work has not generally been distinguished by those
traits. Russells Tommy explores difficult psychic
territory in a resolute, intuitively (some would say
impulsively) vivid and adventurous way. Though it
may not convince every skeptic in the house (and I
was once among them), this Tommy comes off.

A gorgeously anal scene inspired in equal

measure by the cover of The Who Sells Out and the
scenes of the vile-fluid expulsion in The Exorcist,
during which Ann-Margaret gives herself in rapid
succession to waves of laundry detergent, baked
beans, and what may be merely melted chocolate.
Here, Russell makes the best use ever of one of his
favorite visual devices, the play of color on a stark
white background. Visually and psychologically
wonderful.
Tommy, shouting "Im free!" and running through a
field of flowers which is being sprayed with
insecticide.

Bud Scoppa, 1975

Roger Daltrey: What the Who's Been Doing

Tommy as an angel, flying off from a castle

parapet under the broad white wing of a hang
glider, as crowds look on, transfixed.

Barbara Charone, Rolling Stone, 11 September

1975

785

LONDON "I don't think Tommy held the band

back it's just that nobody wanted to listen to what
[else] we were doing. Who's Next holds up much
better, but nobody wanted to take it seriously
because it was just nine songs and no great thing
about a bloody spastic."

kids want to see the Who, these four people. You

can't just turn it on and off. Our audience wouldn't
put up with it if the Who went onstage like Pink
Floyd with an incredible light show and stood there
like four dead people that sounded great. But Pete
[Townshend] seems to want to get better
immediately when nothing has changed, so what do
you do?

The speaker is Who lead singer Roger Daltrey, the

"bloody spastic" from the film version of the group's
1969 rock saga about the deaf, dumb and blind
pinball wizard. He's in the canteen of Shepperton
Studios in Middlesex, a London suburb, where he's
taking a lunchtime break from the final day's
shooting of Lisztomania, his second film for director
Ken Russell. A few minutes ago, as space-suited
composer Franz Liszt, he was in a silver space
capsule, plummeting toward earth and an
enormous inflatable lady dressed in red satin
knickers and racy black lace. But now, after
shedding his fancy outfit for well-worn denims, his
mind is "miles and miles and miles" away from the
morning's work, focused instead on the Who and
their recent difficulties.

"Rock & roll got caught up in technology. It took an

enormous leap between 1964 and 1974, and
suddenly it's got nowhere to go. Rock isn't going to
change and you can't let it die. That's why being
flexible is so important. At the moment the Who isn't
very flexible."
A return to the basics seems to be the answer now.
The new album features less reliance on
synthesizers, nor is it a concept album. Townshend,
the least visible member in recent months, spent
most of the spring composing the songs they're in
the rowdier vein of Who's Next, a 1971 release that
Daltrey apparently favors over the group's concept
albums.

"The problems started before the Tommy film," he

said. "It's us, we take ourselves too seriously, that's
the main problem. It got to the point where it wasn't
fun anymore."

Daltrey seems to have prepared himself for the

Who's return to their guitar-smashing roots; his
Ride a Rock Horse features the raunchiness of the
early Who. "This album is more the way I sing," he
said. "When I did the first album [Daltrey], everyone
said, 'Oh, Daltrey's gone soft.' But that was just one
side of me that got overshadowed in the Who. This
one has more balls on it.

So there was a year of group inactivity, during which

time bassist John Entwistle recorded Mad Dog with
Ox, drummer Keith Moon cut Two Sides of the
Moon and Daltrey released Ride a Rock Horse, the
most recent of their solo projects. But the Who are
back together and trying again. They're putting the
final touches on their next album; with Glyn Johns
producing, it's scheduled for a late September or
early October release. And they're looking ahead
toward a tour of the States, perhaps in November.

"What I tried to do is get all my influences on the

album me old soul days, the whole flower power
period, influences like Otis Redding, the Beach
Boys and Stevie Wonder. Of course," he smiled,
"the Who stinks all the way through it.

"I'd love to see the Who back on the road as a good

rock & roll band," Daltrey said between bites of
roast chicken. "I won't try to hide the fact that we
are having problems. On the surface, the group
vehicle seems to have found its limitations."

"As usual, I didn't write any of the songs. But if I

can't write, at least I can expose other artists [Russ
Ballard, Paul Korda and Philip Goodhand-Tait
contributed songs to Rock Horse, while Daltrey
featured tunes cowritten by then unknown Leo
Sayer]. I could have produced the album myself but
it wouldn't have been as good as what Russ did.
You've got to get that something else."

That feeling came, in part, from a sound that the

group locked itself into, Daltrey explained. "We got
drowned in synthesizers in Quadrophenia [their
1973 autobiographical concept album]. That was
my main argument; you'll never get the Who to play
like machines. We're not robots." At times during
their 1973 tour, tapes of synthesizers and horns
were used and the Who would often find
themselves performing out of sync with the tapes.

As he put on his silver costume and returned to the

space capsule for the afternoon's shooting, Daltrey
repeated that the Who would also have to continue
looking for that "something else" to "get that energy
back." But he remained optimistic: "Once we get
down to it, we'll find new boundaries."

"It's down to us. If you want to add musicians, then

it's not the Who. We've outlasted everyone because

Barbara Charone, 1975

786

The Who: The Who By Numbers

bellowing that's cropped up on recent solo and

group stints.

Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, October 1975

Imagine a Man winds up side one with more
Townshendian introspection, in a lulling acoustic
setting reminiscent of Sunrise from The Who Sell
Out. The ascending chorus is particularly
absorbing.

THE WHO'S sovereign elixir is only available about

once every two years, and is held most effective
when composed of simple, basic ingredients. The
1969 potion, the "Tommy" line, induced beneficial
results at first, but later proved to contain potentially
dangerous and often harmful side effects. 1974's
Odds and Sods philtre, though blended from leftovers and castoffs, was extraordinarily healthful.

The second side opens with an Entwistle tune,

Success Story, full of rocking spirit, catchy hooks,
and typical humor, about the fantasies and sordid
realities of the rock and roll existence. Lyrical
fragments, rendered approximately: "Just like
Cinderella when she went to the ball/A voice says
(pause while Entwistle assumes his Boris the
Spider/Summertime Blues basso profoundo
voice), "I'm your fairy manager!'"; or, more
poignantly, "Back in the studio to cut our latest
number one/take 276, you know this used to be
fun." Interestingly, Daltrey sings most of the song.

As the title suggests, the new Who album is 10 new

tracks without conceptual links, undertones, or
operatic prospectus. Technical details first: producer
is Glyn Johns (as on the last new nonconceptual
opus, Who's Next). Nicky Hopkins guests on piano
(as on My Generation), Daltrey sings, Moon drums,
Entwistle plays bass and a few muted horns, and
Townsend plays guitar, banjo, ukulele, no
synthesizers, and does a lot of lead vocals.

They're All in Love is the prettiest tune on the LP, a

delicate number with a lovely harmony chorus and
gorgeous Hopkins piano textures. Every Minute
blazes new musical trails for the Who (not to
mention the rest of the rock world), being a pretty, M
O R-styled Townsend ballad backed solely by a
strumming ukulele (and occasional distant horns).
I'm not entirely sold, but it is a nice tune.

And finally the songs impressions gleaned from

one quick run-through before the acetate was
rushed back by armored truck to the MCA time
vaults to await official release ceremonies. Slip Kid
is the leadoff track, and one of their oddest. Instead
of the usual full-to-bursting production, the song is
full of spaces and pauses and slightly jagged
rhythms. There's a strange reversed-feedback
interlude, and some of Townshend's most lyrical
guitar ever. Unusual and very compelling.

The Who By Numbers is a strong, consistent

album. Lyrics are introspective, even occasionally
cosmic, without being overbearing as with the
best rock albums the words can be ignored or
pored over with equal enjoyment. The melodies are
unbeatable; there is still no one who can touch
Peter Townshend for lovely rock melodies. The only
possibly disquieting factors will apply to those who
worshipped the Who's early anarchic rock
explosions and still froth reflexively at the first notes
of I Can't Explain or My Generation (I'm that way
myself). Townshend wasn't kidding when he
mentioned to an interviewer that he was feeling too
old and detached to write meaningfully of teenage
experiences this is strictly mature stuff, no Mod
anthems here (with the possible exception of the
slightly enigmatic Slip Kid). Instrumentally there's a
tendency to lay back where they once blasted; the
drums, though as wild as ever at times, sound
muted, and there's a persistent acoustic-guitar
underpinning which slightly undermines the overall
rock vitality. One might have hoped for an all-out
rocking blockbuster on the order of I Can See for
Miles or Won't Get Fooled Again, if only to
demonstrate to the bloated boogie-meisters of the
day (or even promising pretenders like the Sweet)
how it's done, but it's not here.

There Ain't No Way Out, is another Townshend

spiritual quest number, though not at all serious. It's
a pretty, quiet tune with a good rock chorus, sung
by Townshend quite appealingly. Squeeze Box is a
direct contrast, a chugging rocker with lines like
"Mama's got a squeeze Box she wears on her
chest/When Daddy comes home he gets no rest"
and a chorus of "She goes in and out and in and
out.." etc. as far removed topically from
Townshend's usual topical concerns as possible. It's
compact and commercial, with a banjo break, of all
things, and if the lyrics meet the upstanding moral
criteria of the nation's spiritual leaders (Top 40
program directors), it could be a hit single. MCA's
Jon Scott thinks there should be no problems "It's
clear they're talking about an accordian!"
I'm Dreaming ("of the day I can't control myself"
shades of the Troggs) is a straight-forward rocker
with the most aggressive chording so far and a bit
of percusssive frenzy from Mr. Moon. Daltrey sings
it with great delicacy and restraint, qualities which
are prevalent throughout, as he avoids the hoarse

787

What is here, though, is a consummately-crafted

record of fascinating depth and immediate surface
appeal. It's a record made for repeated exposure,
and will be just what the doctor ordered for fall
playlists. The Who may not make another
Substitute, but as long as they make records as
good as By Numbers, there's still no one I'd rather
listen to.

Tolliday self-taught intellectual, joined the local

Communist Party at 15 after seeing what was going
on around him; took me to visit Karl Marx under his
mossy tomb at Highgate on wintry afternoons; got
me back to Dostoyevsky saying I was Nastasya to
his Myshkin; painted pictures of himself as
Tchaikovsky hanging them round his room,
endless gaunt burning Tolliday faces in some secret
pain. Thought hed die at 23, had to die before he
was 25. Maybe he would because of that cough
that rasped up in the winter and turned him into a
thin old man in front of me in his long black coat.
Never forgave himself because he didnt. Because
he was made to live, marry, have kids.

Ken Barnes, 1975

The Who
Penny Valentine, Street Life, 1 November 1975

It was Tolliday who showed me the Who. It was

Tolliday who took me, that strange night, to The
Scene.

THAT summer: Tolliday and I roaming Sohos warm

night streets, swapping stories, putting each other
in roles, lingering outside sawdust-floored Italian
food-stores, sniffing in the peasant-smells of drying
ravioli, hung hams, mountain cheeses. Teaching
him the foreign Soho of my childhood spent with
loving titbits passed down over endless counters by
unfamiliar laughing people for the bella bambini.
Eager to show him a glimpse, a taste, of where Id
come from, part of what had contributed to my
middle class making.

Tollidays friends. His friends didnt look like him,

probably didnt think like him, but he knew them and
knew what they were about and they in turn
recognized him for it. Tollidays friends sweeping
into Soho on their scooters, pennants waving on
their aerials. Coming in with their anoraks and close
fitting, highcollared shirts and neat little
hugging sweaters, cropped heads. They were all
small and skinny and arrogant and clannish. They
put out a Male Only sign even though they had
girls clinging on to their backs, looking as
unapproachable as them.

We shared Soho, Tolliday and I, as we shared

everything else. He stood a kid in his Rolling
Stones T-shirt, hands spread pseudo-Italian
gangster style on his skinny hips, mobile knobbly
face poised for an act, bending his cockney accent
round the unfamiliar words. Up against the window
of Del Monicos "Eh whata you wan? You wanna
de bowl a spaghetti?" Losing the "t" on the last word
so it became "spageii". Punching each other with
familiar grins, lighting up Players No. 6, moving on
into the night.

A few years before, seeing the knife fights outside

the Astoria during Rock Around The Clock getting
scared at the rockers who looked enormous and
made their motor bikes snarl, I got frightened, then
excited in a strange way. Tollidays friends made me
feel the same way. Another pack, another life I
could only ever observe. No place here for a middle
class bohemian.

Tollidays Soho was different. Strange to me. More

precarious. A place of action, fast moving sound. A
film reeling with colour and lights, peopled by
whores and pimps and police and rough street
justice. Piles of garbage left rotting in gutters after
the veg market moved on. Orange and yellow lights
spitting their neon hiss where night business was
transacted in discreet corners by the pinball
machines. Led by this Leytonstone street urchin I
wandered through it amazed, scared, excited,
reeling with what my eyes were taking in.

They had their band too. Not the Beatles who

everyone liked, not the Stones with their
revolutionary fervour. The Who were the Mods
boys. Earlier some months back theyd been the
High Numbers and theyd known what all that was
about too. The Who were Tollidays friends. Hed
worked in the same office as Keith Moon, told
stories of Moons earlier forays against the system
that were to stay with him, just become
exaggerated over the years. Moon would lay on top
of the filing cabinet in the office so he could
terrorise the clerks on Monday morning as they
came staggering in, wiping sleep from their brains.
Hoping what? Hed get sacked, make an
impression, stop being a faceless number?
Outrageous, rebellious even then, however
loveable a face his violence took on.

Always like this with Tolliday. Always something new

hed point out, share with me. Loving him like the
brother I never had even though he was younger
than me by two years and our backgrounds his
East London poor, mine West End secure were
poles apart. Sharing music and reading and
planning trips to Russia that never materialised.

788

Tolliday laughed at Moon. Thought Entwistle was

okay. Understood Daltreys sudden downers and
bursts of anger. But Pete was his real idol because
he liked Petes brain maybe saw in it a reflection
of his own. Loved it.

and the rattling of pills as the colours melted into

each other.
That night when the uniforms came through the
door I grabbed Tollidays arm, scared they'd think
the myopia that made my pupils dilate was the
result of uppers, that Id end up in Bow Street. The
Who, rough rambling and crashing out their protest,
the Union Jacks on their kit like flags of rebellion
against authority. The kids always knew what that
was all about. The kids were The Who, The Who
were the kids.

He lived in Petes garret studio in Wardour Street

and some nights wed be up there Tolliday playing
DJ behind the tape deck; Chris Welch, then a new
Melody Maker staffer, already benign, a frustrated
drummer; me rocking in a chair. The Three
Musketeers, said Welch lovingly drinking
together, singing together. Bobby Darins Splish
Splash, Eddie Cochrans Summertime Blues,
throating out against the soundproofed walls where
Townshend was already laying down tracks on his
own, building a recording style he was to follow
through the years, do-it-yourself songs so the band
had practically complete demos to work from.

There is a fight going on over here. It rages with

silent and grim determination on my left. Fists fly
into soft bodies which eventually crunch to the floor,
skidding to a bumpy halt at my feet. A few seconds
pass. Then people dust themselves off and retrieve
a foothold on their seats. The backrow of the
audience settles back down. The two rows involved
are made up of boys in their 20s, unstartling in their
sweaters and jeans. They could do anything during
the day mechanics, dustmen, office workers,
gravediggers even there are no outward signs of
individuality at all. Tonight Monday night in
Manchester they are Who fans.

Then the night when too much vodka carried our

enthusiasm away and Welch beat too energetically,
breaking the drum skins, and I crashing it against
my hand put my fist through the tambourine. And
the awful sobering silence and finally nervous
giggling at what wed done up there.
But that was a year later when The Who were Kit
Lambert and Chris Stamps boys, getting money
and their pictures around and fat record contracts.
That night at The Scene was different.

But then so are the kids over there of 16, perched

on one anothers shoulders with their arms raised in
the air; so are the two boys out of their heads, idiot
dancing in aisles, shaking their long hair oblivious to
everything but the music; so are the 14 year old
who wouldnt settle down earlier and kept yelling
out "W-A-L-L-Y!" and then to their friends "Ere
BILL, KENNY!" and are wearing bush hats down
over their eyes; so are the ludicrously overdressed
killer couple who look like theyve strayed off a Roxy
tour; so are the college students; so are the 17 year
olds with Pete Townshend For Prime Minister Tshirts; so are the people from the TV studios with
the overblown accents who keep poking me in the
back and drawling Could you ask those people to
sit down we cant see. Ha Ha.

Tolliday pushing me forward in the line, whispering:

Stop being scared! I didnt know it was showing.
My hand is grabbed, stamped. Stepping through the
doors into strange eerie yellow light. Watching it
pick out my glowing hand, revealing the number, my
ticket. The heat unbearable. All round the walls kids
standing spaced-out, glazed. Sunday night after 50
hours without sleep. Handfuls of uppers red pills,
blue bombers. They started on Friday night. Went
home, washed, dressed carefully, ate a last meal
with their families, came in on their scooters. Their
families never saw them again until Sunday night
when they came back collapsing, ill, jagged, sore,
late for school or work the next morning and not
giving a damn. Their own protest. To prove they
were alive, mattered.

What was it Pete Townshend said last year? That

he didnt know where his audience came from
anymore?
"I dont think weve lost that one-of-the-lads things.
I think were just as reflective of our audience now.
Its the same kids, they're just older. Plus the
younger ones come in because they want to know
what its all about. When I was a kid anyone over 25
was ready for geriatric as far as I was concerned.
Now kids are more mature, more aware. They read
a lot about The Who, there's a curiosity to see what
all the fuss is about, why there are books written
called The Who, what's it all about."

They started in The Scene and used it as a base for

parties or trips to Hastings and Brighton where they
terrorised the town, got their pictures in the News
Of The World. 15, 16, 17 year olds chasing big
rockers until their bikes hurtled over the cliffs out of
control, making their frustrations felt.
Police raided The Scene every night those weekends. And The Who played up there in the steam

789

Keith Moon, October 1, 1975.

others by the mixer for an hour. The only faces he

knows tonight in the midst of roadies, cameramen,
reporters, sound crew and record executives, are
the ones up on stage the ones that speak a
language he understands.

"In London that identification is strong because

thats where the Mod thing happened. Even if
people werent Mods they saw it happening. In the
provinces its more that the people know what it was
all about, they can relate to it, though maybe not
quite so heavily. Like you ask a guy in England why
does he dig The Who so much? Hell say because
of when he went to Brighton or Hastings on his
scooter thats why. I know. I used to do all that go
down to Brighton Dome and sit through them doing
Smokestack Lightnin for three hours" Bobby
Pridden, Who sound man.

Daltrey is up there, looking like the Artful Dodger

cloth cap, muffler against the chill night air.
No one knows what its like, he sings,
To be a bad boy, to be a sad boy, behind blue eyes.
Godfrey stares, his eyes search out Rogers face.
"Theyre good," he says nodding towards the stage.
"Theyre really good they are." Its the one firm
commitment hes made.

"We were worried about the stage before the tour

about how it looked. Dropped it anyway in the end.
Look, it dont matter. The kids dont care. They
come to see us thats all. They know were not the
Stones with all that flash gear. Were the Oo. Thats
all they want, thats what its all about."

Zig zags of light flash and pop round my head

orange, red, green, red, red, orange and
simultaneously the sound erupts and the mike flex
starts being spun. Round and round, faster and
faster, wider and wider like a whip cord. A thought
good God! if one day he missed it and it came back
into his body, he could get killed right there in front
of us. Speeding up before it ties in with the burst of
energy that smacks out across the auditorium. . .

Roger Daltrey.
"Those kids started out with their identities the
Who audience. A whole movement with its own
uniforms and language, its own drugs like pills and
drinamyl very up, speedy stuff, very outgoing.
Then acid came along and loss of identity. Now
kids dont have it anymore. The only ones that can
cut it are the spade kids these days."

Im FREE, the scream of joy.

Im FREE.

Peter Meaden, ex-Who manager.

The Belle Vue roof trembles.

Godfrey is 14 years old and Godfrey is black. Tiny,

skinny, he wears black jeans, a red shirt and a black
jacket. He stands very still by the mixer board at
Shepperton studios, just staring. The Who are
rehearsing two days before their British tour starts
at Stafford. Godfrey and five other kids have been
invited to come along and watch. Godfrey is
classed and delinquent. He has caused trouble at
every school hes gone to, become unteachable
constantly kicking against authority, quietly
rebellious. He and the others now go to a special
school in Battersea called Gideons set up to try to
teach them something before they get thrown out
into the world. The Who have strong ties with the
school and go there to talk to and play for the kids.
"Little bastards," Townshend sums them up, not
unfondly.

Roger Daltrey bends his head, raises it hard, his

legs march in time. . .
Right behind you, I see the millions, on you, I see
the glory.
Daltrey is bathed in light, a suede jerkin closed in
round his chest. From where I stand he looks huge,
a colossus of bulging muscle and strength. Really
its an optical illusion transmitted through lights and
sound and the very fact that hes so sure of himself
and his control of the stage and the audience. Hes
so certain of where his strength lies now.
Outside the Whos dressing room at Ready Steady
Go! Always like this this hesitancy. Talk to other
journalists about it, they think Im mad. Maybe.
Always thinking maybe they dont feel like talking.
Knocking on the door only a fly could hear it.
Waiting. . . Vicki Wickham rushing by with her clip
board, cheerful, breathless. Like a schoolgirl
thundering in from hockey practice, shouting hello
love, how am I, sorry she cant stop.

At the moment Godfrey feigns disinterest. He

refuses to be impressed. Says he only came
because he though there might be a TV and he
could watch the Ali fight. He wanders round the cold
lot taking it all in, pretending not to. Then, getting
scared in a strange environment, he stands with the

790

Vicki, who went on to prod Labelle into action in

America, starving in New York to prove they could
be the greatest liberated womans band in the
world. Doing it too. Saying then, her voice drifting
off round the corner, why didnt I just go in?
Opening the door to Townshends cheery Hi,
Moons bear hug.

He can be a mean sod on stage. But when hes not

working, the mans a gentleman."
Bobby Pridden.
"When I took this job I asked someone what
happens if Townshend hits me? Opinions seemed
to vary. Some said hit him back. Others said just
take it he always apologises later. Its just the
pressure that gets him. Im really excited being on
the tour, being with The Who. Right now were
taking bets on when the first guitar goes. I reckon
its going to be in Glasgow."

Then Daltreys closed up angry face looming.

Pushing past me, thank God. Anything rather than
talk to Daltrey. Unhappy at home with a first
marriage going wrong, miserable, insecure, with the
band. Terrified he was inadequate for the job. What
was he contributing? Couldnt write like Pete,
couldnt play like Keith or John. Not even a great
singer. Every day worried this could be it, out
tomorrow on the streets and what then? Back to the
sheet metal factory?

Alan, responsible for Townshends eight guitars on

tour.
They dont go tonight at Manchester but these days
its not necessary. Its enough the get the windmill
arm going, striking those chords. And these days
theres so much more power within the band, its so
much more a complete sonic steamroller with less
spotlighting of Townshend alone. Maybe too theres
not so much violence to come out. In the old days
everyone was angry, they were all at it.

This guy next to me must be one of Manchesters

great loonies. He really sobs as he acts out
Daltreys voice: See me ( his fingers touch his eyes)
Feel me (his arms stretch out) Touch Me (his hands
clasp his own arms). The reason Daltrey has this
power now is at least partially due to Tommy, a role
securely his own through two albums and a film.
What its done for Daltrey works against
Townshend. Tommy has always been his albatross.

Coming in from the warm street to the Bag O Nails

heat ray straight between the eyes. Wondering how
many would survive the night, sweat already
soaking our clothes to us, making our hair stick to
our necks, making the air heavy, no oxygen at all.
Someone heaving me up on their shoulders so I
could see the stage, everyone excited, talking about
this for weeks now. Over there Pete Townshend
laughing, expectant. Next to him Eric Clapton just
back from Europe and looking so beautiful it takes
my breath away.

Townshend is doing the perfect take-off of

Townshend tonight. He brings to mind every flash
bulb picture ever taken, every key piece of Who film
ever shot. He does scissor jumps on the left of the
stage to indicate the end of numbers, or he trips
backwards on his heels through the harmonica
build up of Baba ORiley. I cant remember
Townshend ever looking any different, no deep lines
on that face even though the responsibility has
always weighed on him the most. It is Townshend
who presents The Who to the people.

Then the club darkening and the first searing notes.

The spotlight flickering by and finally finding the
young shy black guy, black genius. Then picking his
guitar with his teeth, his teeth! Hurling it into the
mike stand, making it scream wailing his torment,
sawing it until the notes become pain. One minute
an extension of his body and the next treating it with
hatred. Me shaking up there, terrified, elated at the
same time. Knowing something special is
happening. Seeing Townshend suddenly grabbing
Claptons arm both of them two young white
guitarist raised on blackmans blues suddenly
acknowledging the young black hero who has taken
it all so much further and Townshend saying "Oh
yeah!" to Clapton. "Oh yeah! Add the two of them
hugging each other in the sweaty tiny room while
we are all cheering and laughing and crying.

The package has been his concern for 12 years

now the combined experience through drugs and
religion to some kind of understanding, the parallels
between the audience and Townshend, the way to
give this on record plus the growth of the best live
band around. Its something he can never escape.
The result is schizophrenia of good guy / bad guy
that has him violently reacting, quite cruelly at
times, or just withdrawing. There are patches in
between of some tranquility. But it makes him a very
complex man.
"He gave me that look tonight. Right in the middle
when I thought everything was going so well. I
looked up and it was lip reading time. I knew what it
meant. It really brought me down for a moment.
Then I got back to what I was doing, forgot about it.
I have to. Im used to it but it still hurts sometimes.

Now he introduces his albatross. Its the first time

The Who have played it on stage for five years.

791

Townshend has had to live with this monster. He

has pushed it out and away from The Who so that
he could do Whos Next, Quadrophenia and Who
By Numbers, but somehow it stays as a particular
zenith. Now he seems more ready to accept it and
give it to the audience as it was meant to be heard.
Oddly though, its a treatment now, gains strength
and power from its interim treatments. Daltrey learnt
to sing it best with Reizner however overblown
the production and learnt to become it better with
Russell. Townshend seems always to be in
particular confusion about it. One minute excited
about someone taking it on and treating it
differently, the next hes disappointed, let down by
the results. Its as though its always an anti-climax.

laughing, small-talking. Townshend over there

pacing nervously, edgy on the plush carpet. Even
Moon saying calm down. No sign of Russell or
Stigwood. Townshend more alone than ever before.
Going up asking "Are you OK?" Grey-faced, staring,
trying to say, "Yes, OK," and not making it. In the
dark later, hearing him groan: "The sound, my God
the sound!" Rushing out to try and fix it.
Back again, feeling the twitch behind me right
through, realising that its pure fear, his neck on the
line again. Thinking myself that its pretty
underplayed for Russell, not totally satisfying, the
end not working at all. Realising the shadowy figure
behind me is beyond such reason a perfectionist
always but betting he stood back all the time they
were working on his baby.

But more than that Townshend has always had this

peculiar habit of liking his ego brushed and then
pulling out at the last minute to let someone else
get on with it all. Almost as though, if it doesnt work
he can say it isnt anything to do with him. And yet
knowing, in the end, it will always be associated
with him so he might as well get fully involved in the
first place. He talks into Tommy tonight... and when
he mentions the film its almost with a sneer.

"And now," Pete is on mike doing a perfect Sellers

impersonation, "please listen to those Entwistle type
chords."
The growling lines of Heaven And Hell, one of
John Entwistles rare contributions to the Who set,
start up. Entwistle is a real enigma. Every band has
its own Ox, and normally its the bass player who
remains this shadowy personality, on stage and off.
Almost a rule of the game. And its odd, when the
bass and drums are the heartbeat of all bands.

"Eer, Valentine, what are you doing standing on

street corners!" Head up, pulled out of a daydream.
What...? Standing in Wardour Street thinking will I
get home? So tired, all I want is a taxi, the great
extravagance after a day of mental turmoil.
Wondering do waitresses, physically exhausted,
feel as lousy as I do after a brain-bashing nine
hours? "Youll get into bother standing there."
Looking. Only seeing traffic jam of cars from here to
Oxford Street and then a head poking out of a taxi
window, a grin. "Pete!" Hurried, confused,
discussion over the horns and exhaust fumes.
Finally a comic shrug of hands in noncomprehension and the door thrown open. Flinging
myself into the cold leather, feeling an odd
excitement coming from him normally so cool on
the surface. "Im off to see Ken Russell." Jolt. Ken
Russell? "I think," slowly now. "I think hes going to
film Tommy." Mind reeling. God Russell filming
Tommy. Words tumbling out, so pleased, especially
after Lifehouse not coming off, so great to hear it,
Pete. Inside though, uneasy, finally after all the
grinning, vocalising the worry. If Russell can turn
Strauss and Tchaikovsky into orgies of sadism and
erotica what the hell will he do to this open to all
kinds of abuse as it stands. Will Pete get very
involved? "Well," cheery, hopeful, "quite a bit on an
advisory level," he thinks and certainly on the music
side.

Sometimes, like tonight, I hardly notice his physical

presence at all amongst the leaping of Townshend
and Daltrey and Moon. But when I do its to notice
that the poker face hardly seems to register at all.
Every so often Townshend has thrown him a
worried look during the harmonies on Were Not
Going To Take It. Ouch flat beyond words. And
Entwistle just calmly throws the look back in a "it
could be you that came in on the wrong note," vein.
He may appear to his audience to be just an
indispensible strength to this band, a slightly bland
personality compared to the others, but theres
more to anyone than just shadow boxing. Off stage
the Ox indulges in a few antics with Moon never
quite going over the top with the same abandon.
Sometimes hell flash a smile when you least
expect it. Often, unexpectedly, Entwistle can react
with surprising malevolance.
Daltrey telling him he played too loudly during Im A
Boy. Now listening at the rehearsal break at
Shepperton to talk of backstage passes for Friday
night, saying he hasnt got his pass yet. The tone is
cynical. Difficult, as always, to assess if hes joking
or not. Adding: "Still Im only the bass player and I
play too loud." Nothing escapes that mind.
Laughing when Roger said it but obviously more

Elton John, Tina Turner, Entwistle, Ann-Margret all

drinking in the hospitality room back of the New
York cinema. Together for the pleasure premiere,

792

hurt, or it could be an act, this grudge-bearing, an

image hes grown into almost as though its
expected of him. Wasnt always though.

Harvey Goldsmith, promoter for the Whos 1975

tour.
"Hello isnt that the Whos drummer, Keith Moon?
Bleedin ell lets get out of here. Hes bloody mad
he is."

Remembering that time years ago writing this

damn silly piece about The Who and their women in
Disc. Under orders, complaining it was beneath me,
rubbish. Still doing it. Eventually not too
complimentary about Entwistles domestic set-up.
After that him not talking to me for four years
walking out of rooms when I came in. Deliberate,
energy draining. Townshend laughing when I told
him, saying cheerily: yes, he certainly held grudges,
did John. Backstage at Manchester, for no reason,
shattered when Entwistle uses me thoughtlessly to
show off in front of someone. Making me wonder if
even after all these years hes really forgiven.

Four boys in Park Lane at dawn stopping to aid a

chauffeur in distress at Moons hands (Moon under
mistaken impression the man was in his car).

Townshend dances across the stage and says:

"Look I just want to get something straight tonight
were not doing Bellboy."

"Im not a violent man, you know that. But theres

something about touring, something about the
pressure even. Ive picked up on it. I remember
when we did those gigs at Madison Square a year
ago. I knew they werent good, we all knew it. I got
so depressed afterwards. I remember sitting
slumped in a chair back at the hotel and suddenly
flinging a glass through the window. Chucking it as
hard as I could, hearing the crash... just a release
really."

"Boo!" 3,000 play the game.

Bobby Pridden.

"Cos," baleful look behind him "Keith Moon

doesnt sing well enough."

"I dont know if Im mad. Violence. . . the first time I

played with the Who I smashed the drum kit up.
Sometimes I do things because it all gets up my
bloody nose. I hate poseurs and ponced up
bastards or people trying to rook me so. . . lets face
it Ive never been any different. Just now more
people know about it and I do it in flashier places."

Applause, cheers, hisses, laughter.

Moon enters into the spirit of the occasion, first
raising a fist, then looking crestfallen. Moons role is
perfectly defined on stage the loveable fall guy.
The audience has always known it sneakingly
aware that there is also an inner violence behind
the comic facade that his both attractive and
frightening. Going through two hours on stage, he
smashes, torments his drums, tosses the sticks with
a swiftness of hand that wouldnt disgrace a worldfamous juggler. Moon makes it all look too easy and
nobody credits him between the Gene Krupa licks
and the cymbal brushes with being a much finer
musician.

Keith Moon.
That night at the Kensington Palace Hotel it was
OGrady who got the worst of it. OGrady sailing
proudly round rooms instilling awe into people who
only saw the exterior haughtiness of the strawberry
hair and the lift of her chin. Thought her
unapproachable. Never knew her bizarre sense of
humour, her attitudes from another century. How
lost she sometimes became when she found under
the shine of rock and roll there was no real glamour,
no graciousness, no real romance at all. Moon
knew, but even he messed it up that night.

To start with it was Pete and Keith that had the most
identifiable personae to an audience. Over the
years Daltrey and Entwistle caught up but Moon
stays ahead on the outrage stakes his exploits in
hotels the world over reported with lip-smacking
fervour by journalists. Off stage Moon presents a
consistent character. He encompasses feelings of
aggravation, worry and affection. On stage,
especially when hes messing up Fiddle About to
such an extent its a series of terrifying hideous
cackles, you get the feel the audience arent sure
that hes not quite seriously mad.

Tolliday and I already heady after the Rolling

Stones concert at the Albert Hall. Ike and Tina
opening up, electric, Tinas lioness kick followed by
Jaggers sexual prowl and pounce. Reeling into the
party afterwards at the hotel. Seeing Townshend
and Moon across the room. Shyer, more wary of
them than the Stones then. Been with Mick and
Charlie eating fish and chips in the limo going to
gigs. Later to be a role reversal as the Stones got
more dangerous, the Who more loveable, but then
nodding, only two years after The Scene. Later all

"If I didnt treat all this as a laugh, all this business,

Id go bloody mad."

793

dizzy on wine, Moon coming up lovingly to OGrady,

wanting to make her laugh.

Coming into tour promotion via Sussex University

Harvey is now one of Britains best promoters with
six major tours on the road in the next two months.
Short, stocky, unflappable, tough when it counts,
Goldsmith keeps the perfect balance between being
one of the boys and the man who holds it all
together. "Ive never seen," he says with something
bordering on amazement, "a band more ready to
get on that stage than they were on Friday night
when it started."

Arriving with a tray, a glass, a napkin over his arm,

bowing solemnly saying: "Your drink." OGrady
playing the game lifting the glass crammed with
flower heads stolen from the table decorations. "A
Pimms Modom hope its to your like." Scraping,
groveling, down on the floor. OGrady and he lost in
their own world, a secret in the middle of Jonathan
Kings prolificating and Andrew Oldhams Phil
Spector impersonation and Kit Lamberts flustering
reeling into the Ladies by mistake and then trying,
gentlemanly as ever, to bust up a fist fight between
a husband and wife going on with grim intent under
Tina Turners startled face.

The morning buzzes with gossip about a 4th floor

riot last night started by Moon and taken over
finally by the roadies.
Its hard to tell who did what, but the results are:
one bedroom door smashed in; one whole floor
flooded; one girl found naked in the hall at dawn
covered-in shaving foam. The NMEs reporter Roy
Carr reports he was woken up and told he wasnt
allowed to sleep when everyone was having so
much fun, Melody Maker 's photographer, Robert
Ellis, says his camera was still clicking somewhere
on automatic it seems at 5 a.m. Silently, I bless
the reservation desk for my first floor room.

Then too much drink in us, all staggering to the

door at dawn. OGrady holding hers best as usual
until she reached the top of the steps. Then Moon,
full of thoughtless aggressive affection flinging
himself out of the shadows on to her. Such force.
Pushing her down a flight of 20 stone steps outside.
Screaming, crunching of bones on the pavement,
finally rolling into the gutter. Me, horror-struck at the
top, watching in slow motion. Finally making it down
there and Moon leaping to his feet cackling, off into
his car and away.

Bobby Pridden remembers finally sliding down the

wall at dawn protesting his staying power as a raver
to the lilt of Moon singing Help. He woke up hours
later to a rendition of Beatles hit number 103.

OGrady dishevelled, hurt in the gutter, pride

shattered, a prop for lunacy. Saying, "stupid fool!"
as though it was a child. Brushing herself down,
angry then how dare he go off and leave her like
that, she could have been dead for all he knew? But
even afterwards, meeting him with the same smile
saying he was just a soft puppy dog really, couldnt
help it. She likes him always. He was as eccentric
as she was.

At some point Entwistle and Moon played cricket

with rolls and empty champagne bottles. Moon also,
it seems, practiced his trapeze act on the
chandelier. Doug, Daltreys PA, a chatty friendly guy
with that same noticeable extrovert quality that the
entourage shows with none of the normal jive, close
to a star attitude, says Curbishley remarked last
night that Moon must be getting older. "Says he
distinctly saw him test his weight on the chandelier
before he swung on it!"

Its Tuesday morning at the Excelsior Hotel,

Manchester. Owned by Fortes, masters of
expedient mass catering, the hotel is slap next to
the airport and the only one in Manchester that will
have the Who. Im woken up by a plane taking off in
my head plus the unpleasant memory of a 2 a.m.
toasted cheese sandwich with the plastic wrapper
melted into it. I also have a sore head thanks to the
hotel air conditioning and general tour malaise. The
bright morning sun pinpoints the anonymity of a
stereotyped hotel room. Once again my general
sympathy for rock and roll musicians on the road
increases.

Despite Harveys head and Carrs protestations last

night seems less dangerous than many rock n roll
debacles. More like a Boys Own romp. Still, the
woman who comes to clean my room isnt used to
rock n roll and finds it all disturbing.
"Did you hear about last night," she says wagging
her head in disapproval. Tired out by her 16th room,
the abuse of hotel property does not sit kindly on
her hard-working shoulders. "Arent they silly. I
mean, theyre not kids any more and they only have
to pay for it. What good does it do?"

Harvey Goldsmith sits at the breakfast table behind

dark glasses. He seems to be transfixed by a glass
of orange juice. Morning, Harvey. A groan,
Goldsmith, in his Who By Numbers T-shirt and Rick
Wakeman jacket, was up with Moon last night.

Understandably its beyond her how Moons

frustration finds its release, how these days the
roadies are left to pick up on it all and carry it to its

794

logical conclusion. I bet sometimes shed like to

throw the odd ashtray through the window if only
she could afford it.

sleepy voiced, "Mmm?" "Hello. Penny? Its Nancy."

Breathless air of panic.
Nancy. . . thought she was going to New York this
evening sailing on the Queen Elizabeth, returning
to America to open the Whos office there. Tall, quiet
Nancy giving up the England she loved to build The
Who into something big from New York a city her
soft Mid-West psyche fights to survive in.

Bill Curbishley looks fragile. the Whos acting

manager since Lambert and Stamp disappeared to
America and France respectively Curbishley is a
good-looking Cockney. Insular, slow to warm he has
come into rock n roll rightfully suspicious of the
games people play in what is, after all, now just
another facet of a business, with all its power trips
and false bonhomie. The kind of man who may
finally make the Who rich after all these years.

"Nancy! I though you were..."

"Yes, its OK. Calm down." No, shes not going to
miss the boat. Admonishing, gently, my lack of faith.
Just needing some assistance to get everything
down to Southampton. Consternation when I get to
the seedy hotel in Paddington and find her in the
basement room that dark wintry afternoon noon,
helpless, hopeless despite the telephone calm.

Daltrey is still in bed sedated by a local doctor

rushed in last night after the singer had complained
he couldnt breathe, that his lungs were congested.
A planned press conference is called off. Curbishley
expresses a kind of paternalistic anger at Daltreys
illness: "He had this bloody cold last week and had
to call off rehearsals twice. Then what does he do?
Marches round his farm in the pouring rain, silly
idiot."

"This lot." A wave of an arm, dejected. "How do I get

this lot on board? Surrounded there, engulfed by 20
or 30 carrier bags: Who photographs, biogs, facts
discographies, a jumble of promotion on a band
hardly known there. And Nancy struggling with them
up the gangplank, me trying to make jokes. How
ridiculous arriving on a luxury liner with carrier bags,
the crew loving it after the lines of endless Gucci.
Then in her cabin giggling stupidly at the task
ahead Nancy Stumped on her bunk saying no,
meaning yes, she could do it.

Townshend is the only one of the group not staying

in the hotel. He came up to Manchester last week,
the day after rehearsals, with his wife and kids and
is now staying at a friends house for this leg of the
tour.
"We dont see much of each other now which is a
bloody good thing. Thats what's kept us together
for 12 years without any changes."

Going on from there to break Monty Python against

all odds in American seven years later. After the
Who knowing how to fight, grimly determined
behind that soft exterior.

Keith Moon.
Pete Rudge is deep in conversation with Curbishley
over breakfast. He flew in from America last night to
discuss the American tour. Rudge has moved a
long way since his days as a Track record staffer.
The kid busting with an infectious rock n roll
enthusiasm now bears an air of wealth and
success.

Later a letter saying, "800 middle class American

tourists on board from London to New York now
know about the Who, docking with pictures of the
band in their luggage."
Harvey Goldsmith bursts through the Artists Only
bar door smacking his hands together: "Right lads
lets get going."

Hes tanned and well-dressed, but along with it is a

new twitching speediness and a touch of
Americanese papers his once pure South London
voice. He now lives in New York the most famous
young tour organiser in the world. Rudge has
survived Stones and Who treks that would have
killed lesser mortals, caravanning hundreds of
people through 50 cities with millions of dollars on
his shoulders. Now hes putting together the Whos
sell-out stadium gigs this winter. . .

The roadies swivel in their chairs, beer glasses in

hands, feigning lethargy: "Nah lets leave it til
eight." Harvey laughs, shrugs, has a drink.
The roadies have an easier job tonight the 3,400
watt PA, the scaffolding still set up from Monday
but theyll be sweating it later, up until 4 a.m.
dismantling the gear to get back to London
tomorrow.

Sunday afternoon. The inevitable papers strewn

round my feet. Somewhere a phone is ringing.
Finding it under the colour supplement finally,

795

There are more of them more people to exchange

sweaty T-shirts on stage, to keep the chain of drinks
going but there are still more old faces around
than youd expect to see. In that respect alone the
Who are unique. Ten years ago Wiggy was the only
roadie prematurely bald, possessor of a ginger
wig, he bore the brunt of the bands jokes, an
inexhaustible humour during the worst punch-ups
and squabbles. Now he runs the studios at
Battersea sending out bills with tasteful reminders
pictures of badly-injured people, and a sweet note.
He sports his shiny dome so proudly tonight it takes
me ten minutes to recognise him.

Now its to say the Who are a British institution and

the best rock n roll band in the world.
And how the act is carefully put together with three
highpoints opening on Baba rising to Were Not
Going To Take It falling again and then the end of
Wont Get Fooled Again. Its almost too long at two
hours with so much blinder strength from the start.
But how they have to clown around after the
Tommy set to give the audience time before they
continue.
"The thing is," says the man from Polydor, "they just
cant follow that for me."

Half an hour to go and Bobby Pridden wanders in,

looking lost for the first time. This, he says, is the bit
he hates, the hanging around.

But they do with Summertime Blues, Eddie

Cochrans own protest at the frustration of being
under age for just about any fun and notice how it
fits so much of Townshends work. No band arrives
from nowhere and for the Who Chochran was
always their biggest influence.

Pridden is a small round man with thinning hair and

an air of tireless good temper. Hes been the Whos
chief sound man for six years. Before that he was a
roadie. Pridden learnt his craft from Traffics man,
Albert. "I remember years ago Id always be down
at Traffics cottage and Pete would come to my
house looking for me," he says. "My Mum would
say, Im sorry, Pete, I dont know where he is. He
went out for some ciggies but that was three days
ago. Mad those days were."

"To me, with his low slung guitar, violent brush back
and good-looking aggressiveness. . . it just sold me
on him. Great songs, sold great. He didnt do rock
n roll ballet. He was aggressive sexual. You knew
hed clout you on the head if you got too close to
the stage. Yeah, maybe were sexual in the same
way the boys come to see us to re-assert their
masculinity. But we try and do what he did sell
great songs great."

Hes happy the band have cut out Bellboy after

rehearsals because of the pre-recorded tape it
needed. Hell be working with them this week-end
putting in a couple of new tracks from Who By
Numbers now its gone into the chart.

Keith Moon.
Backstage after the gig Peter Meaden asks if I
remember when he brought the High Numbers first
record Im The Face into the office? Meaden who
went out and found then after hed been slung out
of a Stones reception, saying to Tony hall, "Just you
wait." He knew a band better than the Stones. Lost
them to Lambert and Stamp but now hes back in
the fold managing Steve Gibbons for them.

Out front the second night at Manchester, the fourth

concert in, its like the last night of the tour the way
Daltrey screams out, gives it everything because he
knows hes got seven days to collapse in if he has
to.
Theyre all at a suicide power point, Townshend
even more physically involved tonight finally doing
a jump that arches right across the stage over the
others heads. Pinball Wizard comes out with such
strength the roadies take bets on how long the PA
will last. 3,000 people rise up from the start to
salute but these days its not a threat anymore
theres too much affection and nostalgia thrown in.
There is only one band around who can give them
this feel now.

Reg Taylor getting big plans for the Christmas party

this year for the first time something special.
Holding it in a restaurant and not here in the offices.
Taylor, short plump beaming on us his workers,
his children twisting in his soft leather armchair
rubbing his feet in the deep pile carpet.
Me cynical at my typewriter blowing on my hands to
keep off the cold, freezing up on the sixth floor over
Regent Street, even though all my outdoor clothes
are on. Heating broken down again, banging my
boots against the bare floorboards.

Hit by the way the songs flash at me how

everything Petes written for My Generation until
now has been the same theme. Pete as the Who,
the Who as the kids, the kids as the Who, the Who
as Pete, round and round. And how the kids wear
the Union Jacks patriotically now. Not a dig.

Christmas at Boyfriend and an extra 10 bonus for

a year spent on four money spinners. Taking home

796

9 a week. Despising the plump hand at Christmas

finally outstretched with the white envelope after the
inevitable speech of: werent we all having a
wonderful time? Lurching in the winged armchair
where I was carried protesting I hadnt had a
wonderful time at all and I couldnt bear another
hearty speech and would he just give me the
money and Id go.

a bundle of contradictions, dead ends, clearly

inferior material and flagging intensity though
always popping with random flashes of brilliance.
The question grew from the standard, "Can we do it
anymore?" to the more taxing, "What are we
supposed to be doing anyway?"
The solution they posited at the new Summit in
Houston on the opening date of the first segment of
their U.S. tour was to the point: backbreaking rock
'n' roll will turn the inconsistencies into affecting
irony and bulldoze over any other conceptual
difficulties. The set's reliance on older songs can't
be encouraging to Townshend's creative ego, but
the alternatives more music from Quadrophenia
and By Numbers or quick retirement are bad and
unthinkable. Where these rock 'n' roll senior citizens
found the intensity displayed that night is another
question, but in any case their music hasn't
attacked that powerfully since they were exploding
on America in the first Tommy days.

Head befuddled and angry after Henekeys lunch

time booze up, eye glaring balefully at the picture
behind him his yacht. Angrier this year than ever
before. Two weeks spent arguing over the invite list
that went into hundreds, included the Beatles
such nice lads everyone liked them, even the
Stones because hed heard talk. But no High
Numbers. Definitely not. A nasty, dirty bunch hed
heard who went around smashing things up.
Meaden popping his head round the door a day
later saying hed heard about the party, were they
invited? Dismal, ashamed having to say sorry,
burning with injustice. Meaden saying how hurt
theyd be when theyd found out, how slighted. Not
blaming them. Promising to fight again. Doing it and
losing.

Substitute, Can't Explain, Summertime Blues,

My Generation, Magic Bus, excerpts from
Tommy, three Who's Next numbers reelin' in the
years like that in the glare of the spotlight can be
tedious and tortuous business, but the Who
endowed them all with a lean, genuine vitality, as if
the original spirit of the songs reentered the players
as they churned out chords their hands must form
in their sleep.

No satisfaction gained on the night seeing the

Stones falling in a heap at the door after Jagger
tripped Oldham, flinging flowerpots through the
restaurant window.

Concessions to their high-level status included a

massive lighting setup that would have done an
MGM sound stage proud, and a twice-used laser
beam aurora. Useful and impressive, perhaps, but
not nearly so crucial as Keith Moon's brash
introduction to Tommy ("This is the way we think it
should sound"), the magnificent fusion of power and
irony that propelled My Generation, the sheer
majesty of Won't Get Fooled Again or the fact that
John Entwistle was arrested at the hotel after a
party.

Only some the next year when, finally leaving,

taking my cards along with a deep breath. Going
down the hall for the last time. Hearing Taylor
saying "Isnt it about time we did something big on
this group the Who?"

Penny Valentine, 1975

Pete Townshend dominated the show as never

before, while Roger Daltrey proved to be a virtual
nonentity. Townshend acts the same as always
onstage and it doesn't matter; Daltrey is likewise the
same and it just doesn't make it anymore. His is still
a handsome voice for the Who's songs, but, that
aside, he seemed to be separated from the rest of
the band, isolated in his cell of Adonis poses.
Drifting apart is a more likely prospect than their
killing one another.

The Who Tour: Random Flashes Of Brilliance

Richard Cromelin, Phonograph Record, December
1975
The Who: The Summit, Houston Tx.
HOUSTON, TX. A magic circuit between the Who
and its audience went dead forever when the group
became an institution. Gone were the immediacy
and the tension that bound together the mystique,
and since then the Who and Pete Townshend,
facing the added complication of aging, have been

Another Amazing Journey with the DD&B Kid wasn't

the most promising proposition, but it was in the
middle of Tommyland that Townshend's guitar really

797

began to burn, building to a prodigious peak with

Pinball Wizard.

The Who: The Who By Numbers

Simon Frith, Let It Rock, December 1975

Townshend's presence is still gripping, if not totally

awe-inspiring, and the old moves the twists, leaps
and the windmill arm came along less frequently
than before, and with a bit less demonic
aggression. Still, they regularly hit those deep
nerves that Daltrey's showy prancing never
approaches. One of the Summit's bonuses was a
pair of screens, one at either end of the hall, alive
with vibrant, excellently directed color video images
of the Who. (A mixed blessing actually, for while it
furthered the intimacy of the comfortable 18,000seat hall, the colossal Townshends, Moons,
Daltreys and Entwistles up there were sandwiched
between Coca-cola cups of equal stature and ads
proclaiming, "Serving the Texas Chemical
Industry.")

THE SUNDAY TIMES' recent 'Rock Report' has

been useful just for gathering together in one place
all the clichs of the supercilious school of rock
criticism. I wanted to know the current word on the
Who and sure enough: "Pete Townshend's tragedy
is that he said everything he has to say in his first
half-dozen songs, and has struggled ever since to
accept that fact. His career has embraced both the
most basic and honest side of rock and its most
emptily pretentious and decadent."
You've got to understand the rules: basic = honest =
good; complicated = pretentious = bad. It's not just
that "Eddie Cochran had more to say than Keith
Emerson", what matters is that he didn't know he
was saying it! This is where the rock critic can jump
in and be significant; what Eddie didn't know he
does and what Eddie didn't tell he polishes his
prose on. Who wants to write about all that
intellectual stuff that Bob Harris likes? We want to
apply our minds to the mindless.

The first part of the set was decidedly preliminary

(it's too bad that the slightly sluggish Substitute
and Can't Explain didn't come later when the pulse
was racing). They got Squeeze Box, However
Much I Booze and Quadrophenia's Drowned out of
the way, and Townshend announced that they were
still finding their feet (confirmed by a shaky Boris
the Spider and Tommy's Holiday Camp) but,
shucks, they were sure happy to be back in
America. Benefiting from the momentum that
gathered after Tommy were Generation,
Summertime, Join Together, a delightful
throwaway snatch of Roadrunner and the climactic
Fooled.

Good on the Sunday Times, anyhow. I'm as

supercilious as anyone and if I'd had to review the
Who blind my line would have been just as neat. As
it is, I'm so pissed off that I wasn't even asked to
contribute to the 'Report' that I disagree with
everything They wrote on principle. And so, to start
at the beginning, Pete Townshend has always been
a fake. It's not just that he wasn't a mod and never
lived like a mod his music was false all through.
The most articulate musician ever, got his musical
kicks making Roger Daltrey play dumb; the most
together man in the business took his equipment
apart with a smirk. Basic and honest huh!!

The real coup de grace, though, hinged on restraint

rather than brute force and followed the first encore,
Magic Bus. It was My Generation shifted into
neutral, transformed into a slow, winsome bluesy
shuffle and sung with voices like ghostly echoes
from a faraway past. At once a good-humored lark
and a quietly savage appraisal of the Who and its
audience, this second Generation gently and
tellingly put all the tangled Who questions into
perspective before it thundered to a close with the
prime chords from Can't Explain, Townshend's
grand signature.

The wonderful lie on which the Who is based is that

Roger Daltrey is Pete Townshend. Daltrey may be
making the noises but the voice we hear is
Townshend's. No other group carries such a
tension. Townshend has a vision and he can't
realise it himself (just listen to his solo album)
because he isn't a rock'n'roll band and his visions,
like those of any other fan, come complete with
golden vocalist, mad drummer, cool bass and an
agonized longing to be the Rolling Stones. The
tension still, ten years on, comes out on stage:
Townshend's in control and in awe, it's his music
but not his band, relax and he'll be back in the
middle stalls where he belongs. John Entwistle's
cartoon for The Who By Numbers is touching:
Townshend stands above the others like a puppet
master, hand out-stretched, but he's got no strings!

Like Dylan singing It's All Over Now, Baby Blue at

Newport, that finishing touch suggested either
impending upheaval or a coming end. But on the
Who's stage there were no tears, and if no answers
were offered, there had at least been this relief: The
Who, Townshend and his generation might be older
and slower, but all involved can forget it and kick
like mad. For a couple of hours, anyway, the kids
are alright.
Richard Cromelin, 1975

798

From the beginning the Who acted at being the rock

group they really were. Daltrey had to sing from the
script not the heart and Tommy wasn't a new
development, just a long one the Who have
always told stories. The decline of Who music since
then (on record live they've got tenser and tenser,
better and better) hasn't been because Townshend
got pretentious, but because he got cynical like
any other surviving rock fan he won't get fooled
again, rock ain't going to save his life and
sometimes, in his Richmond Studio, Meher Baba
smiling down, kids on the lawn, he can't remember
why his band seemed so necessary, what part they
played for him. And the music isn't convincing then,
not until he's joined together on stage and the old
adrenalin (and the old songs) flow. And what's
worse, what was so frustrating that good old Pete
even became bitter, was that when he did
remember the words, the tunes wouldn't come.
That's been the real trouble during Tommy and
since. Simple really. Townshend ran out of melody.

never been so disciplined and dexterous, Moon

never so crisp, Entwistle so subtle. Townshend's
own guitar flows rather than churns, double tracked,
acoustic even. 'They're All In Love' is constructed
like a folk song; 'Blue, Red and Gray' could have
been written by David Gates; the Who are quite
often pretty.

The Who By Numbers isn't a triumphant return or

anything like that but it is full of hope, and it is
Pete's Progress. We've all been wondering (him
too) what he'd do if he didn't die before he got old
(30, that is) and the answer, a bit reluctant, is here
learn, relax, grow wise. The album opens with the
reluctance: The 'Slip Kid' has an old-style mod
frustration, got to get out of growing up but "there's
no easy way to be free"; 'However Much I Booze'
there's no way out except 'Dreaming From The
Waist' but these days, these dreams ("I wanna
speed all night"), you can't quite live and a new
dream starts repeating "of the day when I can
control myself", when the dream matches the
reality.

The Who on the Beach

I hope the Who make another album real soon

this one is transitional. I listened to it hard enough
to hear the hope (and after Quadrophenia I didn't
think I'd listen hard to the Who again) but the music
still isn't urgent (no hit singles here). Townshend's
task is to given an edge to this easy new Who
they ain't going to be punks any more but they
could still be angry, could still tell us stories like no
one else. It's gonna need good tunes, though, and
that's where my doubts lie. Don't take any notice of
all that shit about your vision, Pete, get humming.
Simon Frith, 1975

Michael Gross, Rock Magazine, 1976

THE POOL AREA of The Doral Hotel on Miami
Beach was virtually empty. A few children splashed
in the water, a small group of double-knit polyester
people sat on chaise longues, chattering away in
the sweltering, humid air left behind by Hurricane
Belle as it passed through two days before.
One or two geriatric cases hobbled around the pool,
as did a few deeply tanned lifeguards. But, mostly,
the area sat empty, avoided by the hotel guests in
Miami in spite of the August heat. No cool dips in
the pool for them: not when air conditioning was
only a few steps away, shooting out dry, cold
embalming gusts that wouldnt frizz a $60 frosted
hair-do, pull the creases out of a highly starched
pair of white "beach" pants or turn white patentleather loafers into a matched pair of sweaty
swamps.

By side two Daltrey is singing with the confidence of

age "Goodbye all you punks, stay young and stay
high" a wry acceptance of the world, knowing and
puzzled:
There's a man going through your dustbin,
Only this time he's looking for food,
There's a tear in his eye, you don't know him,
Oh, but you know what he's going through.

On the far side of the pool, well protected by banks

of unoccupied lounges, sat Roger Daltrey and John
Entwhistle of The Who, surrounded by a healthy
group of what appeared at a distance to be
employees, a wife or two, and several admirers.
Entwhistles face was bright red, and occasionally
he shaded it with dark glasses or a hat. He seemed
out of place among the deeply tanned group, with
Daltrey, holding the title for deepest tan, at his side.
Rogers hair was swept back from his face as he
sat in a blue bikini suit, staring into the sun. From
across the pool, one could imagine the group as
characters in some minimal French novel one by

Daltrey's confidence is Townshend's the old

double act. The nicest song on the album, nice
because it's so confused, is 'How Many Friends
(Have I Really Got?)' the lyrics are full of doubt
("we talk so much shit behind each others' backs")
but the performance is sure: Daltrey doesn't sound
worried for a moment, only friends could play so
easily with him. Ease is the word. The Who aren't a
punk rock group, they're a skilled and fluent band.
Townshend's got to write them new parts and this
album is the first sound of what they'll be Daltrey's

799

Alain Robbe-Grillet, perhaps with the heat

causing warped air patterns around them,
concealing and revealing levels of identity as one
piece of atmosphere moved out of the way and
another slid into its place.

"I took a real chance by answering Pete that way,

with another interview," Daltrey told the Miami
Newss Jon Marlowe. "But I sat there and I read
what he said and I just had to do something. In my
eyes, Pete was wrong. Ive never looked at The
Who in terms of age, and, hey, Im the oldest one in
the band. Besides, at that point, the band was
almost over anyway, so it really was a final move in
hopes of saving everything." In the crazy-quilt
logical whirl of rock and roll, Daltreys tactic worked,
and The Who launched a tour based around their
then-new LP which sent most critics into paroxysms
of delight, and most fans running to the local
Ticketron outlets and record stores. A whole new
generation of fans, blissfully unaware of The Who
outside of Terrible Tommy, discovered that The Who
were one of the worlds best rock bands, and that
matinee-idol Daltrey was also a hell of a front man,
with a dynamism that Ken Russell could never have
caught on the limiting surface of a piece of film.

There was none of the rowdiness expected from a

touring English band. In fact, they might all have
been happily strung out on hospital-strength antidepressants (the kind Vietnam vets take to make
them overwhelmingly placid) as they sat and
chatted, occasionally walking to the pool and
dangling their ankles in the warm water, or waving
for a waitress to bring another round of pina colada.
Townshend was nowhere to be found. Moon had
checked out of The Doral and moved elsewhere, for
no apparent reason. A group of writers from New
York had been flown in, but the group displayed no
interest in talking to them, and one pop magazine
editor, when asked about potential interviews with
the band, had replied, "Why bother?"

Age had appeared to be the problem, but according

to John Entwhistle, it really doesnt matter a bit: the
malaise the group faced lyrically with By Numbers
was just that: lyrics to more great Who songs.
"None of us is obsessed with age," he said. "Its the
people who write about us who are obsessed with
it. Were not as old as The Beatles. Were not as old
as The Rolling Stones but they dont figure into it.

It was simply taken as an accepted fact that the

band would not consent to interviews, and no one
really seemed to care. The sun was worming its
way into their pasty New York complexions, and,
instead of an atmosphere of freaky holiday, the air
breathed quiet, middle-aged vacationing. When
Daltrey strolled towards the group of writers and sat
with them and his English-born, Connecticut-raised
spouse, Heather, he did nothing to dispel that
impression.

"Tommy, the impact of that, used to hold us back,"

The Ox went on. "We thought we had to follow it
with something really impressive, but weve gotten
away from that now its finally been exorcised.
Basically we just want to get down to straight
albums now we hadnt done a straight one in
years until By Numbers.

The strange tour The Who were on, playing only

four concerts in three south of the Mason-Dixon
Line cities, didnt seem overly purposeful to Daltrey.
"Were playing the cities we missed when we were
here in the spring," he said, looking up from a copy
of Punk, a hot new fanzine from New York City.
"Just the beach-chair and wheelchair cities."

"Ive no idea how we stayed together," he said with

finality. "We are four separate people, and we
couldnt be more different than each other. But
theres still that pride in what we can do, especially
what we know we can do onstage..."

He paused, and then with a wry smile on his face,

looked up again to add, "No ones allowed to die
until The Who are done playing."

And its certainly onstage that the band shines.

Their best material takes on the added dimension of
emotion, as Daltrey stalks the stage like a caged
cat, Moon flails his drums in a tantrum of excess,
Entwhistle holds down stage right without so much
as flicker of movement apart from his lead bassplaying hands, and Townshend ... for a while it
seemed that Peter Townshend had, in fact, tired of it
all, but The Whos Whirlwind Tour of 1976 can be
safely said to have buried that particularly
depressing rumor, as it buried the memories of
most of the less than great shows and less than
great moments of the last few years, beginning,
many say, with the bands last whirlwind visit to
America when they played four nights running at

The atmosphere of contentment has drifted up on

The Who almost unaware. Only this spring, the
tension in the group appeared near breaking point.
Peter Townshend had given a long interview to the
New Musical Express on the eve of their By
Numbers tour in which he revealed a lot of dirt
about The Who. Fistfights in the studio. Bad vibes
between the members. That kind of thing. He made
it sound like death bells were tolling in Tommys
Holiday Camp. Soon afterwards, though, Daltrey
struck back with an answer interview that took on
both Townshend and the bye-bye Who rumors.

800

New Yorks Madison Square Garden and looked

like a group of once-successful gamblers, ready to
hit the cashiers office for the last time.

cruising all over the stage, but Ive tired of this song
long ago, and realize it introduces the great Who
oldies section.

They somersault onstage and launch into I Cant

Explain before half the crowd realizes they are
there. "Is this the same set as last time they were
here?" the respected rock scribe asked his cohorts
in the press box.

As the opening chords of Amazing Journey from

Tommy rise from the stage, a voice in the press box
shouts in dismay, "SEVEN YEARS" and yes, one
realizes it has been seven years since this weirdly
mod English band first scorched our skulls with the
story of a deaf, dumb and blind boy who seemed
quite, well, "heavy" in those days of incense and
peppermints.

"Its been the same set for the last five years,"
another writer replied.

"You know, its amazing," Daltrey had said. "Here

we were making all these great records and nobody
was listening. And then came Tommy. I mean
Tommy is no great work of art or even a rock opera
or any of that. Thats just rubbish. What it was was
good product. Theres no doubt about that. And the
thing was, it was something you could get behind
business-wise. You know, hype it. I believe in that. If
the product is good, then fine, hype it if thats what it
takes.

"Maybe this time theyll get it right," respected rock

scribe declared, and the assembled press nodded
and chuckled over this pearl of wisdom while down
below, in the muddy pit filled with people, The Who
were doing just alright, and the kids were blissfully
unaware of anything but the soaring music of
Substitute.
By the time they begin My Wife ("Havent done this
in a long time," a professional Who fan mutters), the
band is loose. Daltrey is doing his walk around in
circles, stomping like a frustrated neurotic number,
Townshend is twirling across the stage like a demon
fly struck by Black Flag, and an ambulance is
moving away from the stadium gates, its lights
twirling in a motion that mimics Peter. He answered
the departing ambulance with a modified Soupy
Shuffle, incorporating body english with feedback in
a series of moves that had the press gasping for
breath and the crowd near berserk. One noticed the
looseness, both in his moves, and in the music.
This was not the constricted Who of the last few
tours. Instead, like the circles Daltrey stomped
around the stage, this was a wild free, looping
group, taking strolls on the wild side with reckless
abandon getting away with it.

"We knew Tommy was big but nobody in the group

had any idea of what it was going to turn into, and
when it got that big, people just said, Thats it. The
Who have reached their peak. Theyve gone as far
as they can go. This is it for them. Theres nothing
left for them to do.
"Which really hurt us immensely because the next
album, Whos Next, was a much better record than
Tommy. Theres no question about it. But nobody
wanted to know about it."
But Townshends hooting vocals, his machinedriven instrumental bridge to Acid Queen, his
Chevy Chase pratfalls, Moons driving Uncle Ernie,
a soaring Pinball Wizard and a letter-perfect Im
Free drive the crowd to distraction. By the end,
even the band seems to enjoy it. Daltreys voice has
the old angry edge that once turned to croaks when
it seemed he didnt mean it. Townshend danced
again, during Im Free, seeming pleased to be
doing a song with teeth, and after a short Tommys
Holiday Camp, Were Not Gonna Take It stormed
from the speakers as the kids up front roared, fists
and an Israeli flag (an Israeli flag????) raised high
before the stage.

As Baba OReilly begins, Daltrey blows the first

line and no one notices. His Christ-like poses are
reaching out to the balconies. His operative
adjective is kinetic. The energy is so thick you could
pour it into milk and make it into a lush chocolate
shake. His vocal rises to an impossible range for
Were All Wasted... and he breaks into a harp solo
as Townshend does a jig to the songs end.
"This is a number I sing on ... unlike all the others,"
Moon crows from behind the massive drum kit, and
Behind Blue Eyes pours from the speakers. There
hasnt been a weak spot yet in this fabulous show,
and Dreaming From The Waist, the first number
from Who By Numbers, thus rates as the low point
thus far its far more dynamic on record, and yet
Entwhistles bass lines and Daltreys vocal pull it
out. Magic Bus comes next, with Townshend

As the anthem continued, the kids up front began

crawling up the side of the stage, anticipating See
Me, Feel Me, only to be knocked back to the
ground by the battalion-sized crew guarding the
front of the stage. The best bit of theatre and
special effects in the show was about to come, and
once it started the kids stopped climbing.

801

Blue stage. Red-blue haze and smoke around it.

Green lasers shooting towards the sky. House lights
up: 20,000 kids going totally ape-shit as Daltrey
points to them and screams "YOU!" Lasers are like
a switch that automatically turns a crowd on and
some groups use them when they dont have
enough musical power to get an ovation. The Who,
though, are so strong that the ovation is an eruption
and they dont even leave the stage.

havent played together in six weeks, so well

probably be a little rusty. But real.
"And tonight. Now thats what really matters.
Getting to go up there on that stage."

Michael Gross, 1976

Instead, they break into Summertime Blues, then

My Generation sung to a new generation and they
rock on to a close with the whole crowd smiling and
dancing. Already, here in Miami, its the last show of
this all too short tour before an October sojourn to
the studios for an early 1977 release album that will
coincide with a major tour featuring The Who and at
least one other superstar-status act. Australia and
Japan and South America are on the itinerary, too,
but, as always, with a band as volatile as The Who,
all this is open to change. Daltrey is set to play with
Nureyev in Ken Russells Valentino, but where that
fits in the schedule only God and Roger know...

Who Split? They Can Explain

Cameron Crowe, Rolling Stone, 1 January 1976
HOUSTON The advance word was "shaky."
Roger Daltrey and Peter Townshend were at bitter
odds. Keith Moon was looning dangerously in Los
Angeles, displaying his genitalia onstage with a
group of local weirdos called the Cycle Sluts. John
Entwistle was already a solo touring and recording
attraction. "The Who will never just fizzle out,"
Townshend had ofttimes been quoted as saying.
"They'll go out with a huge explosion." As the band
neared the beginning of an extensive American tour
their first in two years the fuse appeared lit.

With the last chords of We Wont Get Fooled Again

reverberating into the muggy Miami night air, one
had to remember the words Roger Daltrey had told
Jon Marlowe for his pre-show Miami News Who
preview.

But the Who that bounded out onstage November

20th at Houston's 17,000-seat Summit (sold out a
month before in about three hours) delivered the
stunning performance of a band not about to
forsake its 12-year existence. Following the band's
solid one-two opening punch in Substitute and I
Can't Explain, a euphoric Daltrey remarked to the
audience, "Those were a couple blasts from the
past '65 actually; now here's something from '75,"
and the band kicked into their newest single,
Squeeze Box. It was, along with an introduction to
the two excerpts from Tommy, the longest stage
announcement of the evening. And according to
tour manager Peter Rudge, this low verbal profile is
exactly the Who's strategy for survival in the
Seventies.

"Its an intangible thing The Who has," Daltrey

began. "Theres something there but I really dont
know what it is. You see, despite everything else we
do, The Who is our primary importance. It is
Number One with us. Id leave the solo albums and
the movies in a minute if it meant The Who.
"Plus The Who have always kept changing. We
dont smash our equipment anymore. People would
just come to see the last three minutes of our act to
watch us destroy everything. Now weve tried to be
accepted for the music.
"Were trying to get into using lights and lasers now.
We only use the lasers for a few minutes, though.
Weve got a new album were going in to do. Yeah,
theres always something changing with The Who.

"In the past year," Rudge explained, "this band,

especially Townshend, has been very earnest in
trying to explain themselves. As a result, the Who's
private lives, thoughts and insecurities have been
public knowledge. Now, at least for the time being,
they've decided to internalize themselves. You
know, Roger and Peter are closer than they've been
in ten years and there's no reason to endanger
that."

"Ill be honest with you. I was really into that whole

rock-star trip for a while. I was going to a new club
every six minutes. I had to have ten women a night.
I was smoking a pound of hash a day. Oh, I was
bloody awful, I was. The worst of the lot. And then
one day I just woke up and said, What the hell am I
doing this for? This isnt what matters. This isnt
what its all about. What its all about is being up
there on stage. Like tonight, when you see us, we

Translation: little stage patter and absolutely no

interviews. Townshend, long regarded as rock's
most accessible and articulate spokesman,
explained this stance with uncharacteristic brevity:

802

"I think it's time we give ourselves and the media a

bit of a break."

IT'S BEEN said often enough over the last month or

so, but the fact still remains: The Who are still the
best live rock 'n' roll band in the world. That's the
only possible conclusion one can draw after seeing
them on their recent British tour. Their repertoire,
which gets stronger and more diverse as time goes
by, represents the development over the years of
the cream of British rock, their character both as a
band and as individuals is by far the most
interesting and exciting of any British band, and
their sense of aural and visual dynamics is the
result of an unparalleled understanding of the
qualities of both live and recorded performance. In
short, they're brilliant and untouchable.

As the first week of concerts wound its way through

Baton Rouge, Memphis, Atlanta, Murfreesboro
(Tennessee) and Hampton Roads (Virginia), the
show topped itself nightly. There was no instrument
demolition, but the group's legendary acrobatics
Townshend's leaps and spins and ferocious
windmill strums, Daltrey's lasso microphone,
Moon's shattering drumsticks all worked as well
as ever.
Following a tumultuously received set in Memphis,
Roger Daltrey paused backstage to deny previous
observations made in, among other places,
ROLLING STONE. "I'm glad we're breaking up,"
Daltrey said with mock solemnity. "The band would
have never found out otherwise."

My own feelings about The Who, never more fired

with such enthusiasm as they are now, have
undergone a considerable reawakening during the
last two years. Mainly because of my predominant
interest in American music and the general
staleness in the British music scene, I didn't pay
much attention to The Who for a long time. It wasn't
a case of dismissing them or not liking them, but
rather of taking them for granted. They were one of
the first bands I ever saw, and at the time of writing
they're one of the last bands I've seen, and
somehow everything in between seems both
rewarding and yet strangely insignificant. Through
all the trends, phases, and ephemeral styles that
British rock has adopted, absorbed and largely
discarded over the last decade, The Who have
remained THERE, solid and dependable and true to
their own vision of what rock n roll is all about.
They've had their ups and downs of course, as a
group of such diverse characters can only be
expected to have, but while their contemporaries
struggle to achieve equal status and fall down
around them, The Who stay up there almost a
British institution, along with the Stones and the
Kinks.

Daltrey, who seems to have indoctrinated a new

wave of Who fans through his appearances in the
films Tommy and Lisztomania, went on to scoff at
another printed rumor that the Who had rehearsed
their latest album with another, more proficient
drummer than Keith Moon. "There's only one Who
drummer," Daltrey said. "Just one Moon. And any
story that we played with anybody else is a fucking
lie."
On a less combative note: "This is the best tour yet.
No question about it. The last American tour, when
we did all of Quadrophenia, the band was using a
lot of tapes. It was like they were the show and we
were backup. The experience was a good one but it
was deceivingly bad for our morale. It wasn't the
Who that was cumbersome, it was our show at the
time. The concert we do now proves that."
Daltrey went on to insist that the group has never
been closer. "It's a great feeling," he said giddily, "to
be standing onstage and feel the power we have.
We're the best band in rock & roll. And we're going
to stay there. Nothing else matters the films, all
the publicity. Just the music, that's the point of it all.
That rush is too great to give up for anything. We're
all incredibly happy to be back playing again."

The events and interviews in the press (most

notably the NME) preceding the tour and the
release of the new album The Who By Numbers
(Polydor 2490 129) interviews which span
practically the whole of this year led us to believe
that all was far from well within and around the
group. As if this was nothing new, the entire
sequence of events was blown up to the extent
where there was apparently serious concern for The
Who's future. Still, all that turned out to be a load of
old bollocks, happily, and they are perhaps as
strong now as they ever were.

And for tour plans beyond next month? Like in the

spring? Daltrey gulped down a drink. "Just say that
we'll be getting around to everybody."
Cameron Crowe, 1976

Why, I can remember when I was 15, a schoolmate

told me, much to my amazement, that The Who
hated each other's guts; a wild exaggeration I'm
sure, but quite indicative of the sort of image they
generate.

Whos Still The Best Live Rock'n'Roll Band In

The World, Then?
Andy Childs, ZigZag, February 1976

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Yet one feels that they are a great band because of

this and not despite it. When they're up there
onstage they're The Who, a conception so
enormously charismatic that it draws in these four
opposing forces of vastly talented energy and
spurns fourth the greatest rock n roll band there is.
The ultimate even.

on an orthodox lead guitar role than the rhythm-aslead guitar for which he is famous, and most
notable of all, the focal point of the album is the
lyrics. Townshend has obviously had a lot on his
mind over the last year or so and it's provided him
with more than ample subject matter for his songs.
Most of them are particularly personal to him (even
the rest of the band have admitted that they don't
know what some of them are about), and are
seemingly concerned with Townshend's position as
AN IMPORTANT FIGURE IN ROCK ('They Are All
In Love'), and other matters like the bust-up with Kit
Lambert and Chris Stamp ('How Many Friends') that
are hinted at but hardly expanded upon.

Moments of true rock greatness are to be

experienced at a Who concert: Daltrey singing
'We're Not Gonna Take It', Entwistle in the
introduction to 'Pinball Wizard', and one of the most
completely awe-inspiring sensual moments in rock
has got to be the beginning of the final segment of
'Won't Get Fooled Again'. The stage is in darkness,
the synthesizer tape is playing one staccato note,
Moon defines the beat in one short drum roll
creating that feeling of expectancy, starts to play in
again but this time builds it up to a climax at which
point the stage is brilliantly lit and Daltrey, standing
right out at the front with one hand high in the air,
screams a spine-tingling scream of terror and
elation, and Townshend is caught half-way across
the stage at what seems like10 ft off the ground,
striking the definitive rock chord with a malicious joy
and sense of timing that is both graceful and brutal.
One of the finest sights in all of rock.

The opening track, 'Slip Kid', has got to be a single

if they are going to use one, and the rest of the
album, even if it takes a little longer to appreciate
than previous Who records, is of a standard that
should leave Townshend very little to worry about if
he's thinking that The Who are over the top or that
he's too old to rock 'n' roll. If nothing else, it proves
that The Who are a great band not just for what
they've done in the past, or for their image or
reputation, but for what they're doing now and for
what we know they can do in the future.
I've played the album incessantly for over a month,
seen them twice, and I haven't felt so optimistic
about rock 'n' roll for years.

Who gigs are made of moments like these and on

both occasions that I saw them, on the first night at
Stafford and the last night at Wembley, they left me
elated, my head reeling with so much great rock
music and so many dynamic images. Their set on
both nights was a typical mixture of old and new.
They opened with 'Substitute' which along with all
the other pre-Tommy numbers they did stood the
test of time brilliantly. And just to prove that the
original version is still one of the great works in
rock, despite the bombastic lengths to which it's
been exploited, they performed a substantial
medley of numbers from Tommy mostly the more
immediate and dynamic numbers. They also did the
obligatory slices from Quadrophenia and Who's
Next, but perhaps surprisingly they featured very
little from the new album.

Andy Childs, 1976

John Entwistle: Is This The Right Man For
Mayor of Acton?
Jonh Ingham, Sounds, 28 February 1976
'Momma's got a squeeze box she wears on her
chest
And when Daddy comes home he never gets no
rest
Because she's playing all night
And the music's alright
Momma's got a squeeze box
Daddy never sleeps at night
She goes in and out and in and out and in and out
and in and out
She's playing all night
And the music's all right
Momma's got a squeeze box
Daddy never sleeps at night'
'Squeeze Box'

On the first night only 'Squeeze Box' was heard, but

by the final night they'd incorporated 'Dreaming
From The Waist' and 'However Much I Booze' into
the set as well, all of them blending in with the more
well-known numbers perfectly. Which is perhaps a
little surprising, because the new Who album is not
the usual fare that one has come to expect from
them. For its undoubted quality it relies on aspects
of The Who's make-up unlike those mentioned
above. It contains very little of the musical
aggression they display on stage or on earlier
albums, Townshend's guitar playing, while retaining
its essential style and uniqueness, is based more

THE NEWS OF The World would have you believe

those lyrics are as indelicate as R. and J. Stone and
Donna Summer. Double-entendre that should be
banned from the airwaves. They don't seem to

804

realise that it's tame fare for a band whose previous

singles have discoursed upon transvestites and
masturbation. But why take my word for it? Hit it,
John.

His best friend stole one, showed it to the teacher,

and John was ushered before the headmaster, who
instead of caning him gave him a sheaf of papers
and said to perfect it and enter the exhibition.
"Which I won."

"I dunno. Most songs have double meanings or no

meaning at all. It's stupid people trying to find
hidden meanings in Beatles lyrics are long gone.
'Squeeze Box' isn't that dirty. It doesn't say" he
pauses to get the right leer in his voice "tits."

There are no plans for anything like a book, though

the better examples will find wall space in John's
new manse. He's also been working on an adult
fairy story, with his illustrations, though this is
currently shelved.

Not to mention interpretation in America, where

"box" means something else entirely.

"The cover drawing only took an hour, but the dots

took about three hours! I took it down to the studio
while we were mixing and got the worst artist in the
room to fill it in. Discovered I'd left two inside legs
out."

But for those of you hoping, with 'Squeeze Box' a

hit, for a new flow of Who singles, John has some
words. "I'd leave. I just don't like the singles market.
I'm used to concerts and albums. The record
company says the album's going down in the charts
and we need a single to revive interest. So we
release a single and the album goes out of the
chart. I wouldn't mind if we never released another
single, ever."

With the Who an operational unit again, Entwistle's

solo enterprises are in abeyance. Ox came to a halt
due to expense and other reasons, and he wouldn't
organise a band again unless they were name
musicians. The last two years he's been writing "a
concept I won't say opera, because it isn't, it's a
musical story".

And if this is a surprise, he hasn't finished yet.

That has now been shelved in favour of a straight

rock album. (He is careful to differentiate between
this and rock and roll.) "My writing's changed
considerably since the Rigor Mortis days. It's more
like 'Squeeze Box' and 'Heaven And Hell'."

"It's kind of pot luck, that side of the business. You

don't have to be that talented to have a hit single,
whereas you do to have a hit album. It's just a
matter of pride. I hate releasing a poor little song to
compete against football teams, comedians,
wrestlers, one hit wonders. It's degrading. In fact,
having a hit is extremely embarrasing!" He smiles.
"I've heard your single on the radio.' Why aren't they
playing the rest of the bloody album?"

But as I say, the Who are an operational unit. Next

week they start rehearsing for a tour through Paris,
Munich and Zurich, then 14 dates in the States, and
then a month holiday before recording the next
album. They are trying to organise some gigs in
British football grounds in late May, the proceeds
going to charity. "Better than the Inland Revenue
at least we know where it's going.

And later; "I hate singles. I hate the whole thing

about Top Of The Pops." So there's no chance of us
seeing the Who on the show? "The other three can,
I wouldn't."

"We're at a stage now where we enjoy working

again. All we really require is time for rehearsing
and writing, and school holidays. Because we've all
got kids who we only see at that time. So as long as
we have the same time off as teachers..." He smiles
again.

Hmm. Doesn't like singles. What do you think of the

album then?
"The best we've done since the last one." Another
smile escapes. Entwistle's demeanour is
humourous and wry, but he rarely smiles. "I like the
cover. That's pretty good."

John used to work in the Inland Revenue. "I was a

hopeless tax officer." Thoughts of tax and business
occupy him. He points out that one needs to work
five times as hard to double one's money in the
current structure. He presents the old 50% tax and
we'd stay chestnut, but he does anyway, for his
family mostly. And patriotism.

The cover is an example of Entwistle's cartooning

ability; the band and surrounding personnel has
been the source of most of his work the past eight
years. He first started when six or seven, on a class
trip to Dartmouth where they were meant to sketch
the regatta, but John caricatured the teachers.

"And the way I'd want to live in America is a house

in Los Angeles, a house in New York and a boat in

805

Miami." Hearing this whilst propping up the pub-like

bar in a stately home in the middle of Ealing's
suburban glory was a bit incongruous.

hotel detective, also protecting the group, walked

out of the lift and slapped 'cuffs on John.
Sitting in a cell, feeling a flea bite him, he was
questioned by three police women who had been at
the concert and were now after inside info. Then he
was ushered ustairs for a mug shot. A mug shot, fer
chrissakes! Standing on the foot prints, he waited. A
woman stepped up with an Instamatic flash! and
said, "It's for my daughter".

From John's point of view one also gets an

interesting impression of the Who as a business.
Reinvesting profits back into equipment and music
oriented companies, hiring a staff of 50 for a tour
"Which is a hefty cocktail bill' having four of every
piece of equipment.
The lasers were acquired via the interest of studio
manager John Wolf. They're as long as a bar
billiards table and water cooled. At Hammersmith
the Ministry of Defence looked them over and
declared the Who more advanced than they were.

It is not known whether this incident will hinder his

lifelong ambition to be Mayor of Acton.
And that next Who album. It will just be another
bunch of songs?
"I hope so. Otherwise it'll be a couple of years
before we're finished."

And all that stuff gets shipped to America, where the

group are, how you say, huge. There, The Who By
Numbers is doing "reasonably well. It's heading for
a platinum. We have gold for everything since
Tommy, actually. I have about 35 of the things, most
of them under the billiards table because I haven't
any room. We've started getting silver and gold
here as well."

And that next Who album. It will just be another

bunch of songs?
"I hope so. Otherwise it'll be a couple of years
before we're finished."
Jonh Ingham, 1976

On the subject of records, the concept album is not

to be discounted from rearing its head again, but
Entwistle would like to see another live album. "We
sell a lot of records, but compared to some people
they're very few. But as far as stage shows are
concerned, we're more or less the biggest draw
there is." Which you may take as an indication of
quality.

Who, Gibbons Face the Hog Butcher Vibe

Mick Farren, NME, 20 March 1976
The Who/Steve Gibbons Band: Pavillion de
Paris
IT USED TO be called the abattoir.

At Pontiac, Michigan, where Elvis' New Year's

concert drew 60,000, the Who packed 76,000 in,
which John contends should be in the Guinness
Book Of Records.

Now, however, they've tarted the place up a bit and

changed its name to the Pavillion de Paris.

In the end, it all comes down to "the kids". "We may

not like the town or the hall, but the kids are always
the same. It's worth playing for the kids. If we could
fly in and out the same night it would be great, but
you can't fly to Australia overnight." The land of Oz
is invoked mainly due to memories. "If you're a
foreigner and lose your temper, there's no
sympathy...As I found out in Houston."

The improvements, such as they are, do almost

nothing to disguise its origins as a Victorian
slaughterhouse. The installation of bleachers and
temporary canvas walls only heighten its
unpleasant resemblance to a hybrid of Victoria
Station and the Roundhouse. No heating has been
installed, and the promoters' evident determination
to pack in every last paying customer makes the
area immediately in front of the crush barriers
protecting the stage into a potential death trap.

Here it was, at the start of their last American tour,

that John wanted to know why the police who were
hired to protect them at a party were restraining
Laser Man, alias John Wolf, replete with foot on
neck. As John was being escorted away from the
scene by security men also hired to protect them,
he broke free, lost his temper and kicked over a
large wooden menu stand. At which moment the

*
ABOUT THE ONLY compromises with the
requirements of modern rock and roll are
backstage. Cinder-block hut dressing rooms had
been swiftly erected, painted and carpeted a matter
of hours before the first show. Industrial heaters and

806

floodlights had also been quickly put in so that the

contenders for the title "Greatest Rock And Roll
Band In The World" (and their entourage) wouldn't
actually be stumbling about in freezing darkness.

one shade or another of transsexual degenerate,

they seem to extol the virtues of energetic
machismo. Although, they are a comparatively new
band, their roots are firmly in the' 60's, if not the
rock and roll '60s. They are a mature band: so
mature in fact, that they could easily be bit players
in a Peckinpah western.

The hog-butcher heritage of the Pavillion seemed to

have asserted itself with a vengeance on the first of
the two nights the Who were scheduled to play in
Paris. Steve Gibbons' conversation kept going back
to the disasters of the night before.

They haven't lapsed into the common picking-forthe-sake-of-picking attitude that seems to infect so
many of the second-time-round post-teenage
bands. They still present the original the energy
formula that must be the core of righteous rock and
roll. I mean, they even have a stand-up singer
leading the band!

Gibbons' bass player Trevor Burton summed it up.

"It had the same vibe that there must have been at
Altamont. There was violence in the air."
For the Gibbons band, things turned sour right from
the start. The appearance of Gibbons and Burton in
black leather stage outfits sparked off some kind of
psychosis in a section of the audience who started
baying "Nazi, Nazi".

Steve Gibbons is direct from the aggressive

gunfighter school of rock and roll front men. In black
Wyatt Earp frockcoat, leather jeans, gambler
waistcoat and high top boots, his descent is from
the line that includes Elvis Presley, Gene Vincent
and Jim Morrison. The only real question is whether
or not that style can function when brought intact to
the mid-'70s and still work.

Any support hand who opens for a top line rock act
has to face problems. There is always a section of
the audience who are impatient to see them get off
the stage and make way for the stars.

Certainly, they have the flair and technical ability to

break through into the bigger leagues of rock and
roll. The two guitarists, Dave Carroll and Bob
Wilson, have all the necessary journeyman
credentials, if a somewhat static presentation.

On this occasion in Paris, however, the natural

audience resistance had apparently reached
nightmare proportions. Fights broke out between
people who were digging Gibbons and those who
were demanding the Who. Bottles were thrown
around, not directly at the stage, but haphazardly
into the air, to fall into the densely packed arena.

This is more than compensated for by ex-Move

man Trevor Burton, who rocks and jives in the finest
time-honoured manner, while he and drummer Bob
Lamb lay down the solid underpinning for the rest of
the band.

The final horror came when one of the twin light

towers collapsed, and a girl who had climbed up
onto it for a better view, fell some thirty feet to the
cobbles below.

The set is eclectic. Apart from Gibbons' own songs,

it ranges from the Dylan number through to a
seventeen-year-old Gene Vincent tune called Git It
which, incidentally, provides the medium for some
more than adequate back-up singing.

Thus, on the Tuesday night, the Steve Gibbons

Band took the stage for the second and final show
with some trepidation.

It's possible that the range of influences that the

band bring to the stage might be their eventual
undoing. Despite putting on a show of very
creditable rock and roll that builds in power and
energy level right through to the final climax of a
storming Little Queenie, they seem somehow to
lack the kind of coherent image that could take
them right through to the top.

Fortunately, the Tuesday crowd are a great deal

milder than the one on the previous night. Although
there are still fights, jokers throwing wine around
and hostile Who enthusiasts making threatening
gestures, there isn't really an air of potential
violence.
The band opens with Dylan's Watching the River
Flow and, although it's an uphill fight they gradually
win over the French audience an inch at a time.

If they can lick this problem, nothing can stop them.

With the support of the Who operation and their first
US tour starting, everything is in their favour.

In many ways, the Steve Gibbons Band are a

strange kind of throwback. In an age when a large
section of rock and roll spends its time posing as

807

If they can't, then I doubt if they will ever come

through being anything more than a solid
workmanlike, reliable second-string outfit.

On the surface it was a magnificent display of rock

and roll, with high spots in Baba O' Reilly, Behind
Blues Eyes and My Generation. On a deeper
level, however, there was a problem.

After the interval, it was time for The Who. For any
Londoner, The Who are almost like a local football
team. It was like going out to see a familiar all-star
winning formula side that you know and love. There
they were, taking on the French, and although they
had all the power and majesty that you've come to
expect somehow there seemed to be something
lacking somewhere.

I suppose the root of the trouble was that I really

didn't seem to be getting off. It could be that I'm
simply getting jaded, but I truthfully don't think so.
The only other conclusion is that The Who have
changed.
Sure, they still have energy, and are still master
technicians. The change seems to be in their
relationship to the music. I suppose you could say
that it's matured, but that's a kind of copout. If
maturity means what was once an explosion of
dazzling emotion becomes a formalised ceremony
then I still hope I die before I get old.

It was hard to pin down at first, exactly what that

something was. Townshend leapt and stomped,
Daltrey performed his breast-beating symbolic
dance and sang his guts out, Moon flailed and
Entwistle stood solid as a rock. So what was
wrong?

What were once a series of soaring pyrotechnics

have become a ponderous rolling wave. Today it
seems as though the band depend on their
magnificent laser lightshow to provide that extra
touch of spectacle where once they were confident
to go onstage with just their youthful fire.

At first I thought it might have been down to the

French crowd. Moving out into the auditorium, partly
to get the punters' perspective, and partly to get
away from the statutory hassling that the Who's
road crew seem to feel obliged to hand out to
journalists, photographers and the like, the
problems of the Pavillion became immediately
apparent.

I suppose it's inevitable that this should happen to

any band. Teenage angst can't be maintained right
up to your thirtieth birthday. It does seem
surprisingly, however, that with a songwriter like
Pete Townshend they still find it necessary to hack
their way through pieces of history like My
Generation and yet another rendition of Tommy.

The huge arena in front of the stage is bounded by

bleachers on three sides and by the stage on the
fourth. It holds some 4,000 tightly packed people
and totally lacks any kind of crush defences or
guard rails, except in front of the stage. The sound
from the P.A. seems to push the crowd around like
iron filings in contact with a magnet.

To be charitable, I don't really see how any band

can hope to hit a peak in a place like the Pavillion
de Paris.

The slightest disturbance on the outside of the

crowd is amplified by the dense mass until the
centre is swaying backwards and forwards in
alarming five-foot lurches.

The French promoters are going to have to realise

that rock and roll can no longer be staged by
cramming the maximum number of fans into a halfbuilt hall and expecting even a top class band to
steamroller them into enjoying themselves.

Very soon, unconscious bodies are being passed in

a steady stream into the photographers pit. After the
first number, Daltrey harangues the audience in
broad Cockney:

Already, rumours are circulating that the Stones and

Wings may play the Pavillion. If this should happen
without a drastic reorganisation of the facilities and
safety precautions, this building may find itself with
a reputation not for being Paris's premier rock
venue, but for serious injuries or even fatalities at
concerts.

"This is a rock and roll show, not a punch up!" Even

this is a paradox. The band whose stock in trade
used to be the violence of teen frustration is
appealing for the crowd to calm down so that they
can play their set.

Mick Farren, 1976

It was almost as though The Who had become
institutionalized. Demanding quiet while they put on
a ritual show that hardly differed from their
performances of two or even three years ago.

The Who: The Real Thing Accept No

Substitute

808

Barbara Charone, Sounds, 12 June 1976

be so emotionally potent is merely one testimony to

Who greatness.

"CHARLTON ain't gonna be any better than this,"

Mick Jagger had flatly declared to a dubious John
Entwistle during the first night the Rolling Stones
played London's Earl's Court.

Despite the fact that their present set consists

largely of older material, there's nothing whatsoever
nostalgic about it. Even for those who actually
remember hearing 'I Can't Explain' on the radio a
decade ago. Unlike any of their contemporaries, the
Who are great because of what they are, not
because of what they were. We are dealing with a
very lethal, vibrant life force. No spent superstar
egos in this band.

Jagger was wrong.

"It's gonna rain on Monday," Jagger kept repeating
to Radio One's Anne Nightingale during the end of
the Stones six-day stint, still preoccupied with the
up 'n coming Who Put The Boot In concerts. "It's
gonna rain on Monday," he repeated one more time
with almost sinister delight.

Charlton took everyone by surprise including the

national media that had previously given the Rolling
Stones more coverage than Harold wilson's
resignation. Despite the fact that the Daily Mirror
referred to 'Father O'Reilly' and 'Substitute' as two
new songs from their latest LP The Who By
Numbers the reviews are unanimous in their praise.

Jagger was right.

But even the rain couldn't dampen Who spirits.
They had put themselves on the line and
desperately needed to prove to themselves and the
public that they were still best. And when it rains it
pours. David Bowie, Elton John, had both proved
pale in comparison to the triumphant return of the
Rolling Stones.

Even the normally austere Times was direct and to

the point, bluntly declaring that the Who possessed
everything the Rolling Stones lacked, energy,
enthusiasm and a good sound system.
*

And now just three days after the last notes of

'Sympathy For The Devil' had echoed through the
cavernous arena, the Who stood before more than
50,000 people. With every obstacle against them,
the band erupted with a vengeance that surprised
even themselves. They knew they were better than
the Rolling Stones. The kids knew it too. But now
everyone needed the ultimate proof.

People who had never before tasted such

delicacies finally saw the light in this dismal football
ground on this wet and sleazy Bank Holiday. Jaded
jiggers who had long grown bored with the Who
were literally thrown back into respectful fanaticism.
Charlton was magic because it pulled the very best
out of the Who. Sure the laser beams looked
incredible crisscrossing their way around the
stadium ground, their effect heightened by the rain
and darkness. But the lasers were just decoration,
the Who were the real magicians.

Charlton was one of those infrequent magical

moments that happen in rock 'n' roll. Charlton was
ugly and seedy, wet and dirty. Stripped of any
surface glamour, Charlton was the supreme test.
How many other bands could make 50,000 kids
forget that they'd been standing in a steady
downpour for over five hours? How many other
bands would bounce onstage, slipping on the wet
surface, rain hurled in their faces? How many other
'supergroups' would sweep their own stage after
every number? How many lead singers would get
down on hands and knees and clean the stage?

And the audience were the inspiration for that

highest high. A potentially dangerous situation, had
the Who been anything but absolutely brilliant an
ugly riot could have easily erupted. But the Who
remain very much in tune with every audience they
play for, adapting to every setting and
circumstance. Intuitively they attacked Charlton with
the only game plan available. The result was
emotionally draining and incredibly effective from
the back stands behind the stage to the kids down
front caught in the crush to the fans piled miles and
miles away in the back.

"None of that flash and glamour for us," Keith Moon

deadpanned during his most comical monologue,
"We're real men."
Exactly. The Who don't play any games or wear any
masks. The reality hurts sometimes but it makes
the band great, sends chills down the spine and
makes the hair on your arm stand on edge. The fact
that something as overexposed as Tommy can still

Me, I was scared. Afraid that the Who wouldn't be

the best rock 'n roll band. The Rolling Stones had
been good in their own rhythmical, unemotional
hard hitting approach. But the Who had to be even

809

better. Charlton finally separated the men from the

boys, the survivors from the nostalgic remainders of
things past.

T-shirts did even better. The first twenty rows all

waved "WELCOME BACK TO SCOTLAND THE
WHO" flags, readying themselves for the inevitable
goodtime eight hours away.

Charlton was strictly for real. The atmosphere in the

dressing room afterwards was more victorious and
ebullient than the winning team of any cup final.
Charlton proved for the Who at least that it's much
more than a case of being "too old to give up, too
young to rest". Charlton marked the beginning of a
brand new lifetime for the Who.

Rumours had been circulating throughout the week

that the Who were not going to show up, as if this
concert bill was almost too good to be a reality. After
all, the only other large scale outdoor concert in
Glasgow had been David Cassidy and he doesn't
really count anyway.

Although the Who had played Britain on several

occasions within the last nine months, their rate of
progress pulled old fans out of the closet and new
converts onto the pitch. Bottles were prohibited so
the rowdy fans carrying fifths of whisky and vodka
were forced to give them up or polish them off
before entering the ground. Consequently quite a
few of the crowd were well pissed by the time
Widowmaker took the stage just after noon.

It was one of those very rare occasions when each

member of the Who agreed they had just played
one of the very best shows of their career. By
Friday the weather remainded overcast, an
ominous sign for the second extravaganza at
Glasgow's Celtic park. By Friday night the stage
was still being completed, wiring still being rerouted,
all of this causing much chaos and many
headaches.

This breakfast special wake-up position on the bill

certainly isn't an enviable one but bands have to
pay dues. The audience eager for a good time and
determined to enjoy the show reacted warmly to the
band's very average rock sound.

Still buzzing from that Charlton high, any barrier

now seemed easy to cross. While dedicated road
crews worked through most of the night ensuring
that the sound system would be nothing short of
excellent, most of the tour bands were reeking
havoc in the Albany Hotel bar in downtown
Glasgow.

Steve Ellis is one of that rare breed of truly

exceptional singers that seem to be branded with
that "should have made it before" tag forever. Much
like Frankie Miller and Jess Roden, Steve Ellis is
capable of being great. Possessed with a fine and
distinctive voice and an equally pleasing stage
presence, to me he is the band's only redeeming
feature.

While the Who had not played since Charlton, the

rest of the bill had been busy touring the country.
Little Feat and the Outlaws had just arrived from
Newcastle. Alex Harvey and Co. were back on
home turf. And Streetwalkers didn't even arrive until
Saturday morning, exhausted from the previous
night's gig.

Possibly Ariel Bender and Steve Ellis are not the

marriage made in heaven that their PR suggests.
Bender persists in carrying off his flash Mott
arrogant guitar routine which totally rubs the wrong
way against Ellis' more melodic approach. Right in
the middle of a promising musical number, Bender
will come steaming across the stage manically
pointing his guitar gun-like at the crowd as if he was
in Uriah Heep.

Britain, of course, is not built for such rock 'n roll

extravaganzas and the fact that this Who Put The
Boot In tour has worked so successfully proves that
it can be done by anyone who cares more about
rock 'n roll than money. America gets these kind of
concert bills all the time because the pickings are
ripe and the bucks big. But in Britain it's almost
impossible to break even with a show like this, let
alone make money. That's what integrity is all
about.

Expectedly, Widowmaker received polite applause

but no encore. The Radio Clyde DJ spins
something by Bad Company which instantly gets
more of a reaction from the crowd than anything
Widowmaker had played. As the pitch fills up and
the police/ security force increases Streetwalkers
take the stage.

Clouds hovered over Celtic Football ground early

Saturday morning, stubbornly playing hide and seek
with the sun. Crowds slowly arrived spreading out
on the enormous pitch. The actual grounds were
more comfortable than Charlton, larger and more
spacious allowing for plenty of facilities. Food
concessions did a good business but Alex Harvey

Roger Chapman, Charlie Whitney, and Bobby

Tench have been one step away from the big time
for so long now that it makes you wonder what the

810

problem is. Everyone knows Family should have

made it, that Chapman/Whitney should have made
it, and that now Streetwalkers should make it. They
certainly deserve to.

What separates the Outlaws from similar bands is

their rhythm section of bassist Frank O'Keefe and
drummer Monte Yoho who wisely stick to crisp and
clean Eagles-styled percussion. Every tune gets
more and more of a positive reaction, so by the time
they reach their guitar finale with 'Green Grass &
High Tides' the place goes wild. Henry takes a swig
from a nearby Jack Daniels bottle as Hughie
Thomason and Billy Jones play substantial guitar
solos that deviate from the usual clichd two-guitar
riffs. The kids down front dance.

Kicking off with 'Burlesque' the audience instantly

came alive and stood up in unison, waving their
Who flags and Alex Harvey posters to the funky
beat. Chapman remains one of Britain's finest, still
manically beating his tambourine like a man
possessed. Still wearing striped trousers too tight
and too short with white and blue plimsolls. Still a
very fine singer and an even better performer.
When the number ends a crowd of kids down front
fight for remnants of Chapman's tambourine.

"We gonna come back to Scotland again and have

us a real good time," Henry promises the crowd
who literally demand an encore. 'There Goes
Another Love Song' makes the Outlaws a lot of new
fans.

Unfortunately Streetwalkers have difficulty

sustaining their initial excitement throughout the
hour-long set. But they work hard, Charlie Whitney
with his double-necked guitar playing tasteful solos
that Bobby Tench craftfully decorates while
Chapman marches to the beat.

While the DJ spins 'Brown Sugar' the roadies

quickly change stages and the familiar cactus and
tacky orange Hollywood sign herald Little Feat's
arrival. Lowell George fondly refers to these kitsch
effects as Little Feat's very own Elton John props.

During 'Run For Cover', ol' Rog jumps up and down

in excitement and spits real saliva onstage. Great
stuff. 'My Friend The Sun' had several kids singing
along. Streetwalkers got an encore and deserved it.
Their ultimate problem is that the best material is
still from that Family era.

Thrown slightly off the track at Charlton, Little Feat

found the going rough. But by the time they got to
Glasgow, the band easily proved that despite their
sophisticated musical excellence they can reach a
large outdoor crowd.

"It's gonna piss down when we're gone," Chapman

declared with just the right amount of arrogance for
this appropriately rowdy bunch. Luckily he was
wrong. It never rained.

From the start Little Feat attacked the show with

streamlined rhythms thankfully mixed loud enough
to get the crowd bouncing to the impeccable slightly
mad drumming of Ritchie Hayward, supplemented
by the rock steady, skin tight bass playing of Kenny
Gradney and percussive assistance from Sam
Clayton's conga drums.

Backstage during the Streetwalkers encore, the

Outlaws are gambling in the corridor and sure
enough Henry Paul is as big as they say, dressed in
cowboy gear from head to foot. The Outlaws like
gambling, drinking and women. Typically Southern
gentlemanly pastimes.

The Feats didn't fail us now. Lowell George was in

exceptional voice, phrasing complex tunes like 'All
That You Dream' perfectly. By the time the Feats
were building towards their finale with 'Dixie
Chicken' when Lowell and Paul Barrere drawl 'Man
that gitar player sure could play' pianist Billy Payne
proudly points to the two guitarists.

"I don't know about you but I'm fucked," Chapman

said in pleased exhaustion at their set's end, hurling
the entire mike stand into the crowd. The PA blasts
out 'Honky Tonk Women' as the sun victoriously
emerges. By now the pubs are closing and the
genuine Scottish drinkers are soon to arrive.

'Tripe Face Boogie' wound the crowd to a tightly

fevered pitch leaving them stranded and begging
for more, screaming in unision "MORE FEAT
MORE FEAT". They returned triumphantly for 'Feats
Don't Fail Me Now', managing to get the crowd to
sing along on the "roll on through the night" chorus.
Lowell George abandons his guitar for what he
dubs his "Frank Sinatra look" and instantly
becomes another visual dimension to the band.
Then smack into another shot of rock 'n' roll with
'Rock 'n' Roll Doctor'.

"Hello Glasgow," big Henry Paul bellows in broad

southern tones as the Outlaws take the stage and
immediately begin their professional assault. I'd
expected them to be vaguely similar to crass
Southern bands like ZZ Top but they're more like a
Lynyrd Skynyrd with class. No outlandish three man
guitar assaults for the Outlaws, their instrumental
peaks are more controlled and disciplined than
something like 'Freebird'. And they sing well.

811

The Sensational Alex Harvey Band were even more

excited by the Feat's reception. "Any crowd that
likes Little Feat must be great," Alex enthused
before informing backstage throngs that he had at
least "400 cousins in the audience".

spider on the front while the back reads:

"ENTWISTLE AIN'T QUIET".
Neither of course is the irreverant Moon who has
now finished destroying the organ. He is
accompanied by a lady dressed in a black jump suit
so tight it must have been sprayed on. The roadies
stare in disbelief every time she struts by. Moon and
Alex Harvey engage in some comical discussions
about heavy influences like Matt Monro.

Playing to such a large home crowd must have

been as emotional to the SAHB as Charlton was for
the Who. Right before showtime, Alex struts out of
his dressing room with a dozen red roses, a
headress piled on top of his head making him look
like some demented Buckingham Palace guard,
and a lecherous leer on his friendly face.

Daltrey and Townshend arrive soon after, chatting

amiably in the hospitality suite. These days Who
friction seems all but dead. The band even smile at
each other onstage. What's worse they even smile
at each other offstage. But the Who continued
playing better than they have in Britain since the
Who's Next tour back in '71. More vibrant than ever,
the Who have something to prove all over again,
miraculously managing to please dedicated fans of
the past while hypnotically attracting newcomers
who have heard this greatest rock 'n roll band tag
and come to check out the action.

Expectedly a great roar erupted from the crowd the

moment these local boys who made good took the
stage. "It's like playin' in fuckin' paradise", Alex
enthused as the band kick off 'Love Story' flaunting
their ability to totally change someone else's song.
'School's Out' followed thick and furiously.
Alex Badmouths the more violent Charlton crowd
stressing that they belong to England which earns
loyal cheers from the Scots throng as guitarist Zal,
looking more and more like Peter Pan with his
green and yellow "I'll never grow up" leather
ensemble, screams "hit it".

*
With the Who it's strictly a question of pride. The
visuals are totally spontaneous and natural.
Perhaps there was a time when Townshend felt
obliged to twirl his arm like a windmill and leap in
the air but now he does that with his old manical
electricity. The Who have never been better.

By now the entire pitch is covered with a sea of

gyrating denimed bodies. 'Tomahawk Kid' goes
down a storm, the audience singing every word
almost in unison with Alex.
'Framed' earns a huge cheer as Alex adopts his
Hitler moustache and evil leer, teasing the crowd
who love every minute of the fun. Backstage during
'Framed', Keith Moon and a small boy who won a
contest are madly blowing up the organ from the
Tommy film. Moon in his black leather jacket and
motorcycle ensemble makes a contrast to the
young boy half his size.

After conquering Charlton even faulty monitors

won't upset them today. "Fuck the sound"
Townshend whispers to Entwistle who snarls at his
monitors as they kick off an incredibly dynamic
'Baba O'Reilly' which has become an onstage
classic. Words can't describe what it's like to see an
entire teenage wasteland all proudly saluting.
But then the Who have always dealt primarily in
emotional responses. No other rock 'n roll band
supplies good entertainment plus that extra special
something. The Who were always the most
emotional band in rock 'n roll even before Tommy.
Even after Tommy.

Both of them get great childish delight from

destroying this organ movie prop as a crowd
gathers to watch smoke bombs and fireworks erupt.
There's even a bit of explosive danger to send
liggers running for cover.
Meanwhile Alex is into 'Vambo' pulling two
dedicated followers out of the audience and letting
them share some onstage fun. By the end the
crowd are swaying along to 'Delilah'.

'Squeeze Box' is much rockier and meatier onstage

than record while 'Dreaming From The Waist' is
strictly sensational. The balance has been put right
with the Who. Townshend is once again competing
with Daltrey for the spotlight which has added
another dimension (both musical and visual) to both
their performances.

By now the Who have arrived. Well at least two of

them. John Entwistle admits to being slightly
inebriated, the victim of some lethal wine supplied
by Moon on the plane journey up from London.
John proudly flaunts a black t-shirt with a silver

The Who are electric. Townshend turns his amp up,

Moon screams out "1 2 3 4" and they're off and

812

running with 'Magic Bus'. After all, it's not very often
in rock 'n roll that you see a band actually enjoy
what they're doing. Tommy keeps on getting better.
Now there's no breathing space between 'Pinball
Wizard' and 'I'm Free', just non-stop excitement.
Look out Swansea!

With the arrival of competitive groups like the

Yardbirds, the Who abandoned blues and switched
to slicker Motown material. By 1964 they had also
found film producers Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp,
who would help focus, package and propel the
group to international stardom. They became the
Who again and had three instant hits in England in
1965: the classic 'My Generation' (originally a slow
talking blues spoof with no key changes), 'Anyway,
Anyhow, Anywhere', and 'I Can't Explain'. Although
they still played a lot of Motown /James Brown
material, they were now evolving their own
relentless driving sound, based on fifties American
hard rockers Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent and
Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, and a punky stage
stance that reflected the irruptible attitudes of their
Mod following at suburban London dancehalls.

Before the recent Who shows, some people

expressed serious doubt over the 1976 relevance of
the Who, swamped in a media-stained sea of
'Brown Sugar'. The Rolling Stones are a good band.
But the Who are a way of life. Mick Jagger was
wrong.
Never underestimate the Who. Accept no
substitute.

"Ours is a group with built-in hate," Townshend liked

to say about the Who when the group hit the stage
of The Marquee Club at their Tuesday night raveup, their energy demonically coiling as they
escalated the decibels to a deafening crescendo.
"I'll be getting really musically involved and some
stupid girl with 'Freddie' tattooed on her front will
come up and scream 'Ringo.' You feel like
smashing her with Coke bottles."

Barbara Charone, 1976

The Who
David Dalton,Lenny Kaye, Rock 100, 1977
THE TEEN DREAM LIES AT THE CORE OF rock &
roll and no group has explored, projected and
interpreted the turbulent substances of teenage
craniums with such relish and consistency as the
Who, an English group that became the undisputed
mod band of the mid-sixties. Mods were young
working-class lads full of an incipient violence that
would find it perfect expression in the performances
of the Who.

It was at some point in this year that Pete

Townshend, doing one of his aerial leaps, slammed
his guitar neck against the low ceiling of the
Railway Tavern, "got a tremendous buzz from it"
and proceeded to smash it to pieces. He thus
created the first of their ritual apocalyptic
destructions, the drum-demolishing, smoke-bomb
climax that was to become a nasty habit that they
were compelled to re-enact at almost every
performance for the next five years.

The group began as the Detours in 1963. Pete

Townshend (on banjo) and John Entwhistle (on
trumpet) had been in a Dixieland jazz band together
in school, and when they joined up with a local
roughneck, Roger Daltry, they began playing top
forties numbers at local pubs, wearing matching red
jackets. Townshend had acquired a taste for John
Lee Hooker, and persuaded the band to play blues;
they got themselves some scruffy gear and
changed their name to the Who.

The Who remained a cult group in the United

States, until the 1967 release of a novelty song,
'Happy Jack', and an intensive publicity campaign
by New York deejay, Murray the K. Their legend had
preceded them to the States, and rockers got a first
tantalizing taste of them at Murray the K's Easter
Show at the Paramount, but it wasn't until later that
year, at the Monterey Pop Festival, that American
audiences got the impact of their ferocious,
flamboyant act with its remarkable climax.

Shortly thereafter a new image, another new name

and a new drummer popped up. One night while
they were playing at the Oldfield Hotel in Greenford,
Keith Moon staggered up on stage and challenged
the group to play with him. After totally demolishing
the other drummer's kit he was hired on the spot.
Under the influence of "mod miracle man" Pete
Meaden, they adopted the name the High Numbers,
and cut their first single, 'I'm The Face'/'Zoot Suit'
for Fontana which quietly faded away.

They had their first American hit with 'I Can See For
Miles' in 1968. In the vacuum created by the
absence of the Stones, Dylan and Beatles from
concert performances, the Who gathered
momentum as the last of the great British hard rock
bands. By this time the Mods who had spawned
them were becoming an endangered species, and
the Who themselves had mellowed considerably.
Somewhat influenced by the satirical, sartorial

813

Kinks with whom they now shared producer Shel

Talmy, the Who had become almost whimsical and
reflective, turning out wry tales like 'Whiskey Man',
'Tattoo' and 'Pictures of Lilly' told with nursery
rhyme simplicity but spiked with biting morals. In
songs like 'Substitute', with synthetic man as its
hero, Townshend began to add his unflinching
insights to the slashing guitar and startling
harmonies which operated like parallel razorblades.
On the equally ironic, but less mordant The Who
Sell Out the first fully realized concept album
they continued their mockery of twentieth-century
commercial fantasies.

Unlike the climax of their act, the Who cannot

disappear in a cloud of smoke in the ultimate rock
gesture of autodestruction. It's unlikely they will just
"f-f-f-fade away" either; their indelibly vivid image is
almost hypnotically stamped on their generation.
They have the best moves in rock. Manically in
synch with their sonic landslides and violent
crescendos, their faces and bodies are distorted by
the sensory overload: Pete leaping ecstatically as
he slashes his guitar with razor sharp chords; Moon
with a face like an exploding pudding, lunging,
buzzing and crashing over his drums; Daltrey
lethally whirling the microphone, a smouldering dolllike punk behind blue eyes and baby curls; and,
perhaps most sinister of all, John "the Ox"
Entwistle, lurking catatonically like some
Frankensteinish assistant behind his bass.

The Who's pop parables suggested the shape of

things to come, especially the two compassionate
mini-operas, 'A Quick One While He's Away' and
the mystically tinged 'Rael'. Townshend, brooding
on the philosophy of Meher Baba (an Indian mystic
who had not spoken for 20 years) next created
rock's first kunstgesamstwerk, Tommy, an opera
about the celebration of innocence. The hero is a
deaf, dumb and blind boy whose tactile genius
makes him into a pinball wizard, and then an avatar
whose religion is an ecstatic expression of direct
experience. Tommy, which was eventually made
into a film by Ken Russell, has been described as
"the finest extended thematic structure any rock
group ever pulled off," and it propelled the Who to a
position in rock very different from their image as
rock & roll punks. As an antidote to the artistic
respectability of Tommy, they released their next
album, Live At Leeds, which more than any others
evokes their sheer instrumental force and the
cathartic effect of their stage presence. The Who
are the longest-lived of all English rock bands, and
in 1974 to commemorate their tenth anniversary
and a decade of delinquency, they made a cyclical
return to their origins on Quadraphrenia. The album
is dedicated to "the kids of Goldhawk Road.
Carpenters Park, Stevenage New Town and to all
the people we played to at the Marquee and
Brighton Aquarium in the summer of 1965, "but it is
less a celebration than an exorcism of Mod. "it's
about growing up, " said Pete Townsend, adding
wistfully, "at the end of the album, the hero is in
danger of maturing."

Intuitively manipulating the grammer of rock in

abrupt spurts of energy they express the tension,
resistance, dreamily violent sensuality and
uncrontrollable alternating currents of city life. As
long as adolescence symbolizes this flux, fury and
fantasy the Who will remain its purest and most
eloquent interpreters.
In Which Pete Townshend Gets Personal
Dave Schulps, Trouser Press, May 1978
"SHADDUP," YELLS Pete Townshend. Then he
slaps his leg and Towser the dog comes running
over. "Do you want to go out?" Pete asks, getting
up to open the door which leads from the kitchen to
the yard.
We're about halfway through what has turned away
from being a straight "question-answer" interview
into a fairly freewheeling discussion (see last issue
for the first installment) on various and sundry Who
and Townshend related topics.
Pete has just finished explaining how the Who, on
their way to surviving for nearly 15 years, has
managed to narrowly avoid various pitfalls which
could have destroyed the band and the integrity he
feels they have been able to maintain over that
period of time. He calls the margin by which they
have escaped making a disastrous error "a razor's
edge," yet he is obviously satisfied that the four of
them have come so far and still managed to stay
intact.

The real horror for the Who is that the spectres of

their old anthems have come back to haunt them in
the form of self-parody. Trapped in their self-created
image their rituals turn into musical masturbation.
They are doomed to repeat themselves, stuck in a
groove like a record eternally spinning on a
turntable, "I am going round and round, I am going
round and round," as Townshend said on The Who
By Numbers.

"When I was doing the Rough Mix album with

Ronnie Lane," he begins after sitting down once
again, "Eric [Clapton] was sitting there one day and
he said, 'You know, Pete, you're a lucky bastard
having a band...just having a band. All I've got is

814

me.' I was startled. 'You've got a great band at the

moment,' I said. But he said 'They're a band they
feel like a band; but it's like me and a band, I'm not
part of a band."' From Townshend's face, you could
tell he understood.

to do such and such a thing.' The first thing you

realize is that if you want to do what you want to do
you've got a choice: Either you're going to fight like
hell to get it done convince the people you're
working with that it's right, or demonstrate that it's
right which is why I always do demos; or,
alternatively, you can run away and do it on your
own. In a group you learn the art of compromise,
you learn the art of diplomacy; I think most of all
you learn the art of caring about other people's
opinions. Whether you like it or not, you have to
care about other people's opinions, otherwise
you're not going to get anywhere. In a way, working
in a group is like" he searches for words "well,
it's the way God planned it, isn't it? You put people
together and you get chemistry, you get experience.

I say that it amazes me that, while the idea of

'groups' provides so much of the dynamic of rock 'n'
roll, so few have been able to survive intact for
more than a few years.
Townshend shakes his head. "I don't think it's
amazing so few have survived, I think it's amazing
that we have. I think it's the most natural thing in the
world these days to separate, for people to do what
they want rather than knuckle down, to
compromise, to fit in with someone else."

"I feel we've had a very special and unique

experience having been a group of people that
hasn't been a football team, or working in an office,
or making doorknobs I always say doorknobs
because our first manager made doorknobs but
we've been a successful rock 'n' roll band as a
group, so our experiences have been unique. I can't
imagine what kind of person I'd be had I not done
all the things I've done with the Who. When I look
back on the last ten years, the important
experiences seem mainly to be Who experiences
the important lessons despite the fact that I have
an amazing and powerful conviction toward Meher
Baba. It seems that despite that all my philosophical
decisions have been made from experiences with
the Who. All I've really ever felt for Meher Baba is
this overpowering feeling of love, but I've never
actually gotten experience. Experience I've gotten
on the street with the Who.

Does he, then, consider himself old-fashioned?

"Yes," he replies without hesitation, "Very oldfashioned. Yet to me it's more what Rock is about
than smacking cocaine up your nose, playing with
whoever happens to be there at the time and 'fuck
everybody else.'
"In a sense, that's why I place such great weight on
the Who," he explains. "It's because I don't have
much faith in the rest of the fucking music business.
I wonder what are they actually up to? Do they live
on this planet? Sometimes I wonder if they do..."
"For instance," he continues, "I think the Stones'
Love You Live is magnificent, but I've got absolutely
no faith in the Stones to do anything other than to
just produce the occasional magnificent album. I'm
really glad they did that album, though I don't think
they'll get any thanks for it. I don't think anybody
realizes how long they struggled to get that live
album together. There was a time in London where
every studio you went in was full to the ceiling with
live Rolling Stones concert tapes...then Jagger
would walk in bleary-eyed and start listening to
them. Hundreds of hours of tapes.

"What I'm driving at is a bit gratuitous in a way. I

think it's common knowledge that living with
somebody, getting married if you like, is not just a
convenient way to live, it's also a very natural
human thing to pledge yourself to another person.
Suddenly, when you realize the beauty of marriage
and I'm old-fashioned enough to say this and
mean it I hate the way marriage is played down
today. I don't think marriage is anything where
anybody gains anything, I think both people lose
equally. Then you get a marriage that works, if both
individuals feel they're doing all the work. In the
Who, every one of us feels we're doing all the work.
Every one of us feels we've got the weight of the
band on our shoulders. So every one of us is
putting in 100 percent, or maybe a little bit more
than that. That's how you get an effective unit. This
is what's great about working with a group of
people. As you share devastating experiences and
exhilarating experiences like standing on a stage in
front of 60,000 kids all cheering you, you can look

"But apart from that great album, great to hear

them doing it there's fuckin' Keith Richards in jail.
That's what's happened to so many of them, they've
either gone and been killed off, or it's soppy
brother..." His voice trails off.
Has being in a group been important to his own
survival, then?
"Oh yeah," he answers with certainty, "I think what a
lot of people probably don't realize about working in
a group is that you've got a basis for learning all of
life's hardest lessons very rapidly. In other words,
you say, 'I think we should do such and such a
thing,' and everybody says, 'Nonsense, we're going

815

at the other person and know there's someone else

there who knows what it feels like.

interest musically, but socially. It doesn't matter

whether they come from Czechoslovakia, Japan,
Australia, France, Germany or America; if they're
into rock 'n' roll their social conscience is going to
be similar. That's all right by me, because if at the
moment all the rock social conscience has created
is a lot of people that said 'We failed,' at least we're
bloody admitting that we failed to do something we
set out to do. At least we're aware of that rather
than just sitting there and festering; rather than
creating wars and blowing one another's heads off.

"On the other hand, there's the other thing...like

being marooned at Saskatoon Airport in the snow
for three days. You know that all you need to do is
turn around to one of the guys in the band, say
'Saskatoon' and they'll crack up. You start to
develop a quality of intimacy which you can't get
anywhere else outside a family."
Does he feel that the feeling of family and
community that seemed to permeate Rock in the
'60s has been all but lost in the '70s? Has Rock
failed in this way?
"All those feelings are transitory anyway," he posits.
"I remember at Woodstock people were so appalled
when the Who asked for their money having just
traveled 7,000 miles to get there. I said to some
guy, 'Listen, this is the fucking American dream, it's
not my dream. I don't want to spend the rest of my
life in fucking mud, smoking fucking marijuana. If
that's the American dream, let us have our fucking
money and piss off back to Shepherd's Bush where
people are people.'

"I've always felt that one of the most tragic things

about rock is that it isn't bigger. If you take the world
population, then take all the people who buy rock
records, I think you come to a modest little clique.
"I don't think it's down to the whole clique, though. I
don't think it's fair to expect kids on the street to be
able to change society. They can change
themselves, but not society. What I'm driving at is
that bands like the Who are new rapidly coming into
a position where they're actually physically able to
change society. The responsibility has finally
arrived."

"I think that was the big mistake. Rock started

celebrating itself too soon. I think this gets back to
what I was saying before [Last ish Ed.], that there
are very few people in a position to prove that we're
not just a bunch of big-mouthed gits who criticze
everything in sight, that we're now in a position to
actually do something about it that we're adults.
Our generation is now doctors and lawyers, school
teachers and psychologists, even politicians. Now is
the time people can actually do something to make
their words good. When you ask has rock failed, the
answer is that its aspirations haven't yet been
reached. But its aspirations have been very fuzzy
around the edges to me because they've been so
negative some of the time. Rock's been so
destructive and continues to be. The punk
movement seems to be destructive by nature. It
seems to be important that it destroys first in order
to build it's using that old standard so that one
doesn't get a compound thing. You don't get the
value of experience, the value of a build-up of social
intercourse. There are no textbooks about rock 'n'
roll, we haven't got libraries, but they're starting in a
way.

Does he feel a greater responsibility now than ever

before?
"I've always felt a great deal of responsibility. I feel
now it's just more practical to feel it. If somebody
knocked on the door in 1967 and said, 'We run a
boy's club that's doing great things in our
neighborhood where there have been 14 murders.
Since we have been running it the kids have been
coming and playing snooker and billiards, but...we
need a disco,' we would have said [in a teasing,
snotty and blase tone], 'Oh really, how sad.' Today
we can give them one. We decide what we do.
That's just one example.
"I think if we can go on organizing ourselves so we
can stand really close scrutiny; if somebody came
in to pick us to pieces and said, 'OK, you wrote My
Generation, now what are you doing?' we could
take them in and show them every aspect of what
we've done and hopefully wouldn't find any flaws.
Then we've achieved something, if only by
example.
"I don't want to change the world," he says
adamantly. "If Britain was a communist country I
wouldn't want to make it capitalist and as it's a
capitalist country, I don't particularly want to make it
communist."

"Music has unified a whole group of people. I still

think it's one of the greatest single things to ever
have happened in the world. Really, I do. I think it's
something that's shared; people that are interested
in it, that love it, that listen to it, that play it, that
write are a different breed. They just are. There's
just something I immediately have in common with
them and I can count on it not just being a common

What if it were a dictatorship?

"I don't know, it depends what kind," he answers.

816

Let's say fascist, I counter. People are beginning to

think it could happen here.

without my wife. I've always known that I loved her,

but what I really didn't realize was that I needed her
so implicitly. Of course, I didn't realize this until she
walked out on me one day. Then I thought 'Well,
this is it. The crunch has come. Victim of a showbusiness romance. Divorce number 4,589'." He
imitates a newscaster: "'Pete Townshend's second
wife said...' flashed through my mind; I thought,
'Well, fuck that,' and I just crumbled in a heap. It
was a bloody shock, because I thought I'd be able
to carry on, thought I was a complete person. I
thought my wife needed me, not the other way
around.

Townshend dismisses the notion. "Bah. Roger's

always screaming about how the fascists will take
over the country. They won't take over. They'll try.
Let's face it, come on, the whole of Britain rose up
against fascism. And the weird thing then was that
fascism had been quite an acceptable thing in this
country under Oswald Mosley. My father was saying
that as a 16-year-old kid as school they used to
play fascists; they used to goose-step down the
street. Then the war broke out and everybody knew
it was a thing to fight."

"That was one simple lesson, that's a form of

ignorance, which leads to evil, which leads to lack
of respect for the institution of marriage such as it is
which has existed four thousand years longer than I
have, yet I chose to fuck around with it.

That's what's, so scary, I remark. Wouldn't you think

that people now know it? The War wasn't that long
ago.
He pauses. "I think people do know it's a thing to
fight. I don't think there are any wars coming; I don't
think there are any nuclear holocausts coming. I
don't think we're going to be that lucky. I think it
might draw people together. I think if you could
have a war without the senseless death it might be
good. It would bring people together. The last war
gave the country a sense of community, of
togetherness; we knew who our friends were. In the
last analysis, America came and helped us. We
also were able to demonstrate our care and love for
our neighbor countries. But I don't think there will
ever be a nuclear war. There will be little brushfire
wars as in Vietnam and Israel, but and maybe not
in our lifetimes I think things will end up
peacefully."

"I suppose the other simple lesson is that when I

thought the only way to change life in the Who was
to walk away from it, I actually realized that the
guys in the band were very sympathetic to my
problems. weren't over-anxious to force a
compromise, loved me and were prepared to do
whatevery was necessary to keep me happy. And
that was a fucking shock, because I've always
regarded the Who as a bit of an enemy I mean in
a business sense, like when it comes to a tour the
way you regard your work as an enemy. Then
suddenly it turns around on you and becomes the
exact opposite. That's why the early part of this year
I stopped talking about the Who as 'the Who' and
started to talk about 'my band,' stopped talking
about Daltrey, Moon and Entwistle and started
talking about three people who I really do feel are
friends. Quite how they feel about it I don't know; I
think each person in the band oscillates, but I must
admit I feel a damn sight closer to them now as
people than I ever have."

Finally he returns to the more mundane subject of

rock 'n' roll and its place in the grand scheme of
things.
"Anyway, I think rock 'n' roll is extremely small and I
think the Who are a very small part of rock 'n' roll.
As such we can only do our little bit. But I think it's
important and it's important to be optimistic.

Did this revelation about the Who come after Who

by Numbers?
"Oh yeah."

Has he always been this optimistic?

Townshend thinks for a second before answering.
"I've always been optimistic about life. I've not
always been optimistic about my role in it."
His voice then takes on a jokingly didactic tone, as
if imitating some age-old sage handing down
advice.

Were certain songs on that album meant to cry out

to the band in any way?
"To some extent. I think it was just me whining
about certain things. I've never felt it's wrong for a
man to cry, any more than I was going to say
something chauvinistic, but I won't. You have to
double think, don't you, make sure you're not sexist:
'My Baby Gives It Away'."

"You see, I've learnt a few very simple lessons in

the past couple of years. One is that I would not be
able to carry on working in the band or even I
suppose it sounds a bit melodramatic living

That song, along with Squeeze Box, seems so

incredibly chauvinist. Did he intend them as jokes?
"No. That's what I was about to say. I'm not
conscious, I don't sit and work out stances, I just

817

write. This is the thing. Half the time I don't know

what I'm doing until I've done it that's why it's
honest."

one thing, your own moral values are another. It's a

declaration of mistrust but most of all, most
important, is that for the sake of a physical thing
you're going into another human being, becoming
enmeshed with them and then tearing yourself
away." He demonstrates by clasping his hands
together and slowly, painfully, tearing them apart.
"It's just the craziest thing to go around doing
crashing into things, literally. It doesn't detract from
the beauty of the experience or from the joy of sex
as God bloody handed it down. It's just that well,
teenage promiscuity is one thing experimentation
but when you get to be 22, 23. 24, by that time if
you haven't got your shit together, forget it.

Does he ever regret writing that way afterwards?

Again he answers negatively. "How can you regret
anything when you've got no choice in the matter?"
I suggest he has the option not to use material he's
written.
"Often that's not even my choice, either," he
comments, "as regards material with the group, or
when one publishes an article like the one I did in
Rolling Stone, or things like that. I mean, I regretted
that article to a great extent, but I still put it out
because the process had been initiated and I
thought I might as well do it. In a sense, it was sort
of journalistic Who By Numbers two years after
the event."

"'My Baby Gives It Away' is really about that. I

suppose it is openly sexist, but it's not a selfconscious statement. It's sexist in that it says 'I am
a married man and my old lady loves me enough to
let me have it when I want it which is a bloody lie."
He laughs heartily.
I comment that he had written a few songs about
women early on in the Who's career, before there
even was a well-organized women's movement.
'Glow Girl' was the original setting of the Tommy
theme: "It's a girl, Mrs. Walker, it's a girl ..." 'Join My
Gang' was about a guy asking a girl into his clique,
a move he reckons will "shake the world"; this 1966
song was recorded only by a group called Oscar.

But a little more optimistic, I add.

"Yeah, a little more. In the case of 'Squeeze Box',
that was supposed to be a funny song. It came from
hearing somebody referring to a women's tits as a
'squeeze box.' A 'squeeze box' to me had always
been an accordion and I just wrote that little rhyme
about it.

Townshend shrugs, dismissing any hint that he was

ahead of his time. "'Join My Gang' was a selfconscious thing. The reason the Who never did it
was because it was very much an exercise. You
know who used to rave about that song? David
Bowie. He actually heard it in the publishing office
before he was a big star he used to work in an
office that had a lot of my stuff then.

"I'm sexist to the extent that I" he pauses and then

bursts out with the end of his sentence 'love tits,
and love women practically to the extent of being
unstable on the issue like a lot of men are. I just
can't repress it; I just can't hold it back. It's not
because I want to put them into a corner, they can
do whatever they like. They can mother me or
dominate me, or I can mother them and dominate
them. I don't care, just as long as I can get it out of
them.

"I've had great difficulty writing about relationships,

period. I still find it difficult to even mention the word
'love' in a song. I think it's a symptom of maturity I
like to talk about maturity as if it were a disease; a
symptom of maturity when you start writing love
songs. Rock 'n' roll to me has never been about
love, it's been about care. I think the two things are
different. I don't like to see the word 'love' bandied
about; I think it's a very misused word."

"I dunno. Take 'My Baby Gives It Away'. That's

actually a song about my old lady, and she didn't
think it was sexist; she was the first person I played
it to. I suppose it was a song about me. About my
realizing what idiots men really are for chasing after
what they have in their own backyard; chasing after
trouble; chasing after wounding relationships;
hurting people. Of course, women are half to blame
for that as well."

He digresses. "Love. Adi Irani, who was Meher

Baba's secretary and has been to England a few
times and stayed at Oceanic [Townshend's Meher
Baba Center in Twickenham] he's a great guy
was asked the difference between the various forms
of love. One person thinks love is screwing in the
back seat of a car, another thinks it's divine drops of
water from heaven. He said that if you think of love
as being like an ocean, a limitless ocean of, let's

He laughs. "I think maybe you don't realize until

you're getting to the point where you begin to think
you might be past it. You start to think about what is
wound up in a casual affair, a quick one-night job
with some bird in some hotel room. What is it?
What does it mean? The spiritual ramifications are

818

say, water; then lust is like water in a gutter, love

between man and woman is beer, if you like; love
from man to God is like milk; and love from God to
man is like wine. There are degrees in everything.

Sylvie Simmons, Sounds, 2 September 1978

IN ORDER that you wouldnt get lost in the huge
Universal Studios complex, accidentally find
yourself on a glam-tram and off on a tourist-view of
plastic life-sized Jaws, polystyrene avalanches and
bionic man testing centres, or stuck in a Lincoln
Continental-jam on the way up the hill to the
Universal Amphitheatre, where Frank Sinatra has
been crooning to 6,000 people a night this week,
dayglo signs were posted along the street in the
vicinity: "Who Are You?" and an arrow.

"This is something that I find very hard to express in

rock songs. I find that the easiest thing to do is just
to get mad. You know what I mean? Because
there's always something to get mad about. I find
that the hardest thing for me to do as a writer is to
express optimism, general warmth and a feeling of
good will to all men in a song. It feels trite and I hate
it. That song, 'I Love Every Minute Of The Day' on
Who by Numbers is a prime example. Glyn Johns
wanted it on the album; I cringed when he picked it.
He heard it on a cassette and said, 'What's that?' I
said 'Nothing.' He said, 'No. Play it.' I said, 'Really,
it's nothing. Just me playing a ukelele.' But he
insisted on doing it. I said 'What? That fucking thing.
Here's me, wanting to commit suicide, and you're
going to put that thing on the record'."

The answer to that innocent question is an elite

minority of press people considered important
enough to bring a band 6,000 miles to meet (with a
brief stop in New York for radio and T.V. stuff, but no
party). The Class System is alive and well in Los
Angeles publicity circles.
The chosen few (it was as hard to crash this
reception as to find Sinatra tickets) were wined and
hors-doeuvred in a studio soundstage, amazingly
decked out as a sci-fi fantasy padded silver
armchairs, giant cogs and capsules, transparent
cylindrical sculptures 20 feet high bearing the
illuminated message, "Who Are You". Those lower
down on the scale will be invited to various
premieres of the album around the country, with
listen-ins of the record.

Most people's initial impression of 'Blue, Red, and

Grey', I tell him, given it's context, was that he was
just being ironic, tongue-in-cheek.
He shrugs. "It's a bit weird, actually. It definitely
doesn't fit into the Who by Numbers concept as
described by Dave Marsh. He said it was the Who's
first concept album. I like Dave Marsh, actually, he's
a good bloke, but he takes rock so seriously."

A laser show with Who accompaniment is planned

for the Griffith Park Observatory in Hollywood in its
planetarium, with tickets for the event being given
away by radio stations as just part of what MCAs
publicity director calls a "major media blitz." The
Whos first album since By Numbers in 75, Who
Are You is being handled with all the attention of
something thats going to bring in a lot of cash.

Isn't that a symptom of rock journalism?

"I think it's a problem of a lot of people who buy
records, too. Because if it is life our little chunk of
life well, you should treat life with respect but you
shouldn't be pompously serious about it."
In defense of us scribes, I suggest that we're
probably just a bunch of people who take life too
seriously which is what sparks us to write in the
first place.

*
AND SO THE BAND arrive, one quarter missing.
Bassist John Entwistle stayed at home, mixing
tapes for the soundtrack of the upcoming Who
movie The Kids Are Alright.

"On the other hand," Townshend asks, "why the

chemistry of putting on a record and going
bananas?" Probably to get out of it, I suggest.
"It's weird, isn't it," he says, and then gives the best
definition of a rock record I've ever heard. "It's a
black plastic thing you buy and you can put it on
and it clicks your social conscience makes you
think about the world, makes you think about life
and then makes you dance to forget about it."

Pete Townshend looks like he could think of several

places hed rather be. When asked what he thought
of this place he said, "its like a giant speakeasy".
Not sure if he meant the studio or Los Angeles
itself. It applies to both. Hes not particularly
enamoured with Hollywood. The partys over at
eight, and he says hes flying straight home at nine.

Dave Schulps, 1978

Keith Moon actually looks like hes come to a party

white trousers, black velvet jacket and waistcoat,

The Who: Sweat, Bollocks & Guts

819

well-groomed like a stockbroker or an antique cars

salesman. Not very manic; though he did make
some attempt at removing the lower garments of
their English press agent when things were getting
dull (hi Keith thanks for getting me in). But Roger
Daltrey wins most-talkative-band-member prize for
the following conversation about, Who else?

better, tighter album, I suggest, though Daltrey

counters with, "When youve been together for 15
years, darlin, all you need is an hours rehearsal".
This album took all of a month to make, if you ran
the time they spent in the studio together.
"It was spread over a long period of time because
we had a lot of bad luck. Pete gashed his hand
really bad, so that knocked three weeks off it; then
Glyn Johns had to go away and record an album; I
got a throat infection that lasted two weeks the
actual recording time you could have condensed
into a month." There is a lot of material left over
from Who Are You, which, with the usual tendency
of Townshend to tie up loose ends, will find its way
onto the next album, which they start recording as
soon as they get back to Britain.

Daltrey: "Who Are You?"

Sounds: "Sounds"
Daltrey: "Is Sounds still writing that drivel theyve
been writing for the last two years?!"

*
ABOUT THE RECORD. Its the first in three years
and could be described as an almost-concept
album, with several songs directly round a powerof-music theme, and some written by Townshend
for the seemingly aborted film project, Lifehouse
(basically a science fiction story with rock music as
the Liberating Force; there were some Lifehouse
songs as far back as 1971 on Whos Next). Six
songs are written by Pete, and three by John
Entwistle.

Whats this trip about?

"Promotional. Its just to show that we really are
behind this album.
Will you be touring to promote it?
"No" (emphatically).
Why not? (Keith Moon's excuse is that the rest of
the band are married men; Pete especially is loth to
spend time away from home.)

Daltrey: "What can I say? I really am pleased with it.

I think musically its an advance on anything weve
ever done, and the performances are better than
anything weve ever done, and it hangs together as
an album as well. What do you think?"

"We won't be touring because Pete doesn't want to

tour he just doesn't want to any more, and that's
that."

I explain Ive only heard it as background music for

the last hour or so; the album hasnt actually been
released here yet; but so far it sounds like theyve
gone a bit overboard on the keyboards/synthesisers
and not enough guitars.

How do you feel about it?

"I love touring I love it. But I respect the way that
he feels. I think he's wrong, but what can I do to
change it? I can't change it. I mean, he's given
twelve years of his life to the road, which is a lot
more than any other band."

Daltrey: "Pete is into keyboards now, yeah. Well

thats just a phase. Weve been together for fifteen
years and sometimes it gets hard; it can get boring."

The Band gave up because they'd just finished 16

years on the road.

But a three-year period is surely a bit long for a

phase? What about people who are expecting to
get crashing guitars?

"The Who?"

Daltrey: "They can keep f-ing expecting, cant

they?"

No, The Band.

The album, in fact, was not that long in the making.

Touring took up 18 months of the time, "and you
cant tour and make albums at the same time",
claims Roger, "not when youre a band like the
Who". Id have thought it would have made for a

"They weren't together for 16 years! (disbelieving)

They weren't like the Who though, were they?
That's it though. If we want to go on and do a
bloody ELO, just stand there and like sing. I
mean fine, we could go on for ever. But I don't want
to do that. The Who is all about sweat, bollocks and

820

guts, you know. That's what we were about and

still are. It shows onstage but you have to see it
to believe it. And unfortunately there's a lot of kids
out there today who won't ever see the Who, and
that's a shame. That's what I don't like.

solo things, I don't know. I really want to get into

acting I really do like acting."
I hear there's a couple of Who films in the works.
"We've got a few projects going. We're making a
film of Quadrophenia. It's not going to be like the
Tommy film. There'll be dialogue and music sort
of (laughs) Saturday Night Diarrhoea. We've got a
guy call Frank Rodham directing it, an English
director straight out of T.V. he's really good."
Apparently much more realistic in his approach than
Ken Russell; could anyone be less? "We're using all
unknown kids, quite a few punk bands as well." So
far, Daltrey himself doesn't seem to be taking on the
leading role of Jimmy. "And we've got the Kids Are
Alright film which is nearing completion. That should
be out, I think, February."

"But you're right. The Who's a live band. What can I

say? But we'll make more records now if we're
not touring. You know, in some way I really want to
go on the road, but in other ways I can accept to
stop. Because you can't go on for ever. The Who is
a high-energy band. I'm nearly 35 years old. I don't
want to fizzle. We were great. We still are great. I
could go out tomorrow and be great but I don't
know whether I'd be great next year. So maybe it's
good, I don't know. It's a really difficult period of our
lives, you know."
Is there a chance that your wanting to tour and
Pete not might cause a rift in the band?

The Kids Are Alright will be completed in Los

Angeles studios once the principle photography is
over in London. It features concert footage and
interviews with the band members, one conducted
by Ringo Starr, but has a strong story line running
though it. "It's the history of the Who, our 15 years
on the road", says Keith Moon. Says manager Bill
Curbishley, it's the first-ever rock and roll disaster
movie Keith Moon is the disaster.

"No, we're stronger than ever as a band. The one

thing I like about the Who is, everything we said we
would do we've done. In 1968 when there were
shitty studio situations in London we said, right,
we'll build our own; so we built our own. Our studio
ask most of the groups in England and they'll say
it's the best one. In '75 we made Tommy and you
look at the interviews I did then I was filming
Listzomania at the time, and it was the one and only
film being made in England then, that's how bad it
was we would put it back into the film industry.
We bought part of Shepperton Studios. We are
probably the first people to own part of Shepperton
Studios and want to make films in it in the last 30
years!

You going to be doing anything else?

"We're going to be fat lazy people lazing about
smoking our big cigars." (Someone suddenly turns
up the volume and the Who album screams out of
the speakers.)
"Turn that fing racket off I've got a headache
sorry, it's us. That's my favourite song. (Music
Must Change') I think it's totally different to anything
we've ever done."

"So the Who maybe not as a stage group, but

the Who as a feeling, as an idealistic group, which
is what we are is stronger than ever. And I don't
think we've sold out ever, though I suppose we're
out at the moment. When you hear people say, oh
we're rich and I've got a big house and all that I
can't hide the fact that I've earned a lot of money.
What am I supposed to do? Put it all in the bank
and live in a bungalow? I don't know. I make no
apologies for being successful."

What about the single. Did you choose it? Is it

going to be a hit?
"'Who Are You' yes, we chose it. I don't really
give a shit if it's a hit. But it'd be nice if it was. When
you get it, put the cans on and listen to it loud. It's
great in stereo."

Are you getting into any solo ventures as a

substitute for touring?

Word was going round that you'd made this album

to appeal especially to teens.

"First of all, there is no substitute. It's one of the

worst drugs that you can ever get on, that's the
problem. It's very hard to come to terms with saying
there's no more. I understand it it's why people
go and rob banks it's not just the money they get
out of it, it's the thrill of doing it, you know. As for

"Whaaaaat! Oh well, the word's wrong, isn't it?

Does this sound like the Bee Gees? Does this
sound like a pop record? Bollocks. I don't think so
If we don't appeal to the young kids, that's fine. We
don't pretend to aim at them. We don't speak for

821

that generation. Our generation's still out there.

Where do they think they've gone all died?"

Are you happy with the way things are going for
you now?

Do you still listen to 'your generation's music?

"It's a life, isn't it? But what a great life. I'm a shit
from Shepherds Bush, love; a street kid, a gang
member. I probably would have been in the nick. All
my other mates have been in and out of nick like
yo-yos. I've made two films, I've had God knows
how many gold records. I've got three other
musicians who are probably the best rock and roll
band there ever will be what a great life. Shit, if I
go tomorrow I'll have had a wonderful time."

"I wanted to see Dylan. But, like I don't like the

privilege of being able to get a ticket or a backstage
pass and get in for nothing. I had two tickets for
Dylan who I really wanted to see and I'm sorry I
didn't see him now. But I felt guilty. I got my tickets
very easily from Harvey Goldsmith I paid for
them, I didn't get them for free but I read that
people had queued for 18 hours and got turned
away. So I gave them away.

Sylvie Simmons, 1978

"I hate privilege. I can't stand it. So that's why I don't

go to many concerts. You get people hitting you all
the time and recognising you. I don't like all
that The reason I joined a band was to get out of
the audience, you know! I get sent albums, a lot of
the new wave bands. I listen to them, and the ones
I like I play, and the ones I don't I make ashtrays out
of. I really like the Boomtown Rats. I think their
album's very good.

The Who: Who Are You

Ira Robbins, Crawdaddy!, October 1978
Ever since Pete Townshend immortalized teenage
rebellion with the phrase "Hope I die before I get
old," he has been haunted by the obvious
ramifications of that lyric.
Scarcely out of his teens at the time My
Generation was released, it was ten years later, as
he turned 30, that he finally came to grips with the
contradictions of permanent adolescence. He made
his statement on the subject with several songs on
the Whos 1975 album Who By Numbers, taking
broad and pointed strokes against the hypocrisy
and responsibilities of rock stardom. He made it
clear that he knew how old he was, and it became
merely a question of convincing his public to accept
it.

"These new bands, like we did a show in London. It

was only a rehearsal. We invited Generation X, the
Rich Kids and a couple of the Sex Pistols. They
were fucking crying, man, really. I think some of the
punk bands are great. I think the first wave has
been a bit of a disaster; but now the good stuff is
starting to come out. I think the second wave is
going to be great. There's a lot of rubbish out here
though, isn't there? Did you see that Cal Jam '78?
God, what a pretentious load of shit. You can stuff
that lot right where it hurts. It's music to wank by,
innit?"

The simplicity of Who by Numbers belied the

intensity of the lyrics, which bared Townshends
self-doubt in the same breath as they chastised the
groups fans for their devotion. But the beauty of the
songs was reinforced by the violence of the
emotions they carried. For me, Who by Numbers
was a total success as a musical and personal
statement. It seemed that the Who had a second
wind, that all the old venom was there, and was
redirected to new targets. Three years later, the
Who now seem to consider themselves tired and
old. And Who Are You is a tired and old album, one
that scarcely does them justice.

So what do you think people are going to say about

you music?
"They can knock it all they like. We can knock
harder, don't worry darlin'. My attitude to the press
is, I can accept whatever they say about the music
or any shows we must be the only band in the
world that's had a fucking rehearsal reviewed, and
your paper was one of them but if a geezer came
over here now and called me a prick or anything
like that, I'd get up and break his head. And if any of
the English press started doing that to me. I'd run
the fuckers over. They can say what they like about
the music and the art, they can criticise that till the
cows come home. But otherwise it's fighting talk
and it's a different level. And if they want to go down
to that level well, I've been there before, and I'll
see them there. Judge us by our music. If you like
it, like it, and if you don't like it, shut up!"

Pete Townshend, now 33, has publicly placed his

private life above the importance of his rock n roll
career. The Who, unlike the tight outfit they have
always been, are now only a group inside recording
studios and boardrooms. They very likely may
never play live again, yet they still choose to make
records. Who Are You, their eighth studio album in
14 years, while finely crafted to typical Who

822

recording standards, suffers from three fatal flaws:

overproduction, under-writing and lyrical obesity.
Where the album succeeds, it does so almost in
spite of itself, and at no time does it match the
quality or excitement of any previous Who effort.

Thats the Townshend who got into a fistfight with

some of the Sex Pistols in a club one night
theres the old spirit!
The three Entwistle tunes range from good to
indifferent. The best one is 905, something of an
update of the Stones 2000 Man; the use of digital
sequencers adds a lot of automation noises to the
concept of test-tube babies. The lyrics are witty and
bizarre in typical John Alec fashion. The other two,
Had Enough and Trick of the Light, are listenable,
but seem out of place here. The group identification
that powered My Wife and Cousin Kevin is
missing.

Perhaps the removal of live performing as a

recording criterion led to the overkill use of strings,
horns and synthesizers. (Quadrophenia used a lot
of synthesizer, too, but taped synthesizer tracks
proved ineffective in concert.) On Who Are You, the
overuse of non-rock instrumentation seems to be
motivated by a desire to camouflage the songs,
which lack the three-minute magic of Townshends
old writing. The fact that three of the nine songs are
John Entwistle compositions may indicate a dearth
of Townshend material rather than an abundance of
Entwistles.

Who Are You bears the watermark of an uninspired

amalgam of the bands individual solo careers. The
orchestration could be Townshends lp with Ronnie
Lane or his soundtrack work for Tommy; the limp,
superficial singing on meaningless lyrics sounds
like Daltreys solo albums, and Entwistles tracks
could easily (except for the overproduction) have
gone on one of his solo endeavors. The end
product is not offensive, just tired; this album didnt
need the Who to record it any number of bands
could have knocked it together. Unfortunately, if this
is the best Who can do, then they will be
remembered for their past triumphs. I cant say that
I love the Who any less for this album, but in no
way does it add to their huge catalog of songs that
have changed my life. Thanks, Pete, but I think Ill
sit this one out.

Lyrically, the band seems to be rolling over and

accepting their advancing age as if they were
admitting to senility. At the risk of drawing unwanted
comparisons, Patti Smith is less than two years
Townshends junior. Is she acting like an old
woman? John Lennon is five years older he
doesnt live in a rocking chair yet, does he? While it
is absolutely true that the aging of youthful rock
idols is a significant factor in the development of
70s pop, Townshend seems all too willing to toss in
the towel and retire, not because of a creative dry
spell, but simply because he feels old. Thats no
excuse.
Who Are You begins on a vaguely pleasant note
New Song, in which Roger Daltrey sings, listlessly,
"I write the same old song with a few new lines, and
everybody wants to cheer it." With that sort of
attitude, the remainder of the album falls neatly into
place, including songs like Music Must Change, a
godawful Mark Almond soundalike that describes
the magic of songwriting, and Guitar and Pen,
wherein Pete advises young songwriters to "never
spend" either one. Nice sentiments, crafty lyrics, but
no flashing lights or spinal shivers as in past
moments of Who glory. Townshends best
contributions to Who Are You are the strange but
intense Sister Disco, which comes closest to
sounding like the energetic Baba O Riley Who,
and the title track, something of a continuation of
the sentiments on the last album:

Ira Robbins, 1978

Who: Who's Who?
Barbara Charone, Creem, November 1978
Deep in the back of my mind is an unrealized
sound
Every feeling I get from the streets says it soon
could be found
When I hear the cold lies of the pusher I know it
exists
It's confirmed in the eyes of the kids emphasized
with their fists
Like volcanos explode through the snow
The mosquito's sting rings a dream but the poison's
deranged
The music must change

I woke up in a Soho doorway, a

policeman knew my name
He said you can go sleep at home tonight
if you can get up and walk away
I staggered back to the underground and
the breeze blew back my hair
I remember throwing punches around
and preaching from my chair.

MORE THAN ANY other artist, Pete Townshend

knows that music must change. Unfortunately no
one has had the opportunity to hear just what
direction the Who have been aiming towards until
now. Thank God we didn't have to wait longer.

823

Who Are You is the aptly named title of the first

Who album since The Who By Numbers appeared
late in 1975. Of the eight album tracks, five are
written by Townshend and three penned by bassist
John Entwistle. Undoubtedly the best song is Music
Must Change which at first listening doesn't even
sound like the Who.

The climax of this three-day swing through America

was an outrageous party held at the Universal film
studios in Los Angeles. Before the Hollywood
merry-go-round began, the Who paid a visit to New
York City where they shattered Scott Muni and the
whole of WNEW with an eccentric interview that
transcended even the "What's your favorite color"
school of journalism.

"It's gotten to the point where the Who really are a

new group," Pete Townshend said quietly, still
somewhat amazed that their album has finally been
transferred to vinyl. "Music has gone through the
strangest self-examination period these last few
years. Everything has been taken to such an
extreme that any move in any direction has got to
be hypocritical because everybody has said they're
gonna take a certain stance.

Keith Moon informed the DJ that his funeral was

not held in Malibu last week. Muni explained that
the station's albums were filed alphabetically and
that the solo Who albums were tucked away under
the appropriate name.
Townshend patiently listened before replying, "What
an unusual system of filing." Roger Daltrey laughed
hysterically. Meanwhile back on Good Morning
America David Hartman was so confused by the
frenetic free-form jokes that the segment resembled
Monty Python more than a "serious interview.

"The thing is, nobody can fulfill all the promises

coming out of their mouths."
Pete Townshend, however, might be an exception
to that very 70's rule. Of all the tracks on the new
album, Music Must Change is not merely a peek
into a brave new world but a hot-blooded taste of
things to come. A deviation from the usual Who
formula, the song features a Daltrey vocal that
could easily be sung at a piano bar lounge while
Townshend tosses off some of the funkiest jazz
licks anyone's heard in ages.

But L.A. was the real tour de force. The night the
Who arrived the weather-man greeted them with an
authentic downpour. Townshend looked casually up
at the threatening clouds and remarked, "Must have
something to do with the Pope's death."
If all of this sounds like a new Townshend it is. His
mood has been one, of genuine good humor and
optimism. The disillusioned pessimism that
surrounded The Who By Numbers and last year's
interviews, has been replaced by self-confidence.
Townshend actually seems to be having fun. Ya
know f-u-n?

Not surprisingly, Roger Daltrey agrees.

"Townshend wasn't even going to put that on the
album," Daltrey said in disbelief, throwing off a
typically boisterous laugh and looking very
suntanned indeed. "The song was so good that I
asked if I could stick a vocal on it.

"I'm not taking the band quite as seriously as I once

did," he remarked as the new Who album soared
around stage 12 at Universal. "I'm not even worried
about what went down five or six years ago. Or
even two years ago," he deadpanned. "Two years is
more recent than five and much more topical."

"Visually I could see a kid walking down the street

kicking a tin can. That's the nearest Pete's been to
the street in a long time so it had to be on the
album. We put footsteps on it so if you listen with
cans on you've got this geezer walking down the
middle of your head! It's eerie."

As we talked, the entire lot looked as if it were

about to lift off for some foreign planet. This little
press lig was held on the same lot where they film
The Incredible Hulk and The Bionic Woman. Next
door a movie about Buck Rogers is being shot while
most of the interplanetary props and gadgets that
decorated this room are part of a new autumn TV
series called Galactic. Two workmen thought they
were attending a party for that TV show but stayed
to get drunk anyway.

Although this sounds terribly serious, the Who are

actually back in a more familiar, light-hearted guise.
Just recently Townshend, Daltrey and the notorious
Moon flew to the States for a lightening quick
promotional fling. Throughout the TV shows, radio
appearances and even interviews, the terrible
triumvirate displayed an off-the-wall sense of humor
that could have come straight out of a Marx
Brothers film. At any minute you expected
Townshend to pick up the phone in his hotel room
and say "Room service? Get me a room!"

Silver objects and plastic clones are the objets d'art

at this affair. Plastic pillows and spaceships hang
from the ceiling. An orange neon light flashes WHO

824

ARE YOU. Propped up on each table is the

customary vase with flowers.

"With 'Sister Disco' I felt the need to say that the

group would never, ever, in any way do anything
like the Bee Gees," Townshend said sipping
Courvoisier. "We stand over here and what we
stand with is alright. They might say we're boring
old farts but we still feel more at home with the
boring old farts than any of that crowd."

Not your ordinary vase, these each pictured a Star

Wars hero with the words MAY THE FORCE BE
WITH YOU emblazoned on the other side.
Mysteriously most of these disappeared during the
party.

Roger Daltrey is none too fond of the Bee Gees'

high falsetto style either. Yet he has mastered a
perfect imitation of Stayin' Alive which sounds like
a song from the album The Chipmunks Go Disco.

A local L.A. news crew filmed their entrance.

Daltrey looked healthy and embarrassed, Moon
looked almost elegant and Townshend looked like
the only rock star in the world who doesn't look like
a rock star yet manages to radiate style and grace.

"The Bee Gees write fantastic songs," Daltrey said

passionately "but why the fuck do they sing like
that? Those songs would be great in another key.
And when you see big, butch Barry singin' that's
hysterical. I guess when you've got it, flaunt it."

While the album blasted away, two elderly people

who work in the MCA pressing plant asked Pete for
his autograph. Amid all the futuristic paraphernalia,
it was somewhat miraculous that Keith Moon didn't
break anything.

In a typically aggressive Who vein, they've done

just that with the new album. Take for example the
tune 905, written by John Entwistle about the
much publicized topic of cloning.

"Blas aside, this place is incredible," Townshend

said with all the enthusiasm of a little boy who had
just seen his first episode of Flash Gordon. "If you
put a camera in front of this it would still look like a
film set!"

"Talk to John about test tube babies," Pete laughed,

both at the subject matter and the fact that John
was out of the country on vacation and impossible
to talk to. "I've got no interest in them at all. Don't
give a shit. Never dabbled in test tube babies. And
I've never shared a bed with a whore either."

Pete Townshend sat down at a modernistic table

without a Star Wars vase, sipped brandy and
smoked these weird little yellow beatle nut leaf
thingies. I wondered why.

Townshend and the other two members of the band

were surprisingly cooperative with the media this
time out considering the feud that erupted three
years ago when Roger Daltrey spoke out honestly
to the press in an attempt to reach Townshend.
Townshend replied in print and a mini-war started.
But that was the impetus the Who needed to get out
on the road. And Daltrey was the instigator.

"These remind me of my druggy days without

actually getting involved," Pete said laughing as he
inhaled his beatle nut smoke.
But back to the new image. Back to the fun. "I
HATE fun," Pete yelled mockingly in a voice that
made even the man who sliced the roast beef turn
around. "I still enjoy Kafka, Jorge Louis Borges or
Somerset Maugham. That's fun. I like listening to
the live Stones album and thinking how long it took
Mick to listen to all the tapes. That's fun."

"I got him back on the road three years ago,"

Daltrey said still determined to get him back on the
road again. "But you can only play that trick once. It
almost killed me. It took so much of my confidence
away. None of the press could understand. But Pete
understood.

Pete Townshend always looks smaller than he

really is, radiating an attractive vulnerability that
blends well with his often poignant view of life.
When he smiles, somehow everything seems like it
will work out OK. And this time he's actually put
some humor into the music. Well, sort of.

"Afterwards he thanked me for doing it although he

found it hard to stomach. I know it was undiplomatic
but it was a shit or bust move. The Who have
always been like that. You can't compromise with
the Who."

Take Sister Disco for starters. It's a Who-type disco

dive into Bee Gees pastures only it has nothing to
do with the Bee Gees. Don't worry. The Who won't
sell out.

And Who Are You isn't a compromise. It takes more

than a few listenings to rid yourself of three year's
worth of preconceived expectations. After numerous
playings three tracks stand out as superb; mixing
arp synthesizers, horn and string arrangements with

825

the more traditional raunchy sound that

characterizes the Who. All penned by Townshend;
Sister Disco, Guitar And Pen, and Music Must
Change rank with the band's best. It isn't rehashed
Who either. It is a new group.

blond, it's sorta dirty brown. The amazing thing was

the guy who is directing the film said to Rotten
'You realize Jimmy is a sensitive character. He gets
hurt. You've got to be able to reveal a chink.'
"And Johnny Rotten said 'The eyes'. And he just
looked at the director and immediately his eyes
went spaniel and he revealed a chink. One minute
they're spaniel and the next minute they're leopard,
then they're just zombie," he said in awe.
"Amazing."

One of the motivating factors behind this revitalized

burst of energy has been the advent and rapid
decline of punk rock. Townshend and other
established stars like Jagger and Rod Stewart took
a lot of criticism from the punks. Yet the bands
ended up imitating musically the very people they
publicly criticized.

Aside from the Quadrophenia film, the Who have a

biographical film scheduled for Christmas release
entitled The Kids Are Alright.

"It's not all that important what people say about

me," Townshend said as a throng of people came
over to shake his hand and stare at the clones.
"What's more important to me is what's been done.
When I finally got to grips with some of the music
and related to it, I realized there were individuals
that I identified with. Don't know if they identified
with me."

"Most rock films are pretentious," Daltrey said.

"They're made for the sole purpose of making
Robert Plant's dick look big. This is totally the
opposite. Within the first half hour we're made to
look complete idiots. You need pretentious films but
you also need the Who."

Yet Townshend is quick to realize that despite the

fact that he admires Johnny Rotten and likes bands
like the Clash and the Boomtown Rats, they still
must conquer America.

Townshend agrees that the Who look pretty silly but

lovable.
"Roger looks pretty idiotic," Townshend laughed.
"But I really look sort of neat and cool. Actually we
all look like total idiots."

"How would Johnny Rotten function here?"

Townshend wondered, staring vapidly at the orange
neon Who Are You sign. "He's an uncompromising
individual."

In an unorthodox but typically Who move, the starstudded premiere in London will feature an
audience comprised of mostly Who fans sitting right
next to the celebrities.

As far as all the putdowns, Townshend cares more

about his own preservation and survival than
anyone else's.

"After all it is a kids' film," Daltrey said, beaming like

an adolescent. "We're gonna run competitions with
the radio stations. Most premieres have an elitist
audience but I want the kids to be there. I want
them treated as I was when I did Tommy.

"I don't really care what anybody says anymore,"

Pete said, with a large dash of his old aggression. "I
care a lot about the way I feel. I think Rod Stewart
is an idiot. And I think Mick should live the life he
lives offstage onstage."

"That was the only premiere I'd been to and I

couldn't believe the extravaganza. I'm not used to
that. My mum was going 'Jesus there's a whole
salmon'. Can you imagine? Mum and Dad!

Aside from media meetings, Townshend recently

came face to face with Johnny Rotten, who was
briefly considered for the starring role in a film of the
1973 Who album Quadrophenia.

"My Dad's never seen champagne. We're just not

that kind of people. And I want to give the kids that
same kind of extravaganza so they can see what a
mindblower it is."

"We went out for a drink," Townshend related. "The

weird thing for me to realize is that he's an amazing
guy. I'd known under my skin but you don't know 'til
you see it proved. It's a drag that the business has
already smashed him. I wanted our manager to
manage him just to prove to him that everybody
wasn't like Malcolm McLaren.

Aside from that film there is yet another Who

cinematic venture in the pipeline. Daltrey is to star
in a film about a famous British convict just released
from prison and he's determined to use this film as
a vehicle to prove that he really can act.

"I felt very even with Rotten. It was a bit like

meeting a blond Keith Moon. Only his hair isn't even

826

"One of the problems with acting if you're a rock

character is that film people won't touch you
because it's so difficult to shake your rock image;
it's so powerful. If I get rid of my hair," he said,
pointing to the infamous golden mane, "then I'm a
mean motherfucker who you wouldn't want to meet
in an alley on a dark night."

onstage, make some music and dance all over his

problems. After all, there is only one Who."
Townshend does talk in paradoxes, although
always articulately. An example of this is the
following Townshendian quote: "It's all wrong to
even talk about rock 'n' roll but I don't want to talk
about anything else."

Townshend will be writing some of the music to be

used during some of the prison scenes for, as
Daltrey admitted, "In prison there's not a whole lot
of talking." It is also probable that Adam Faith will
co-star as Daltrey's friend and partner in crime. The
film is based on the life of John McVicar.

Nevertheless he doesn't seem particularly keen to

play rock 'n' roll onstage. He admits he doesn't yet
miss the stage but possibly will eventually.
"I still don't want to go on the road, it's as simple as
that," Townshend stated with authority. "But that's
just a part of it. There's the family and there's the
fact that I don't want to go on the road or need to go
on the road."

"I identify with him because his life is so similar to

mine. When you're on the street there's only so
many ways out," Daltrey said logically. "I've got a
big machismo, that whole fuckin' male thing. And
he's the same. But he can't sing. So he's gotta have
a fast car and flash suits and you don't get that
workin' at Fords in Dagenham.

Yet I'm a firm believer that a rock 'n' roll band,

especially one of the Who's caliber, needs to play
live to keep in touch with themselves and their fans.

"So he robs a bank. I understand the rush he got

from it. I was lucky. I found rock 'n' roll, otherwise I
would have ended up the same way.

"It possibly is detrimental to the Who not touring,"

he agreed. "But we've done so many other
detrimental things and managed to come through.
Playing live has been detrimental to the Who," he
laughed. "I don't exactly know what the right move
is now. Having an album out means you're asked
every 15 minutes if you're touring."

One problem that faces the Who is the fact that

they have ceased being a performing band.
Although Townshend tells a TV audience he won't
tour because he's going deaf, it isn't as simple as
that. He admits there are infinite reasons for not
going on the road although it is not a total
impossibility.

The one reason that the Who might just tour is their
over-zealous sound-man Bob Pridden, who thrives
on the live Who as much as Daltrey. Even
Townshend recognizes this.

"I get frustrated all the time about not touring,"

Daltrey said passionately, eager to tour whenever
possible. "It's delicate ground. I respect Pete's
opinion but I don't agree. I never joined a band to
be in business. I joined a band to get on a fuckin'
stage and kick ass. One day it's gotta end. That's a
matter of fact. It's just ending before it's time which
is stupid.

"If the Who ever tour again it will be because of Bob

Pridden. We don't want him to get bored," he
laughed. "We'll all get divorced, become estranged
from out children, intimidate our fans, do bad gigs,
we'll do anything just to see Bob bouncing at the
side of the stage," Pete laughed. "He came up to
me the other day and said 'I hear there's a rumor of
a Who tour?'"

"A band like the Who will end their stage career
before the Stones who will go on for a long time.
The Who is a different entity. It's the energy thing.
Age will lose that energy. And the Who without the
energy wouldn't be the Who. But right now I feel
stronger and more fit than ever. And so does Pete.

Although there isn't any tour news yet, Roger

Daltrey at least is optimistic. And if the Who don't
tour, John Entwistle will probably go out on the road
with Joe Walsh.
One of the things that has always contributed to the
Who's greatness is the friction within the group.
While sparks fly at times in the studio and onstage,
it is this somewhat odd but totally beneficial
relationship between Daltrey and Townshend,
delicately interwoven between love and hate, that
literally makes the Who.

"That's why I told him 'For fuck's sake Pete,

there's only one Pete Townshend and one Roger
Daltrey. Let's get up there and do it'. He talks in
paradoxes, which confuses me. He said a profound
thing on TV: 'Rock 'n' roll is music from the street for
kids on the street to dance all over their problems.'
And if that's how Pete feels he should get up

827

"When used positively friction is great," Pete said.

"lt's necessary in any relationship."

Since Moon's death last autumn, the Who have

returned to a work schedule which began two years
ago, and which seems destined to make 1979 a
kind of celebration of the forces which resulted in
the band lasting 15 years.

I mentioned that relationships are not only

unproductive but also boring. Understandably he
agreed.

This year will see a whirlwind of Who events,

including the release of two films, The Kids Are
Alright, which contains historic footage from their
early days, and Quadrophenia, a musical based on
the band's 1973 album.

"I could never be in a group with Ann-Margret. We

get on so well," he laughed. "But I could be in a
group with Olivia Newton-John."
Taking it one step further, I wondered if he saw
himself ever playing a disco king or starring in
Grease.

Tommy, the rock opera which Townshend created

back in 1968, also rears its head again: after being
made into half a dozen albums and a movie, it will
hit the Queen's Theatre in the West End on
February 6 as a fully-fledged musical, based on a
successful repertory production.

"I could be in Grease," he giggled, "but only as the

musical director to undermine the entire
production."

Tommy is one aspect of the past that Townshend,

ever restless and impatient, has had to live with. I
recall interviews, back in the early Seventies, when
rock's most articulate and passionate spokesperson
had tried to blot out what he jokingly refers to as
"the Curse of Tommy". Last year, however, seeing
an enthusiastic cast performing a version of his tale
on the first occasion he ever allowed himself to
watch an outside production rekindled his pride
and interest.

Although Townshend admits he's happier and more

confident, he still hasn't sorted out life. But then he
wouldn't be Pete Townshend if he had.
"I feel closer to Roger than I have for a long time.
We got on a plane to come to L.A. and Roger says
'Do you want to look at a magazine?' So I say
'yeah.' So Roger says 'What do you want? I've got
everything.'
"So I say 'anything on boats?'," Pete began to laugh
hysterically. "And Roger says 'boats?' So I ask for
Time or Newsweek. And Roger says 'Time?
Newsweek?' So finally Roger says 'Look, I've got
Club International, Playboy, Genesis, Oui, Hustler,
Naught, Fuck, Wank, Whore, Schnort....'

There is also his recent million dollar solo album

deal with Atlantic, a project he's anxious to
commence probably before the next Who album,
which will feature new recruit Kenny Jones on
drums.
HOW, I asked, does he feel about having a West
End theatre production underway?
"The thrill is slightly dampened in that over the last
ten years I've pushed Tommy away, in a sense. And
also it concerns something that has already
happened. You see there were two repertory
productions of Tommy going on, both of which
people were urging me to go and see as they were
especially good. There have been twenty or thirty in
the States which I've been invited to, and all,
incidentally, got rave reviews. There was one in
Dallas which was stupendous, which ran for six
months!

"And the thing is," Pete Townshend laughed, "I'd

like to think that I'd just about grown out of that.
Suddenly I realized that I'm not always as close to
Roger as I think. There's always a bit of ground to
recover."
Even if they don't go on tour, the Who are alright.
Barbara Charone, 1978
The Who Sell In
Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 27 January 1979

"I was spurred to produce a piano/vocal part for the

stage, because there was some confusion over
what was the definitive Tommy arrangement, and
people wanted to know where it stood today, so I
sat down with my friend Bill Connors, who is an
orchestral arranger and helps me with the dots. We
thrashed out an arrangement for piano parts and a

ARE THE WHO haunted by ghosts? Is the spectral

figure of Tommy now joined by the cackling spirit of
Keith Moon?
Pete Townshend doesn't think so, but is almost
ruthless in his determination to set the past aside
and turn to the future, as if to forestall that very fear.

828

loose stage direction, which I'm hoping to publish

next year.

AN early criticism of Tommy was that it wasn't really

an opera at all, but a cantata i.e. a dramatic
sacred composition.

"Ironically, right at that time I got a phone call from a

guy called Cameron MacKintosh, a West End
impressario, telling me about a really good
production at the Queen's Theatre in Hornchurch,
and saying I should go and see it."

"Nit picking. We only called it an opera for a joke.

It's a musical. There's no chitchat and suddenly
bursting into song. The film took it towards being an
opera, but it's still not an opera in the finer sense,
because there aren't any casual conversations,
there's no explanation. In a way a new word needs
to be coined for things like Evita, Jesus Christ
Superstar and Tommy.

Pete resisted for some time, saying he wasn't really

interested.
"But he persisted, and other producers rang and
told me I should go to Hornchurch. It finished after
three weeks and I missed it luckily, I thought.
Then another one started at the Genesis Theatre
Manchester which got incredible local acclaim and
good reviews in The Stage. So...the Curse returns!
Public demand in Hornchurch brought it back for
another three weeks, and the pressure on me to go
and see it was so great. I took some French people
staying with me at the time.

"The two musicals that have had great success so

far have been spawned from the rock business. The
theatrical business seems to think we haven't got
the flair to pull it off, and that's one of the reasons
I've never tackled it myself. I don't know anything
about staging. I know about putting on a rock
concert and that's the limit. The crossover between
rock and theatre is close, but it's still not at all the
same. Rock shows don't have to run for ten years
and play eight shows a week. It's a tremendous test
of the work.

"I picked the show to pieces, but then I started to

enjoy it, and the music was surprisingly good with a
straight rock band. They used an enormous choir of
children acting as musical support and also as
disciples for Tommy, adding musical weight to the
whole thing. When it got to the end the French
people were going banaas, talking about the artistic
integrity of the production, and we went backstage
and met Cameron Mackintosh and talked about the
possibility of going into the West End. It all went
from there.

"I remember once having a conversation with

Harvey Goldsmith. He'd read I wanted to do six
nights at Hammersmith Odeon, instead of one night
at Wembley. He said: 'Listen you could sell out six
nights a week for a year.' I would tend to debate
that myself. But in the case of the theatre, after the
aficionados have seen the show, you then rely on
tourists, pensioners, and coach parties. That's what
keeps it turning over. And people may come back
five or six times."

"I liked what I saw; not so much the detail, as the

end result. I went out of that place feeling very high
and when I went back on my own a week later, the
same thing happened. I walked out flying. I don't
know if it was just the music, the production or the
magic that Tommy has, but was tremendous.

HAS the story of Tommy changed much since its

initial conception?
"The film brought in some new ideas. Certain words
changed for the film and seem to have stuck
they're slightly more intelligent. The production has
taken from the original, and from the film
soundtrack album. That's one of the reasons I felt
the need to put together a stage score. I'm not
going to write any more material for it, although I
think it can always be improved.

"I was always afraid that if Tommy went into the

West End it would be with Stiggy (Robert
Stigwood), with all the attendant kerfuffle, spending
300,000 quid and doing an incredibly elaborate
staging. But I really liked the Hornchurch thing.
Stiggy in fact didn't pick up the option for it to go
into the West End, mainly because he'd moved to
America, and I didn't really have enough interest to
work on a stage production.

"Strangely enough, I've never seen it as a

compositional work in the way I did Quadrophenia.
It was DEVISED. The strange thing about the
original album is that if you've got the time to sit and
listen to it now, it's very laid-back in parts. That's
what strikes me now.

"The idea of the show is not to make it a music

business event, but to expose it to the public at
large. Rather than make it a 'rock opera', the
emphasis has been on making it a musical. It's all
sung, but there's a couple of spoken lines."

"When you listen to the early Who stuff, it's

incredibly raucous, high energy, but this was fairly
laid-back and Kit Lambert deliberately mixed it like

829

that, with the voices up front. The music was

structured to allow the concept to breath. It had a
certain flatness...the chorus 'Listening to you get the
music' goes ten times and very slowly fades out,
without any increase in energy. It has a quite
deliberate blandness, with no freneticism at all."

passionate that the art of the rock single could be

expanded and made to do more.
"Strung together, the Beatles singles told you
something about the Beatles, but when you went to
the Kinks singles, you learnt something very deep
from Ray's writing. And it wasn't dissipated in the
way that the Beatles' was by their co-writing, and by
their fierce experimentation. The Beatles'
experimented too much for their own good. But
there was an incredibly solid feeling from Ray's
writing, and I felt that deeply about our work as well.
You could draw a line through the songs we'd
written from Day One up to that point.

Maybe that was because you had four sides of

record to play with for the first time?
"I dunno. We were making albums like we always
did, and it only became a double halfway through
the sessions. I wanted a double so the story could
unfold, and so did the other guys in the band, but I
felt it should be a double so the story could unfold,
and if it was too harshly edited it wouldn't work.

"So I had this incredible faith in the rock single, and

thought if I'd take a load of songs and string them
together, they too would tell a story, while any one
of them could be taken and played in its own right.
'Acid Queen', a song on its own, 'Pinball Wizard',
'I'm Free' and so on.

"And I was sensitive because Tommy had taken a

long time, and other records like S. F. Sorrow
(Pretty Things) and Arthur (Kinks), had come out.
Their approach was exactly the same and it was a
natural evolution for rock at the time. I wanted a
bash at it. The whole idea of Tommy at the time was
to smash at the fact the Who were in a corner.

"To be frank, we didn't entirely pull it off. There are a

lot of songs on Tommy that are nowhere near as
dense or saturated as, say, 'My Generation' or
'Pictures Of Lily', but the same techniques went into
making it, and it was a big kick when I discovered
we could do it.

"We'd had that tremendous two years of single

success, and then something had gone wrong. We
were masters of the art. We were the best Who type
band around. We'd outstripped the Kinks style of
writing which I still love to this day, and which I
hope Ray never ever changes. But we'd gone off
into other areas. We'd had 'Magic Bus' and 'I Can
See For Miles, which was approached as a master
work, cramming in very complex harmonies, and
being pompous within the space of a three minute
single, and, er...they both flopped."

"I remember when Keith and I went down to the

rehearsal after finishing the album, as we were
about to go on tour. We did one day's rehearsal, did
the whole thing from start to finish, and THAT was
when we first realised we had something cohesive
and playable, that had a story.
"Keith and I went to a pub on the way back and sat
there, both incredulous at how quickly it had come
together, and we noted how suddenly Roger had
become something else, and we debated what
would happen and how it would change everything.
We knew we had something that was magic, and
that magic wasn't as clear on the album as it would
be on a live performance.

I liked I Can See For Miles.

"Oh so did I! I really liked 'Magic Bus' as well, the
driving energy of it, but when 'I Can See For Miles'
bombed, that was the last straw. I thought, 'People
aren't listening any more.' We'd lost the knack of
getting ourselves in the singles market. This was
around '67. I decided I was going to have one last
ditch attempt. Let's face it, for two years the Who
had been saying, 'We'll be finished,' and I saw
myself writing film scores, while Keith and John saw
themselves forming a group called Led Zeppelin.

"A lot of the magic comes from the fact that

somewhere along the line we stumbled on
something with tremendous depth. For a long time,
while touring the States, Tommy was a major part of
our stage act and was seen to be a seperate bit of
theatre. That comes across in the theatrical
production it has a vitality and life of its own."

"I thought I'd have a go at something heavy, and

fuck getting called pretentious. I'd make it a high
flying, spiritual story, and I'd throw in the works,
pinball machines, deaf, dumb and blind people,
'plane crashes, the lot, and put the story together.
I'd make Tommy into some kind of demi-god and go
from there. But apart from that I was very

IT seems extraordinary to think that, after all this

time, Tommy lives on.
"Well, I think it's a classic. I never wanted it to
happen that way, and I much preferred living with

830

'My Generation' as a classic, awkward beast that it

is.

possibly the last album, of an era. We were

determined to do something different."

"I've put lifetimes of work into Quadrophenia...but I

know inside me that Tommy is going to have a
much longer public life."

IT SEEMED to me that the Who didn't sound happy

on the last album.
"That's probably because it was a tough album to
make, and it took a bloody long time. It was fraught
with problems. Although the music might not convey
happiness, it was a very happy time. The time
pressure got too much for Glyn Johns as producer,
and he had to step out towards the end. It was
getting impossible. Apart from that, Keith and I were
always laughing.

How is the Quadrophenia movie progressing?

"Very well. It's interesting to draw a line between the
two things. Quadrophenia will one day get onto the
West End stage, and it could be filmed a dozen
different ways. Quadrophenia was us writing and
singing about something we knew about, and
Tommy was fantasy. There's a greater audience for
fantasy."

"Things did go wrong. Roger had a throat operation.

Then I got drunk one day when I went out on the
boat with my dad and grandad. We had a really
great day, went home and my parents started
having a row. I got really angry with them and tried
to make a demonstration to break the row by
putting my fist through the kitchen window, and they
just carried on as if nothing had happened. I
thought if I actually gashed my hand and smeared
blood over my dad's face, maybe he'd notice me."

Quadrophenia the movie will probably be ready

for release in August or September.
"We don't want it to conflict with the release of The
Kids Are Alright, although they are two very different
films.
"We've got a problem. We've had a hiatus of events
in the band apart from the last album, which
hardly made a dent in the U.K. Oh, it sold up to
Gold status, but it didn't have much impact. We've
had two years of preparatory work for three or four
major projects.

"But he just said, 'Look what you've done to our

window.' I had to stitch up my finger and thumb and
I couldn't play, so that was another two weeks
cancelled.
"We were devastated by all the delays, and the
slight tiredness on the album comes across. Roger
has some amazing performances, but with great
respect he wasn't there much of the time. 'Music
Must Change', for example, is quite a weary
backing track, only saved by the fact Roger came in
and did a really vitriolic performance. What I'm
leading up to say, is there were the usual questions
knocking around the band. And now we want to get
back into the studio and do another album because
the possibilities are so exciting.

"One was The Kids Are Alright, second was

Quadrophenia, the Tommy show emerged last year
and seemed a natural thing to go on; Roger's been
working on a film about John McVicar which will
produce a solo album; I've been building up since
late '77 to my first solo album deal, committing me
to three solo albums; I've written a TV play for
London Weekend, and since Keith's death we've
actually..."
There was a long pause while Pete seemed
conscious of the reality of what happened last
autumn, and his excitement seemed to evaporate.

"Ironically, Keith's passing was a positive thing. It

meant that it was impossible to continue to be
bound by Who traditions. It had been a yoke on us
how did we break free of traditions, things we
were responsible for? We'd always been careful not
to use outside musicians on sessions, and we
never wanted to get into string sections on stage. It
was a big step forward for us on Who Are You to
use session musicians. I feel now there is a
tremendous open door and I feel very excited about
the fact the Who is a well-established band with a
tremendous history, but suddenly we're in the
middle of nowhere a new band. I'm really excited
about it."

"I don't like the word 'death' in the spiritual sense. In

Keith's case it really was a passing."
Pete laughed, suddenly, at the lugubrious sound of
the phrase.
"Since Keith's PASSING. ...we've come to realise
we have much more of an open brief of going back
to the studio and having another bash at a Who
album. There was a feeling, although none of us
were ready to live with it, that Who Are You was

831

KENNY JONES seems a good choice to be the new

drummer.

"Yes, it's a big difference. I'm not interested in

intense exposure. I'm not hungry enough for it to
sacrifice everything else for it anymore, and I was
for a long time.

"There was no question of choice," said Pete

emphatically. "There was nobody else, in my
opinion. It's not a question of Keith being replaced,
either. Kenny would be the first to say that Moon
was irreplaceable, and nobody could copy him and
nobody would want to.

"The big change in my life came about in '74. I

decided I wasn't willing to make the sacrifice that
the road needed. Because we'd enjoyed such a
stupendous career, and such deep contact with
audiences, it makes me more passionate now
about not doing it by half.

"Kenny was a much bigger part of the Who,

anyway, than a lot of people will realise. We've
always had this incredible link with the Faces, we
toured with 'em, went through that Australian thing
together, they started at the same time as us, it's
always been marvellous times. Ronnie and Steve
Marriott were real friends, and Kenny worked on the
Tommy film soundtrack, and John and I noted he
was the only guy we could play with, without
thinking 'where's Keith?' And we've played with
some great drummers.

"If ever we do go on stage, I want it to be as good

as we can possibly get. If I had to go to the
Hammersmith Odeon and knew that behind it lay a
six week American tour, I don't think I'd even go on.
I've practically got to the stage where I'd give the
audience a short speech and go home. I would. It's
been the main bone of contention for the past three
years whenever we got together it was the subject
for discussion."

"Keith was always very responsive, he'd play off

you. Kenny is a much more formal drummer who
lays it down. But he's awake, he's alert, and the
feeling is we are starting up a NEW band. We're
making a commitment to one another."

But if the Who don't tour, where will that leave the
rest of the band?
"Well, I don't really know. This may be fantasy-land,
but I'd hope for an arrangement where we could do
concerts, in London and the provinces, and maybe
European weekend trips, and even short trips to
America.

How does Pete think the public will react to future

appearances?
"People have really got to live with the fact that the
Who they knew has gone, and that they'll never see
it again.

"I don't wanna sound like I'm a kid on the streets or

anything, but I think that whole big touring thing
stinks. I'm fed up with it, people coming up to me
and saying, 'I saw you at so and so stadium and it
was great BUT....' "

"During the last couple of years I've been saying I

didn't want to tour. I've had lots of letters from
people saying they respect my decision, but some
of them also say 'I'm 17 years old, a big Who fan,
I've never had a chance to see the band, and I think
it stinks. I wanna see you.' But they won't they've
lost the opportunity. Keith IS dead, and that
particular magic that existed is also dead. Quite
whether any part of that will still exist on stage when
we get together, I don't really know."

Does he find it a drag when people come up and

ask him to tour again? Does he get ratty with them?
"No, it's not a drag. I get ratty with myself, and
frustrated. What's required in the band is a clean
decision, and it's so hard to make.
"I knew for a long time that what I was saying was
that if the Who wasn't going to work 'live', then it
wasn't a band any more. I said that for two years
and we hung together, pretty much as a business
rather than a band, and as a recording act,
wondering what would happen to our record sales
when we didn't drag our bodies around the USA for
16 weeks. And what happened was we had our
most successful album in our whole career. What
that proves, I've got no idea.

DOES this mean Pete has changed his mind about

live performances?
"I've changed my mind not one bit. I don't intend
to tour. I get pushed up against the wall at times by
the group, the management, the industry, because
they want us to tour. But I do want to perform..."
Ah hah.

"It would have been even bigger if we'd gone over

there and worked. Maybe the time was just right for
the Who. But in the UK, live performance is

832

essential, because the Who is a living band to

British audiences. The album did okay here. It
compared favourably to Quadrophenia and Who's
Next. Who By Numbers has actually proved to be a
good long-term seller, but it was slow at first.
Quadrophenia was our most instantly successful
album. Who Are You was slightly disappointing, but
there was nothing we could do about it, and in
America of course it got number one airplay for six
weeks, and nearly knocked Grease off the top. It sat
at number two for four weeks in the States."

and listen to the music. There was wrangling to get

the freedom I wanted I didn't want to sign away
me balls for money and I would have probably got
greater freedom with CBS, which is a magnificent
company, but I like the people at Atlantic.
"I want to make a shit-hot rock album with the same
energy we'd put into a Who album, and it's very
necessary for me to do it before the next Who
album. It's the current thing I'm focussed on. It
might use other sidemen. I haven't played drums for
ages.

WHAT have the Who been doing in the studios

since Keith's death?

"A spooky thing was that whenever I got onto the

drum kit in the past and one of the reasons I must
definitely not get onto a drum kit in a hurry I'd feel
Keith's presence envelop me. Often, when I took
the demos in, Keith would say: 'This is very weird
listening to this, because I would have done that
bit.' He influenced the way I played. But if it
happened now, I'd go 'Arrrgh! He's back!' "

"To date we've recorded some extra tracks for the

Quadrophenia film, and we felt that would be a
good opportunity...not to mess around with a
jam...but actually get something down on tape.
We've three new songs for that, a song called
'Joker James' which was written for the original
album and was excluded, 'Get Out, Stay Out,' a
new thing, and we remade 'Can You See The Real
Me. They've all turned out great.

Maybe he'll come back and haunt us all?

"Mmm, let's hope so. Well, I like to think he's back
already. We've just got to track 'im down.

"It's very exciting working with Kenny, because he's

a completely different drummer with a much more
conventional approach than Keith. We're finding
ourselves, in a way. For a long time I felt inhibited
by being a rhythm player. What I'd really like is to
see the band have a keyboard player, on piano and
organ, and another guitar player, so that I'd be free
to do synthesiser work onstage, and play various
styles of guitar, so we could do some of the more
complex material from Who history."

"But I can't think of Keith as a ghost. I always think

of ghosts as people who lead troubled lives and
committed suicide and thank God there was
constant contact between us before he died, and I
know he wasn't in that frame of mind. If he'd been in
California, I would have really worried for him. I feel
this his presence, if you like, remains a purely
historical one, and the memory of him is never
painful, and hasn't been since the day I heard he
died.

Perhaps Ian McLagen, another ex-Face, would be

the ideal keyboards-player for the Who?

"I was shocked, and 15 to 20 minutes after hearing

about it, I just suddenly went 'Boo hoo'. Whoosh
my face was wet. And then it stopped. I haven't felt
grief at all.

"Yeah, I wanted him. He's a good guitar-player, too.

I was very keen to get him. Slight problem: he's
taken a contract with the Stones. Even so, I was
gonna give him a call and say, 'Fuck the Stones'.
But he moved to California.

"I DON'T know what Keith would be making, now, of

the things we're doing. I don't really know exactly
what he made of the things we were doing in the
two years since he came back from California. If I
feel tender about anything, it's tender about the
thought that if we'd been touring, things might have
been different.

"And a slightly touchy point: he's married to Kim,

who was Keith's ex, and she's responsible for
Keith's estate, so I didn't want to make the whole
thing any deeper or more fragile. At the moment
we've got Rabbit, subject to the Musicians' Union.
As for guitar players, there are so many good ones.
But we're NOT going to let Eric join."

"The Who HAD changed, and for Keith being part of

it was 90 per cent of his life, whereas for the others
it was less so. It was 90 per cent of his human ego,
and that ten per cent of himself was extremely
demonstrative, and aggressively out-going,
apparently egotistical. But he was much more

PETE revealed that his solo albums won't be

anything like past Who albums.
"I wanna make good-music records, and promote
them aggressively to reach the public so they'll sit

833

deeply bonded to the Who than any of the rest of

us.

Quadrophenia is Keith Moon. They'd make a

tombstone out of it. I feel very much that way about
The Kids Are Alright, too. It should definitely not
seem to be a tombstone for Keith, and God forbid it
turns out to be a tombstone for the Who!

"The inactivity of the group was a drag for him. Also

you must realise he was a drummer that never
played drums. He only played when the Who got on
stage. He wasn't interested in DRUMS, he was just
interested in BEING there. If he was there he'd do
it, but there was no reason to rush out and start
playing. He didn't get a lot of feedback from music,
it was a means to an end.

"In a way, it's not bad timing. There's 15 years

encapsulated in that film, and it does bring the
whole thing up to date, and now we've got the world
in front of us. The film is 90 per cent historic footage
and it's got the performances we did at Shepperton
which were magic. It was the last time we all played
together, and it's a really nice memory."

"I think about that to some extent, but I also know

there's no point in sitting around saying what could
have happened, or the whys and wherefores. All I
know is that if Keith had still been alive today, we'd
still be faced with tremendous changes. And I would
have fought a lot harder to get 'em thorough."

DOES Pete despair of the contemporary rock

scene, with its endless outpourings of unmitigated
tripe?
"No, not really. I get very annoyed when I see great
bands go wrong..."

But hadn't Keith made efforts to update his style?

"Nobody was nagging him to change his style. We
all liked him the way he was. It was just that the
material that I was coming up with, and John too,
wasn't standard, archetypal Who material. And that
was because your standard, archetypal Who
material had been wrapped up in Quadrophenia.
We'd given ourselves a totally free rein.

Examples, please?
"I don't want to slag anybody off. I really enjoyed the
new Clash album. I've got high hopes for them.
They're the most powerful band we've produced,
and Strummer has got a head on his shoulders.
The same for Jam, I feel great kinship with Paul
Weller, but it is tougher now, tougher to break the
American market, which is much more snide
towards English acts. They've got their own new
wave, Cars, Blondie, Devo, they've all got their own
thing.

"We'd just done Who's Next with Glyn Johns, and I

told Kit Lambert, who was then involved in the
production, that we needed to get the whole, old
three-chord Who thing over and done with, the
unfettered, rambling sound, that whole adolescent
Mod social streak Goldhawk Road TRIP finished!

"I'm not mad keen on Talking Heads or Devo. I

prefer to listen to Boomtown Rats, Clash and the
Jam. To be honest, I think Talking Heads are a bit
boring, too thoughtful. Gimme a couple more years
and I'll start to relate to Devo! My white hope was
Television. Tom Verlaine, I thought, was a genius.

"When we went in for those sessions, they just ran

the tape and we played. It was just total explosion
from start to finish. But the material was geared to
it. We've not re-recorded it for the film, either. We're
using the original tracks. I don't think we could have
done it again. It took long enough doing Tommy
again for the film. I couldn't have stood doing
Quadrophenia all over again!"

"I feel that it must be very, very sobering to young

bands who've had an all-out assault, with anarchists
and intellectuals, on the music business to find
that it actually is made of paper. On the other side
of the paper castles, record companies and super
star groups are just people. That must be a
disappointment.

Meanwhile, has the Kids film been altered to

include the death of Keith?
"No. In fact, Keith saw the final cut and he approved
it and liked it. A strange irony of the film is they
chose 'Long Live Rock' for the titles, and under the
titles were a lot of shots of Keith, so that's a real
tearjerker.

"It must have been disappointing to find out it was

all paper and how easy it was to smash the
establishment of rock. Then they had to ask, where
are the people to pay our rent, buy our records and
listen to what we say? They found they were
actually talking to rather a small clique.

"Well, Keith saw the film before he died...somebody

suggested putting 'This film is dedicated to the
memory of Keith Moon' on Quadrophenia and I said
you don't need it. You don't need to say it.

"Sympathy isn't the right word I identified with

what was happening, as it was so much like the

834

period we were at just after 'Pictures Of Lily'. The

public got a bit blase about us. 'Oh, 'ere they come,
they're gonna stick out their new single, it's gonna
be interesting BUT...' Then, as I said before, we
produced 'I Can See For Miles, it got really good
airplay, AND PEOPLE DIDN'T BUY IT! The industry
didn't crush it.

about coming out of the street, from the gutter, or

from middle class suburbs for that matter.
"My two brothers with their bands, why do they
persist? Is it because they're starving or frustrated,
or because they are anarchists? It's none of those
things. Everybody has a different reason, and that's
the value of rock. It's a channel for all kinds of
people and that's still incredible.

"The same happened when we put out 'Join

Together In The Band, I thought it was incredible.
THAT bombed. You need good promotion, powerful
management and advertising, but the public moves
in mysterious ways. It's when you realise you can't
bully them....."

"I've seen the magic work in the Who, with four

guys from totally different backgrounds meeting and
arriving at the place we all set out to get to. It's an
absolute miracle. The most important thing at the
end of the day is to continue to have that ability to
communicate with other people. That is a lesson
clear-headed, intelligent rock people can learn.

And you've tried?

"Oh, we've tried everything, bullying them,
humouring them, intimidating, scaring, making
friends.

"It makes mistakes. The machine is unfair, and

things can go wrong. But there IS a purity in rock."

"But it doesn't affect your record sales. Sex Pistols

swearing on TV was great. It was quick and brought
them into the public eye, but the back-up wasn't
there. I remember when we did our last interview, I
was very concerned that something terrible was
going to happen, and it happened to Sid Vicious. I
weep for that guy.

Chris Welch, 1979

The Who Movie
Ira Robbins, Trouser Press, April 1979
Kids Are Allright Director Jeff Stein Tells TP All
About It

"It's gross callousness for people like Jules and

Tone" (I assume he meant Julie Burchill and Tony
Parsons) "to adopt a stance on it. I read something
in the Guardian, when their book was coming out,
and they said they didn't give a shit about Keith
Moon dying because he drove a Rolls Royce into a
swimming pool when people were starving in India,
and Sid Vicious will get what's come to him. It's a
misunderstanding of the volition behind the acts
that lead to final events. I've written them a nice
song which they won't like at all, called 'Jules &
Tone'.

Although it is really only a coincidence that Trouser

Press's fifth anniversary comes at the same time as
the completion of The Kids Are Alright, the movie
chronicling 15 years of the Who, nothing could be
more appropriate. The role which the Who have
played in my life, and the importance of the Who in
the very creation and existence of the Trouser
Press can not be overestimated. Long before the
inception of Trouser Press, I followed the Who
loyally and their music determined the path of much
of my life. If you've never felt that way about a
rock'n'roll band, there's no point in trying to explain
it. Just find someone who has, and ask them. I don't
regret anything about my devotion to the Who, and I
still have quite a number of friends with whom I
shared the experience of waiting on ticket lines,
going to concerts in various cities, trading records
and tapes, writing long impassioned letters and
talking endlessly about the Who. Sometimes it
seems a long time ago.

"What I'm driving at is that the sensationalist side of

the business is something the public react strongly
to. But Keith crashed a car into the swimming pool
simply because he hadn't learned to drive. He was
alright pushing his foot on the accelerator, but he
didn't quite understand steering.
"One mustn't be too Fascist about it. People do
have human weaknesses and needs, and
unfortunately they make them manifest in the
strangest ways. And there's no point in pontificating
about it. It's an extension of music criticism which I
don't like."

Rock'n'roll has changed a lot since the early days of

the Who and Trouser Press has only been around
the last five years to chronicle those changes. With
the death of Keith Moon last year, the end of the
Who as we knew it had come, but fortunately, one
true Who fan was making this movie, capturing the
spirit and music of the Who for posterity, and for the

"But I'm not picking fights. In a way I sympathise

with some of their sentiments, but it isn't all just

835

mass audience that either never saw the real thing

or never knew the whole story. Jeff Stein, a good
friend whom I first met in the second row of a Who
concert in Forest Hills, NY in August 1971, has
been working on this film for as long as I can
remember, and now it's ready. I couldn't wait to see
it, so I phoned Jeff up in Los Angeles, where he was
putting the finishing touches to it, and asked him a
bunch of questions about the film how it came
about, what's in it and so forth. As director, as well
as instigator, Jeff has been in charge of nearly
every aspect of the production, and he was most
willing to talk about the project, a true labor of love.

Rothkowitz who was, and is, my editor. We strung

together whatever Who film I could beg, borrow or
steal and showed it to them. I've never seen such a
reaction Pete was on the floor, banging his head.
He and Keith were hysterical. Roger's wife was
laughing so hard she knocked over the coffee table
in the screening room. Their reaction was
unbelievable they loved it. That's when they were
really convinced that the movie was worth doing. It
amused them, so they figured there must be an
audience for it. They're always their harshest critics.

First, money had to be gotten together. Actually,

before that, I had to do a lot of research and not
only find where the Who had appeared on television
and what films and promotional clips had been
made of them, but find out what still existed, which
was the hard part. That took a year-and-a-half to
really do thoroughly. Then we started to raise the
money. My advice to the Who was always "Don't
give away the control, or the extra profits. Don't get
taken for a ride; put up your own money," which
they have. That, the research and organizing the
money took about two-and-a-half years. You can
imagine what it's like; look at how long it takes them
to make an album. I had the same problems
tours, changes of plans, getting them to really make
firm commitments in a number of areas. It wasn't
only the guys in the band, it was also management
and they were switching management at that
point. They weren't touring a lot and the tours they
did had a lot of problems. Pete was very unhappy in
1975, doing those tours none of that was helping
in terms of making the film progress. That takes us
up to the last week in May 1977, when production
officially started at Pinewood Studios in England. In
other words, the money was in the bank, the
production crew was hired and I went over from the
States. After that, we went out and bought up the
library footage.

Can you give us a chronology of the film after that

point?

How did you get involved with the Who in general,

and how did the film come about in specific?
I was a fan the Who were my favorite band
they always were and still are. I guess I started
following them in 1965 and started physically
following their tours in '69 and '70. During that time I
gradually got to know them and took a lot of
photographs of them. One day, Keith saw that we
had the same kind of camera and he wanted to
show me his photographic equipment, so we went
up to their hotel somewhere horrible, like
Rochester and that's where I got to know Keith
and Pete better. Then I had a collection of
photographs that I got published [as a book in 1973
Ed.] and I got to know the band better. When
Pete wanted to put together the Tommy book in
1975 [The Story of Tommy was finally published in
1977 Ed.] he knew me well enough that he
called me, and asked since I had published a
book on the Who and knew a lot about publishing
if I'd help him with that aspect or give him some
advice on where to go. That's when I really got to
know Pete and the next time he was in New York
[March 1975], I discussed the possibility of doing a
film with him. I said that there was a whole new
generation of Who fans there's a hierarchy of
Who fans: the people that first followed them, then
the people who followed them as of Tommy, and
then the younger people who first saw them in '74
or '75. I said, "I think we should preserve all this.
Why don't I put all the old film clips together so that
they'll always be there for the younger fans and for
the older fans who still want to see the old songs
you don't want to play anymore. Even for your kids."
He said he thought it was a good idea. If I could put
up with all the hassles with lawyers and mangement
and stuff, he said he would back me all the way,
which he has. That's how it all started.

It was the first time I'd even gotten to view some of

it, because a lot was from Germany, some from
Sweden, France and Australia. I also got footage
from Norway and some from Finland that had been
shot elsewhere. I had to track people down that had
shot film for them at the Fillmore, at the Village
Theatre, at Commack, Long Island stuff like that.
There were particular gaps in time that were very
hard to fill, mostly around 1968-1969 when Pete
was very firmly against anybody shooting their act.
Woodstock was really the only stuff from that
particular period, but I did find a guy named John
Rubin who had been a film student at MIT at that
point, and who shot some stuff. One of my favorite
pieces of footage he shot is of Keith destroying

The final thing that convinced them to do it was a

17-minute film that I put together with Ed

836

what became known as the Pictures of Lily drum

kit, that hand-painted psychedelic job. I have
wonderful footage John was in the front row
shooting when Keith destroyed that kit completely,
about 10 minutes into the set. He threw the entire
kit into the audience, and people were throwing it
back. Pieces of equipment kept falling over and
roadies kept standing them back up Keith was
well out of it at the time.

the one in late '75, we were supposed to film their

show at Winterland in San Francisco but that
was one of the things that fell through.
I didn't want to shoot something like Midnight
Special with a really controlled crowd, so we
announced a secret gig and everyone showed up.
At the last one [5/25/78 Ed.], the Greater London
Council wouldn't let us use the lasers inside
London, and we couldn't find any suitable venue, so
we finally booked a huge movie sound stage at
Shepperton and built their entire stage inside. To
make up for it not really being a gig, we turned it
into a huge party. There were people in straitjackets
suspended over the crowd, and some guy tried to
break the world's record for keeping a ferret down
his trousers [Hunh? Ed.]. Keith organized the
entertainment, of course. We had thousands of
bottles of wine, cases and cases of beer, and it
turned out to be the most uproarious party, and the
Who came out and played as a finale. We had
twelve hundred people drunk out of their skulls, and
it was very difficult to film. I didn't have people
roped off, and we didn't tell anybody to sit down or
anything, and it was crazy. When they hit the stage,
there were people all over the place. The Who
played great. When we went back the next day to
clean up, there were people still there, unconscious!

Once we got to Pinewood, it was a matter of finding

all the footage, negotiating for the footage, viewing
and logging it, and beginning to actually edit the
film. All of this was done under my supervision. Bill
Curbishley [the Who's manager] took care of getting
money together, negotiating a lot of the final deals
for footage, while I supervised finding everything,
initial negotiations, and overseeing the editing and
the shooting.
What new material was shot for the film ?
We filmed some interview stuff and spent a "day in
the life" with Keith Moon that ended up being a
week in California at his home. We were very
fortunate in that Ringo came out the last day we
were there and spent about 10 hours with us,
interviewing Keith: Ringo's the one who actually
interviews Keith in the film, except for a couple of
things I did. Ringo and Keith working together were
great really funny. Later, I filmed their rehearsals,
just after Keith had moved back to England from
California, when they were getting ready to go into
the studio to do Who Are You. I think that was
September of '77, which gives you an idea how long
that album took. I actually filmed them rehearsing
Who Are You for the very first time. I was just
supposed to go in and do cinema verite stuff, just
get whatever happens, but when I showed up, it
was "Okay Jeff, what do you want us to play?" I
didn't know what to tell them, so I racked my brains
for a minute and said, "How about playing 'Barbara
Ann'?" So we have a rendition of them doing
Barbara Ann with Keith handling lead vocals. They
hadn't played it since 1966, but they went right into
it and it's a great version. The next day, Keith
decided he would arrive on a fire truck that was on
fire, so we have some of that.

At Shepperton, at the last gig, I was backstage, and

the people were roaring for an encore, and carrying
on. You know the Who hate to do encores, and they
had really beaten themselves to death doing this
show. It was really tough, and I went back and said,
"Pete you gotta go out and give 'em an encore.
We've got to get a definitive version of Won't Get
Fooled Again. We need the definitive end." And he
said, "Jeff what do you want me to do? Go out
there and fall asleep playing? Maybe I should go
out there and just die during my last solo? Or
maybe I should hit that guy who's been yelling for
'Magic Bus' over the head with my guitar." Anyway,
we do have a great ending they did go back out
and do it.
It was very complicated, because I wanted to film
the lasers that accompany Won't Get Fooled Again
and it was very hard to shoot those, but that was
one of the main reasons we wanted to film them at
Shepperton, to get the lasers right, which we did.

I also filmed recording sessions. One sequence in

the film was shot when they were recording Who
Are You. Then we filmed the two "secret" gigs.
Setting those up was nearly impossible. I'm very
surprised that they ever happened at all. Pete never
really wanted to play; no one was really into touring;
and I finally had to say "Listen there are a couple
of songs that I don't think are well covered in the
footage we have and you've got to do some gigs." I
was supposed to go on a couple of tours during

When did the operation pick up and move to Los

Angeles?
We moved to Los Angeles in September, and
Entwistle came over the first week of October in
order to supervise the Dolby sound dub. I had
always thought it would be good to have one of the
Who do it, so that we would have an authentic

837

sound, and John had already done Odds and Sods,

remixing all those old songs. The soundtrack is
authentic, unlike some rock'n'roll movies that I won't
mention that were supposedly live but where
everything was overdubbed, or where the filming is
done on a sound stage and they pretend it's
Madison Square Garden... All our sound is the
authentic sound, except I think there are a couple of
bass overdubs. We have a very early Anyway
Anyhow Anywhere where they just did not record
the bass there isn't any bass. We discussed it at
length either Entwistle would lay in a new bass
track or there wouldn't be any bass. We opted for
having bass. John went back and found the bass
he'd played, and played it in the same style.

seen that part I put that in last. They're gonna cry

when they see it.

It was a pain in the ass finding footage that had

sound intact. Some of it we would have been better
off re-recording, in terms of sound quality, but the
impact of hearing them... On the Shindig stuff, I had
to get the sound off the optical track of a kinescope.
We spent a lot of time on the sound, and it sounds
great: raw and punchy. It's the Who sound.

Then we go to the Who's Next period, and I have

Baba O'Reilly and Won't Get Fooled Again. I was
going to have 5:15 from Quadrophenia, but it
wasn't really a hot version, and when they decided
to do the Quadrophenia film, I dropped it, so there's
no live stuff from Quadrophenia in the film. The film
I had was a videotape from the 1973 Charlton
concert, but I didn't think it was up to snuff and I
didn't use any of it. The problem with stuff shot on
video is that they use three, four or maybe five
cameras, and then they edit it and destroy the
leftovers. The stuff is so shittily edited. Everything
else we have totally recut.

For that sort of "psychedelic" era, we have I Can

See for Miles and My Generation from the
Smothers Brothers TV show, which is how the
movie opens. We also have the Monterey Pop
Festival sequence of them doing My Generation.
Then I have the '68-'69 period where they proved
themselves to be the best live band in the world, I
have Young Man Blues from the London Coliseum,
which is unbelievable. It cuts the one on Live at
Leeds to shreds. I have three songs from
Woodstock that we totally re-edited, then I have
Pinball Wizard and Sparks.

The soundtrack album won't have everything on it,

because there are over 25 songs, all of which are
full length, except for a singles medley that I did
because we wanted to work in all their great singles
of the '60s and there was no other way to do it
except to shorten them. The singles medley is six
songs, everything else is full length. Entwistle
remixed everything and we talked a lot about what
the Who sounded like at each particular time.
Instead of brightening things and doing a whole lot
of overdubs, or replacing things, we just tried to
make the old recordings sound as good as
possible, and that took a lot of time. In the old
promo films, like Happy Jack, he's totally remixed
the song. It was mixed so shitty in the '60s that you
won't believe what it sounds like. Our remix of the
Magic Bus single is great.

I then have the '75-'76 era when they did huge

stadium gigs I have a live jam from Metropolitan
Stadium in Pontiac, Michigan which was, at that
point, the largest indoor gig ever (70,000 on Dec. 6,
1975). The jam, which runs over nine minutes, is
sort of a combination Join Together and Naked
Eye, which goes into Roadrunner, and then they
do a slow My Generation. At the end, Pete does
his Eric Clapton impersonation. From there, we
have them at Shepperton '78, (their last show ever)
and recording Who Are You, which shows them
really becoming a studio band, which I guess is
what they were going to do, weren't they?

In terms of eras covered, the film has everything

back to footage shot while they were the High
Numbers. I have loads of stuff from l965, meaning
their first Shindig stuff, which was all live; the only
thing left of them from Ready Steady Go, which is
Anyway Anyhow Anywhere live; I have the
Richmond Jazz Festival in which they do Shout
and Shimmy live; that's all the early R&B period.
The next period is the singles like Substitute, The
Kids Are Alright, Pictures of Lily; we have all
those. I then have their Beau Brummel period with
the sequins and the ruffles and all that. As a matter
of fact, we have a sequence from an 8mm film
taken by a friend of theirs of them putting on their
make-up backstage in '67, including a great shot of
Pete powdering his nose! Roger Daltrey fixing
everyone's hair that sort of thing. They've never

I have promos that were shot and never used, like

Anyway Anyhow Anywhere, where the Who are
running down Carnaby Street with Pete and Keith
wearing Union Jack jackets. There's also a film that
has Keith running after an armored truck with the
others in it. I found that, and nobody knew where
that one was. I went to the vaults of every film lab in
England, and asked if they had any film by Kit
Lambert or Chris Stamp, or New Action Limited; I
would try any name that might turn something up.
Some would call me back six months later, and ask
if I hadn't once called about Who films. That's how I
got the Anyway Anyhow Anywhere promo some
lab found dailies [working proofs Ed.]. Finding
the Rolling Stones' Rock & Roll Circus (from which

838

we used A Quick One) was a bitch no one knew

where that was, not even the Rolling Stones! And
then I had to find the sound! There are about 150
different scenes each one had to found, recut,
then the negative had to found, then they all had to
be optically perfected so they could salvaged it
was a lot of work. I was told for two-and-a-half
years that there was no way the Rock & Roll Circus
negative could be found, or that the work print could
be found, and that even if I found it we couldn't use
it. Well, we found it and we're using it. I found
Young Man Blues in a garbage can it was that
kind of thing. Even the Woodstock stuff can you
imagine what it was like going through 500,000 feet
of film for which the log books had been destroyed
in a flood at Warners? We found the stuff and cut it.

stood for 12 years before them, that comes through

in the film. The film will satisfy a Who fan audience,
I hope, because they're very hard to satisfy and
everyone will have their own vision of what the film
should be like. There will be some who hate me as
much as they hate Ken Russell, but I'll live with that.
I think The Kids Are Alright is a film that explores
the phenomenon of a music that many hoped would
"fade away" yet is still here. I think the film shows
how that music has progressed, and shows what it
took to stand up for the music, and why so many
people got destroyed by it. I think it's selfdestructive.
I think the film is even about what Pete stands for
he said, and he meant, that he was going to die
before he got old, and now he thinks he's old and
maybe he feels ashamed that he didn't die, but he
also tried to bring rock'n'roll in another direction. I
think he was holding that flag as long as he could
until someone else had the balls to take it. As he
says in the film (I hope it stays in the final cut),
standing on the stage at the Kilbum gig, "There's a
guitar up here if any of you big mouth little gits want
to come and fucking take it off of me."

How does the film reflect Keith Moon's death?

Keith saw it before he died. Everyone had seen a
rough cut about a week before, except for Pete,
because I was holding out until it was nearly
perfect. Then Keith died, and Pete had to see it two
days later, so I'm sure he missed a lot of the fun. It
was awfully peculiar showing them the film again
after that. Nobody involved with the Who ever
asked me to change anything to exploit Keith's
death. We were determined not to change a thing.

The last bits in the film are My Generation from

Monterey, totally redone, a destruction montage of
15 years of them breaking their equipment, back to
the end of Monterey, and then into their last four
statements, which I don't think I should tell you. You
think the movie's over after Monterey and the
destruction montage, but then they come back for
four last statements. The last quote by Pete is "I
don't know what to do I keep getting accused of
letting the side down, as it were, often by our fans.
Some people say, 'Pete, you've got to keep going,
otherwise you'll let down all these kids.' It's not
people saying 'the show must go on,' it's people
saying 'Pete, you've got to go on, otherwise, all
those kids will have nothing to live for.' That's
rock'n'roll." Into Won't Get Fooled Again.

Who's the film aimed at?

My initial thing was for Who fans, but also to
showcase the Who so all the non-believers would
see their contribution, see that they were the
greatest group in the world. I'm sure, like you, I was
tired of telling people, and once everybody
accepted the fact that the Who were the greatest
band, it was like anything you wonder if you were
right or wrong. People might have loved them after
Tommy, but they wanted to be famous after they did
A Quick One and Sell Out that's when they
deserved to be the top-rated band in the world, not
after Tommy.

The film was a tearjerker long before Keith Moon

died. You'll be crying when you see it, but I wanted
everyone to feel proud that they had stood by the
Who. You did it, Ira, and look what it did for your life.
It did the same for me, and it's something to be
proud of. I promise you this film will renew your faith
in what you stood for.

To sum up the motivation, our first aim was to

preserve the legacy and to prove the point that
we've been arguing since grade school that the
Who are the best group in the world. Then, as I
found the footage, I could see what it was saying
that this was the only band that survived the whole
era without changing personnel; that had
contributed so much to the development of
rock'n'roll; and that had always epitomized the
rock'n'roll spirit no holds barred, ever. It became
a rock'n'roll film. Fuck Kiss if that's what kids
think is rock'n'roll, they're going to have their eyes
opened! Even the Sex Pistols I loved them, and I
think Johnny Rotten is sensational, and I knew him
quite well in England, but in terms of what the Who

Ira Robbins, 1979

The Who: The Mod Revival, Yes
Mark Williams, Melody Maker, 12 May 1979
The Who: Rainbow, London

839

THE MOD COUNT was disconcertingly low. Half-adozen fish-tailed parkas, one union jacket, a couple
of dog-hair whistles (one a tantalising irridescent
mauve job that Paul Weller would've loved) and a
lone Lambretta Li150 with nary a spotlamp in sight.
If the Who's hastily arranged Rainbow bash was
expected to entice an army of ageing skeds out of
their semi-detached lairs, in Shepherds Bush and
Richmond, then most of them were in disguise.

onstage about 8.35 and cut into a wilful, almost

irreverent execution of Substitute that had the
entire audience on its feet from the first bar.
No one sat down for the next two hours.
That the band were going to deliver a killer set was
evident from half-way through the following number,
I Can't Explain, and had nothing to do with the
highly affectionate expectations worn so blatantly
on the communal audience sleeve. Daltrey
Townshend and Entwistle were playing on top form;
Bundrick and Jones aspired to that undoubtedly
daunting status with an uneven mixture of
confidence and determination.

(On the other hand, does one really preserve a pair

of orange hipsters and a polka-dot shirt for
nostalgia's sake? Nah, they got ripped up for
polishing the Cortina years ago.)
Still, I had expected a more vivid display of Sixties
chic than this. It was an historic occasion, after all;
the first public airing of a new line-up in a band that
had remained unchanged for some 14 years. And
not just any band. This is the Who...a group with a
timeless reputation as brash hedonists which
successfully transcends the all-purpose artiness of
rock operas and concept media binges.

It should be noted that Kenny Jones is not Keith

Moon, didn't try to ape Keith Moon's unique style
and wisely chose to drive things along in a manner
which fell somewhere in between Carmen Appice
and Prairie Prince. Which is to say he threw in all
the appropriate embellishments without shirking the
essential task of providing a powerbase for bass
and lead guitars. He rarely utilised the full
capabilities of his massive 15-piece kit, but he
created a solid and fairly resourceful bottom line.

More than that, the Who were a seminal influence

on the new wave, a sociological full-circle that came
close to dispatching their leader on a one-way trip
to the funny farm in his frustrated attempts to
rationalise his suddenly antique role.

Sometimes the cracking pace of a lengthy Who

programme threatened to become too arduous for a
man who often reflects the demeanour of a golfing
pro, but, generally speaking, he had it buttoned
down on his own terms. Tricky but tight.

Indeed, a fair proportion of Wednesday's audience

were dressed fit for some Clash or Banshees gig,
and the rest were an odd assemblage of
nondescript rock fans and the sort of people who go
to a concert to note which Gibson Pete Townshend
comes onstage with and whether or not it's the
same one he junks his amps with after the final
encore. The academic element, you might say.

Jones started out visibly apprehensive, nervous

even, and it wasn't until Daltrey successfully
attempted to allay the doubts of the True Believers
by introducing Townshend and Entwistle as the "two
new members of the band" that some of the tension
disappeared from his face.

Irrespective of motive or mode of dress, we all

contributed to a sense of occasion that hung heavy
in the air. Would Kenny Jones cut it as a surrogate
Keith Moon? Could a Rabbit add anything to the
ultimate in power trios? And, to ensure that the
music press paid for any cynical answers to these
questions before a single note was struck, the
common denominator was a five-quid ticket...ten
times as much for the slothful, who had to huddle in
the gloomy corridors of Finsbury Park tube station
and take their chances with the scalping fraternity.

John Bundrick was another matter altogether.

Despite the power and clarity of the PA
unmatched by anything else I've contracted
earache from at the Rainbow his organ and piano
work were mixed way below the rest of the
instruments, and only once or twice for example,
during the instrumental passages of an epic My
Generation were we aware of his existence. True,
he must've fleshed out the overall sound to some
extent, but it was so subtle as to be almost
redundant.

Not until we'd run a gamut of security checks that

rivalled those of visiting day at Sing-Sing, and sat
through a loudly amplified short-list of the Jackson
Browne songbook, did we get any of those
answers, and by that time Tiny Tim could've come
onstage, recited a soup-can label, and got an
ovation. Fortunately five shadowy figures loped

On synthesizer though, it was a different jar of

tadpoles, because it ensured that numbers like
Baba O'Reilly and Won't Get Fooled Again
approached the recognisable sound of their vinyl
forebears. Rabbit also added an extra voice to

840

harmonies and unison choruses that certainly

enhanced their overall might.

the audience declared their unanimous adulation for

the whole band as they came together one by one,
linked arms and took the Big Bow after the uplifting
Won't Get Fooled Again. There followed but one
encore, Doctor Doctor, after which Townshend
demolished half the group's amplification with more
than perfunctory gusto.

Townshend was simply a gas, joking with the

audience and the rest of the band, chaperoning
Jones with an occasional nod or a smile, and
delivering an exceptionally impressive display of
what is expected of him. If anyone doubted his will
to continue strutting the boards in the face of the
punk onslaught, they'd have to reconsider after
Wednesday night.

Relatively adventurous arrangements of material

both obscure and well-worn, irresistibly urgent
treatments of their simpler stuff, and a new-found
enthusiasm for performance suggest that the new
Who might prove to be even better than the old
Who.

Sometimes Townshend would simply strum

furiously into a middle-eight or an instrumental
break, pushing the band into a relentless, piledriving beat that got you in the gut, Who Are You?
and Bargain being two prime examples. (On the
latter song it was Townshend, not Jones, who got
caught short, when he started singing too soon after
a break).

The incipient sleekness of an AOR mega-group

would've been an easy option at this point in their
career, but the Who have not let finesse get the
better of them. They've retained the sense of
mischief that some feared would die with Keith
Moon, and that was possibly the best news of
Wednesday evening.

How long and hard Townshend had been

rehearsing the new Who will remain a mystery, but
it was surprising how effectively they accomplished
a Tommy medley and, to an even greater extent, an
amalgam of My Generation, Join Together In The
Band and Magic Bus, which involved some cute
segues and nice harp playing from Daltrey even if
he got stuck into Bo Diddleys Mona for about an
hour-and-a-half.

Mark Williams, 1979

Townshend: Still No Touring
Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 26 May 1979
What next for the Who?

Very rarely did anyone screw up, although it should

be said that Jones didn't take any chances and
wore headphones linked direct to the onstage mixer
during several numbers. On the other hand, when
Townshend and Bundrick started running a bit too
fast during the diminuendo passage on Who Are
You? they were conducted back to the correct
tempo by Jones' assertive right hand.

Roger loved it, but Pete's not so sure...After

their French concert last week, CHRIS WELCH
eavesdropped on the Who's doubts and
certainties.
"GREAT, fantastic." The well-wishers crowded
around the Who in the grounds of a vast mansion
just outside Cannes. "I don't know, I still have my
doubts..." Pete Townshend looked worried, perhaps
nagged by the fear that he's being unwillingly
sucked once more into the rock 'n' roll battlefield.

In the main, though, it was Daltrey who directed the

pace, throwing himself and, of course, his
microphone around the stage in a manner that
might easily have been construed as complacent or
haughty if this had been a heavymetal exposition,
but in the event was the measure of a man who
likes to face up to an audience.

The concerts, at the Rainbow and in France last

week, had been a great success. But at the press
conference and a party after the screening of The
Kids Are Alright and Quadrophenia, Who-watchers
could sense the conflict between those within the
band who want it to tour and the key member who
doesn't.

Hair clipped short and wearing a black leather

bomber during the early numbers, he looked and
sang tougher than he's done for ages, giving new
hope to any other 35-year-olds in the hall who
might've been wondering if they could make it to 40
in some sort of style.

While Roger Daltrey quietly let it drop that he had

been instrumental in getting them thus far into live
performances, Pete was in another huddle of
photographers and reporters insisting that he didn't
want to kill himself with the kind of overwork that
had killed others.

Incongruities and reservations flew quietly down the

toilet as we got sucked into the whole joyous
experience of rock'n'roll excellence. Confirming this,

841

But the Who were being friendly and considerate to

the world's rock press, who had descended by
plane and coach on the South of France to witness
the group's triumphant return. Even when After
Dark rashly suggested to John Entwistle that they
could drop My Generation from the set, effectively
depriving him of his only bass guitar solo of the
night, the Ox didn't bat an eyelid, although he grew
somewhat tense about the jaw. Kenny Jones, later
described in the Observer as "beautifully boyish,"
seemed somewhat stunned by the entire train of
events.

BUT a few yards away, Townshend was giving

another interview in which he was painting a
different picture.
"The rest of the band would like to see you back
touring again," a reporter was telling Pete.
"I don't want to do that," said Townshend darkly. "I
really don't." Some tittered nervously, but he was
serious. "It would kill me. It's killed thousands of
other people. Why kill me? We'll do as much as we
can, WITHOUT killing ourselves. It would kill even
Kenny to tour too much."

The Who allowed themselves to be filmed,

photographed and tape recorded. Would the Who
play London again, we asked Roger?
"We're planning that now. It's a matter of when and
where and for how long, how many and who with.
We really want to make an event of it, and I think it'll
be Wembley Stadium, for two days. It'll be a Moon
Festival. I think people want to see a good group
again. There is so much rubbish about now that
people have begun to believe that it's good, you
know?"

Why didn't the Who themselves appear in

Quadrophenia as characters, we wondered?
"It was difficult because of the ages. Roger would
have liked to have been in it, but he wasn't young
enough to be one of the crowd, and not old enough
to be the kid's father. Because the Quadrophenia
crowd were the kind of kids we grew up with and
were our audience of the Sixties, it was possible to
have a completely unknown cast. The kids in the
film are just ordinary cockney guys who'd never
acted before.

How did Roger feel when the Who finally got back
on stage at the Rainbow?
"Oh, the Who is the best drug in the world. I felt
weird, but it was great. You should have heard our
second show at Frejus it would make a great
bootleg. It probably has!"

"I don't know if this is the kind of film the Who will
develop more in the future. I just enjoy writing music
and scripts, that's what I do now, and I hope one of
the scripts will see the light of day. To some extent,
what the Who now do on stage and as producers is
helping me to get my creative work to the public."

What did he think of the Mod revival, spearheaded

by groups like Jam?
"It's a shame they can't find their own thing. At least
the punk thing was original. Well, I hope the media
don't fuck it up, like you did with punk. You certainly
fucked punk up."

How did Pete feel about singing My Generation, 15

years on?
"Well, now, of course, it feels totally ridiculous.
Maybe we should change the words. We do now
slow it down to a Jimmy Reed R&B tempo...which is
more suitable for me tired old legs."

Not me, Guv I had nothing to do with it. More to

the point, what did Roger think of The Kids Are
Alright, and how did he feel seeing himself as a kid?

The Euro-Rock writers wanted to know if Pete felt

that, as he wrote the song so long ago, he was now
in danger of becoming a boring old fart.

"I haven't seen it. At least not since the first rushes.
I couldn't look at it after Keith died. I don't feel I
want to see it. Maybe in ten years' time. It reminds
me too much of what we lost.

"Yes, sometimes I feel that way. Sometimes in the

depths of a bad day I feel I just want to crawl away
and die. But there's something very magical about
being on a stage or being in a band. It was an
electric time for me when we went into rehearse
three weeks ago. A lot of the first few days were just
jamming and playing around, but it was still very
fulfilling because it's always slightly dangerous and
risky.

"One thing that worried me in the last few years was

when it looked like we might never play again. But
we've done it now. I don't care if we stop NOW so
much, because we've done it. I don't mind touring
myself, I'd do it all the time."
But what about Pete?
"I don't think he'll mind so much now, because he's
enjoying himself!"

"Rock has always thrived on risk, so to some

extent, although the Who are very established and
solid, the older they get, the more dangerous it

842

becomes to claim they are a rock band. It's gone full

circle, in a sense. We now find it quite exciting, just
hanging on."

One Who stalwart who thoroughly enjoyed the

reunion was Kit Lambert, the original driving force
behind the Who in the Sixties, who poured forth a
stream of ideas in his usual brilliant manner.

What had happened to Pete's proposed record

label, Propellor? Announced last year, it was
scheduled to be launched last March with a Spitfire
flypast. The launch was cancelled due to "bad
weather," but now it seems to be permanently
shelved due to bad financial conditions.

"Kit has just spent 15 minutes telling me what's

wrong with the Who," said Pete later, "and he was
right!"
Chris Welch, 1979

"I tried to form the company last year, and it's

proved to be much harder than I thought," he said.
"I thought it would be a breeze, but it's very difficult
to provide the kind of money that's required. To pay
a young band today, just a silly retainer and to pay
for them to perform and record and supply their
equipment, you need 50,000 a year. And they'll
never earn that money from their first album or
concerts."

The Who: The Kids Are Alright (Polydor)

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 9 June 1979
"The whole thing about rock and roll dynamism, in
many ways, is the fact that if it does slow down, if it
does start to review itself, if it takes any sort of
perspective on life at all, it falls. As soon as
someone makes any kind of comment, for example,
musically on something they've done before, they
collapse... "
Pete Townshend, Rolling Stone, 1968.

Was that why Propellor was delayed?

"It's...finished," said Pete. "But I'm hoping the Who
will start a record company, because I'm very keen
to continue being involved with bands from the
ground up."

In the days before Tommy, it must have seemed

almost inconceivable to The Who that their past
would eventually outgrow their future. Most rockers
ransack their pasts only when it becomes apparent
that it has a better chance than their future of
rescuing their present, but in the case of The Who it
appears that ever since the arrival of the deaf
dumb and blind meal ticket that gave them true
megabankable stadium status in the States they
have had to hark back to the Mod era, almost as if
like vampires they needed to maintain contact
with their native soil or else rot where they stood.

JOHN Entwistle explained how he put the

soundtrack together for The Kids, sorting out the
mess of ancient recordings.
He claimed that whoever did the original
Woodstock sound must have been stoned, and
said: "The old Ready, Steady Go stuff was really
difficult. With the German Beat Club material we
used the original soundtrack, but Ready, Steady
Who, the RSG special we did, has been destroyed.
The only two existing copies of Ready, Steady Go
are owned by Michael Lindsay-Hogg.

Their native soil is, of course, that of the foreign

country where they do things differently. Pete
Townshend can hardly have been unaware of the
fact that, while the Tommy industry had opened
many doors to The Who, it had also closed many
others. Just about everything The Who have done
since Live At Leeds has been a rattling at
doorknobs, a pounding on doors. A loss of
innocence, a banishment from Eden!

"A lot of the old stuff was badly recorded in the first
place, and by the time it got to us it was really old
and scratchy. We were going to use '5.15' from Top
Of The Pops, but that was recorded in mono and
just didn't fit, and we had much better smash-up
sequences to use and that one was a bit futile. We
just walked off, it was nothing special compared to
what happened elsewhere."

It was as if they had become unwillingly

transformed, as if they felt impelled to carry around
a scrapbook of pictures showing what they had
looked like before, as if they were no longer the real
'Oo and thus were forced to carry identification, as if
their history were a Bankers Card without which
their cheques were no longer acceptable.

How did Entwistle get on working with Kenny Jones

as his new partner in the Who rhythm section?
"I don't have to worry so much about the drums
now. Keith was so unpredictable...I used to worry if
he would go out of time. Kenny is a lot more
consistent, and he's a lot easier to play with. Keith
was the hardest drummer in the world to play with."

Throughout the '70s they have flooded us with'

nostalgia. From Live At Leeds through
Quadrophenia, with Odds And Sods and The Story

843

Of The Who, with all the bloody Tommy tack and

now with the Quadrophenia movie and The Kids
Are Alright in both vinyl and celluloid configurations,
we have had the past eerliy superimposed over the
present whenever we have confronted The Who.

Woodstock album. The Kids Are Alright is,

therefore, almost an embarrassment of riches.
You get 'My Generation', 'I Can't Explain' and
'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere' from live TV shots, and
it's hilarious to imagine the TV sound engineers
frantically attempting to cope as their meters zoom
into the red and their speakers explode. The
epitome of pilled-up frenzy channelled into precise,
eloquent pop, those tracks are The Who at their
most timeless. The day that a generation of kids
exists which finds these songs completely alien,
rock and roll in any sense that the term is currently
understood will be totally kaput.

And Who nostalgia differs from Stones nostalgia or

Beatles nostalgia or Dylan nostalgia or Presley
nostalgia not simply because of its quantity or even
because it is generated directly and personally by
the artist, but because of the fact that Who
nostalgia has the unique capacity to evoke not so
much the artists' history as the listeners'.
When I hear a bunch of old Stones records (or any
of the above-named for that matter, I hear only the
Stones, and only memories of the Stones are
evoked though God knows I put in enough teenhours listening to the Stones. But gimme a stack of
Who singles and I hear my whole damn life there. I
even hear other artists: some of my fondest
memories of The Kinks and Jimi Hendrix have been
savoured while listening to The Who.

From a Swedish tour comes a tougher, flintier

'Happy Jack', closely accompanied by two alleged
TV snippets so similar to the studio recordings that
the corresponding sequences in the movie must be
lip-synch jobs. 'I Can See For Miles' and 'Magic
Bus' (for it is they) are book-ended by 'Long Live
Rock', which appears in the film as a studio scene.
All clear?

Stones nostalgia serves the Stones; Who nostalgia

even though you gotta hand over money for it
seems almost egoless, even though for Townshend
it's more like therapy: the more Who trivia
Townshend can stash round our place the less he'll
have cluttering up his pad. The Who's past
strangles them instead of nourishing them, but it's
still nourishing for us.

'Pinball Wizard' and 'See Me Feel Me' come from

Woodstock (wisely, Tommy is limited to a very brief
'Tommy Can You Hear Me' and a brisk instrumental
canter through 'Sparks' as a preface to the two real
gems) and outclass the originals to a sublime
extent, and the warmth and humour of 'A Quick One
While He's Away, (from The Rolling Stones Rock
'N, Roll Circus) provides the record's most charming
moment.

By 'us' I mean people who have an emotional stake

in The Who. They're the only stars of my youth
who've never alienated me, never soured my starryeyed kid-faith. For that reason, they've remained
human for me in a way that Dylan and The Beatles
and the Stones never could. I 'forgave' them the
pretensions and indulgence of Tommy and
sympathised with them over the crises of
confidence and internal traumas, even if it meant
flawed gigs and albums or even for so long no
gigs and albums. They never condescended, never
cheated.

The most disappointing sections come from the

period when they Heavy Metalled out in the
Stadium Era. 'Young Man Blues' sounds like a
grotesque parody of the more compact Live At
Leeds version, grossing out like Led Zep at their
most flatulent and the lengthy 'Join Together'/'Road
Runner'/'My Generation Blues' sequence pitilessly
documents the extent to which The Who's collective
taste had coarsened in response to the demands of
armies of lobotomised downer freaks.
However, there's a towering 'Won't Get Fooled
Again' in which the performance lives up to the
song with such power and passion it carries its own
redemption, it leaves The Who and all who sail with
them bloody but unbowed, a monument to survival
with honour. For me (he said, switching back from
critic-mode to fan-mode), the continued survival of
The Who is like a touchstone to my own: even
without Moon, The Who still exist, and that's good
enough.

Anyway, fill in your own what-The-Who-mean-to-me

rap while I grab my impartial-rock-critic hat, and
then let us ponder the artefact.
The Kids Are Alright is a double album of Who live
performances through the ages featuring most of
the classic landmarks. Available live recordings of
The Who prior to now have been somewhat sparse:
a live album apparently recorded at a stage in their
career when they seemed determined to
demonstrate that anything Cream or Led Zeppelin
could do they could do better, and one track on the

If statements like these seem dumb and maudlin,

then that's okay. All it means is that this album won't

844

mean as much to you as it does to me. I've said

little about Roger Daltrey and Keith Moon and John
Entwistle and Pete Townshend in this review, but
that's because the ablum's not really about them so
much as it is about The Who.

convinced that another gig by the band is the

Second (and probably last) Coming. And I am not a
fan of the Who.
At the risk, then, of aggravating the Who's
supporters, but without demeaning their past and
present achievements, I'd suggest that their live set
these days comes as an after thought (and sounds
like it) to their other interests, specifically the
making and promotion of Quadrophenia and The
Kids Are Alright, as well as Roger Daltrey's
separate celluloid aspirations. The move into
cinema is more worthy of their energies and
probably more exciting for them at this stage in
their career, and is certainly much more interesting
than watching them wearily re-wash their old linen
in public.

An open postcard to The Who, then, with just three

sentences: 'Keep on walkin' and don't look back.'
'Be of good strength.'
And 'Thanks.'

Charles Shaar Murray, 1979

The Who / The Stranglers/ AC/DC /Nils Lofgren:
Wembley Stadium, London

I'll bet that Jimmy (the central mod character in

Quadrophenia) wouldn't have liked the nostalgic
wallowing, either.

Harry Doherty, Melody Maker, 25 August 1979

NOT ONE OF the great Wembley encounters, we
decided, as the car crept another couple of feet in
the late Saturday evening jam.

The instinctive and positive audience reaction to

AC/DC was much more impressive and
entertaining, confirming that good hard rock owes
much to hunger. The band were determined to
leave their mark on what was their largest-ever
British audience, and they were aware that that
could finally establish their reputation here,
deservedly so. They might be a bit raw at the edges
and below the belt (literally) lyrically, but they're a
tremendously tight unit, chugging along mercilessly.
Guitarist Angus Young, still wearing those silly
school shorts, is a limited but effective guitarist who
makes up for his shortcomings by enthusiastic
gymnastics, while singer Bon Scott is a provocative
frontman.

We reflected on the good moments the polite

effectiveness of Nils Lofgren, AC/DC's crude and
abrasive conquering assault and brooded over
the disappointments: the failure of the Stranglers to
communicate, and the Who's ability to function, no
matter how lethargically, while commanding total
adulation from their audience.
But no matter how well (or poorly) the participants
perform, the onus for the success of an occasion of
this magnitude with an attendance of at least
50,000 is on The Event, the charisma to transform
artists from being dots on the horizon to giants for a
day. That never happened on Saturday.

There was much shuffling of feet in the guest area

during the set, but the audience left no doubt as to
their partiality for AC/DC. This could be just the
break the band needed to finally push their point
home to Britain.

Despite an excellent sound system, which

effectively killed the myth that you can't get a good
outdoor sound, only AC/DC really managed to
move the audience, a reaction that was best
gauged when the p.a. packed up during their set,
leading to a bitter reaction from an audience that
was plainly getting into rough 'n' tumble boogie.
When the sound was fixed, there was a roar that
would have done the Kop proud.

By comparison, Nils Lofgren was rather more

sedately successful, taking a more tactical route to
the hearts of his audience.
Lofgren determinedly shrugged off his guitar-hero
paranoia and concentrated on producing a set that
reflected not only the fine tone he brings to his
instrument, but also the versatility of his singing and
the strength of his melodies. First on, he had the
best sound of the day and made full use of it,
although we could have done without the
somersault from his trampoline at the end. It was a
bit too Moscow 1980 for Wembley Stadium.

Of course, the appearance of the Who prompted

hysteria far exceeding anything AC/DC could hope
to achieve, but the point is that if Pete Townshend
had come on dressed as Andy Pandy and sung
Dooleys hits, he would have been greeted with
nothing short of canonisation. Naturally, a Who fan
wouldn't say that, because a Who fan is always

845

The Stranglers were the major disappointment for

me. They were the band I'd come to see, and,
having spent Friday evening re-acquainting myself
with their three albums Rattus Norvegicus is still a
masterpiece, and Black And White keeps getting
better I expected more. From the experience of
their own gig at Battersea, though, I should have
known that they just don't get on with outdoor
festivals.

He trips back to his position just to left of Daltrey,

who's trotting on the spot. My God, Daltrey hasn't
twirled his microphone for a while. Must be saving
himself.

Their music is a lot more subtle than it may initially

appear, with much chopping and changing of
moods and melodies, and, in front of an audience
that was growing impatient for the Who, the
Stranglers weren't given room to breathe.

The new song grinds through some very Who-ish

brass assisted mock climaxes, young Kenny Jones
having a ball with the cymbals, and the lights switch
through complicated combinations of soft colours.

After the Townshend flashes, the song plops back

into its sodden funkish drifts; Daltrey sings a few
more verses with peckish drabness, the gathering is
once more settled, lifeless.

It's almost dark and...

Still, Down In The Sewer and Toiler On The Sea

sounded great and two new songs, Duchess and
Shah-Shah-A-Go-Go, have whetted my appetite
for the new album. I'm looking forward to seeing
them indoors again.

The new song finally edges to a halt.

The shorn (although I can't actually see this for
myself) Roger Daltrey harps us into the next song,
which turns out to be the quaint 'Magic Bus'. The
congregation immediately snaps out of its quiet,
meditative period and once more becomes
energetic and vocal.

There's nothing else to say, except perhaps that

Liverpool ran Wembley with a lot more imagination
and control than the Who ever could.
Harry Doherty, 1979

Townshend wrists us into 'Pinball Wizard', and 99%

of those present The Believers have hysterics.
Most of these faithfully sing along with fond
memories and The Who rumble through a faded,
fake version somewhere over 'there'.

Who, Stranglers: Laser Laser On The Wall Who

Are Complacent After All
Paul Morley, NME, 25 August 1979

It's dark now and...

THE MIDDLE OF the evening and it's getting quite
dim. The Who are playing a new song; at least, I
take it to be a new song because the 72,000
aficionados packed onto the Wembley pitch and
spread around the terraces, are in the middle of one
of their lifeless periods.

Daltrey carefully croons "See Me, Feel Me..."; you

know the plot. And here we transcendently rose into
the undoubted highspot of The Wembley Epic.
Tommy is liberated and the majority of the gathering
suffer simultaneous myth induced mystical
orgasms. And me?

Hardly any one moves as The Who plus

brassmen and piano player gamely limp through a
lank and unlovely expanse of formula rock.

Green lasers shoot out from behind The Who,

scattering patterns above the peoples' heads; and
bounce off the far lip of the stadium. The laser
beam effects become more complicated and holy
magnificent, criss crossing and swirling above and
below, cascading and rippling through the stadium.
Fireworks noisily explode, white lights illuminate the
gathering as they hurtle towards their ecstacy.

Suddenly, a treat! We must be halfway through the

undynamic stamp, boo and 'gee, the light show's
terrific', when somebody I assume to be Pete
Townshend (I'm a quarter of a mile from the stage
and see little but cute-ish action men pumping
away) totters centre stage and spins his right arm
around and around and around not quite in a blur
over the strings of his guitar.

The overall effect is safely, tantalisingly psychedelic.

It's a marvellous trick and for the sixth time this

evening it earns him a heartening cheer.

The Who creak towards one of the 'classic

crescendos of our time'; thousands of glazed-eyed
worshippers are swooning, moaning, ranting,
screaming for mercy...

846

And me?

Lofgren's undoubted bitterness and confusion

manifests itself in the most tender of ways. But it's a
tenderness that isn't easily crushed; it's a
tenderness that can result in some of the most
elusive and delightful melodies look quick to his
divine contributions to Reed's The Bells and
makes his best music so delicately fine and yet
permanent.

I saw God. Rising out of the centre circle, just

behind the ugly scaffolding of the mixing desk, I saw
Him bearded, wrapped in white, smiling
benevolently, and beckoning.
Or maybe it was Harvey Goldsmith.

He plays a transparent, deceptively simple and

flimsy rock 'n' roll that is gorgeously synchronised
and steady. It elegantly walks a thin wire, gently
swinging, accelerating, sauntering, lustfully
complementing the fragile shimmer of his voice.

I arrived at Wembley nice and early, well prepared

with a bunch of bananas, a packet of peanuts, the
morning's Guardian but alas no binoculars. Another
day out; I am being spoilt lately.
Accidentally, but nevertheless intriguingly, The
Wembley Epic bill is ripe for analysis and argument.

His appearance was lamentably short, unforgettably

sweet and gratefully appreciated. He didn't try and
sell himself and his new album but pluckily played
the role of soundcheck man and skipped through
some accepted Nils' standards.

Consider four entertainers who could just about be

accepted as representatives of four of the major
layers in the confusing spectrum of contemporary
rock!

Perhaps he played it safe, but he did so with style

and spontaneity.

Nils Lofgren: representing those who float in a noman's-land, tolerated and respected, sort of all
round selfish but appealing cults. Not as good an
example as Ry Cooder or Randy Newman, but he'll
have to do.

It was 45 minutes of restless, ambiguous music,

where pain, passion and disappointment seemed in
soft focus and all the more disconcerting because
of it.

AC/DC: the classic example of the perversely hip

heavy metallists there could be no better
representation, except for Ted Nugent.

His set flowed into view with the pertinently

sentimental 'Keith Don't Go', eased into a punchy
and fluid 'Rock'n'Roll Crook' and breathlessly
whispered and rolled through the elegiac 'Going
Back'.

The Stranglers: like Lofgren, not the perfect model,

but for many the flawed, audacious and troubled
archetype of the new wave.

There was a racy, seductive 'Came To Dance' and

the articulate warm exactness of 'Back It Up'. They
underlined Lofgren's natural ability to overcome the
daylight and the obscene hugeness of the venue
and be personal and persuasive.

And The Who: an unbeatable example of the

established and ageing who spend most of the time
vainly justifying their existence who are always
planning comebacks; who have spawned religious
followings; who are truly lost if they'd only admit it
(and it's not that shameful or difficult). They just
won't let go.

As soft as he seems to be, Nils Lofgren has some

sting. I'm soft all the way through, and I was all his.
I was still in a flush when AC/DC began to clatter.
One of the more popular of the Heavy Metal
weights, but no less anonymous or plain than is
typical.

Four entertainers from different corners of the myth;

rock and roll in the heart of each of them; or so it
seems.
I had a love affair with Nils Lofgren that cut short
around the time of Came To Dance. They were
busy times, back then, and other things were
unavoidably demanding my attention. But now my
heart is fluttering anew at the mention of his name.

Well fuzzed, relentlessly frantic, crazy and

crude...so far, so good.
The trouble is that AC/DC, and HM in general, is so
ridiculously orderly and polite. In its predictability,
precision and easy clutter, with its neat, tidy and
limited range of events, it is nothing more than

His Wembley set hovered around the immaculate

and was my favourite on the day.

847

middle of the road music, a shade louder and

clumsier than ELO or Val Doonican.

'Genetix', 'Dead Loss Angeles', the title track and

'Baroque Bordello'.

Where are the surprises? Where is the edge? Long

since neglected, and not missed, it seems.

'Nuclear Device' and 'Bordello' seemed to be songs

that could easily become as favoured as the
apparently discarded 'Hanging Around' and 'Grip'.
Miserably melodic, recklessly compact and bluntly
insistent.

Its popularity is no astounding phenomenon.

Despised by elitists, critics, nice people and even
the most impartial onlooker, Heavy Metal remains
the ultimate underground music of defiance for the
grammar school kid.

There has been unsettling expansion of the initial

bold and prominent Stranglers' principles. Textures
are uglier, shapes are pricklier and larger, randomly
stuck together, at times pushing the group close to
a freeness. Rhythms have become more
adventurous, the use of keyboards more varied.

In 30 second bursts, AC/DC were as much fun

(almost) as The Angelic Upstarts. If you are able to
forget what's coming next, you'd probably find it as
delightful and subversive as the thousands at
Wembley did.

The Stranglers sound is a lot more mature, more

jagged and wandering.

But I always know what's going to happen! It's just

not fair!

Older songs 'Tank' and 'Toiler On The Sea' from

Black And White, 'Bring On The Nubiles' and 'Down
In The Sewer' were underdone compared to the
newer pieces. Burnel's singing on the new 'Sha Sha
A Go Go' and Cornwell's vocals on the single
'Duchess' were dubious proof of the duo's recent
decision to sing, not shout. Burnel's voice sounded
awkwardly smooth; Cornwell's slippery and out of
control. Such shaky attempts were an endearing
contrast to the frigid fluctuation and friction of the
music.

I was still bemoaning this bad luck when The

Stranglers sneaked up on me.
The Stranglers, of course, are not making a
comeback, merely Carrying On. But they are a
group who smart with improvement.
Their sly black humour made me smile; their
cunningly redesigned dilapidated overlapping beat
music made me yearn for a small dark room, a
louder volume, a place to dance...

The Stranglers new exercises may not win them

any new friends but it won't make them more
enemies. A start.

But I tried to concentrate in the late afternoon light,

stared uselessly at the black stick insects slumping
in the distance, hummed professionally at the terse
jolting and jerking of the music from their
forthcoming LP The Raven, took some notes,
crunched some peanuts.

And the conclusion of their set was a naughty

parody of the following pathetic and pompous
display.
A mass of coloured smoke drowned The Stranglers'
exit; a cheap and faltering firework display to the left
of the stage spluttered into action, eventually
forming the words "The Stranglers" above a picture
of a raven.

During their spot a fight broke out. Hugh Cornwell,

bless him, was sensible and firm.
"If you want bovver on the terraces go to a football
match." This gained the second largest cheer of
their set.

This silly stunt gained the largest cheer for their set.
If the spectacle had been greeted with jeers, I
expect The Stranglers would have encored. As it
was, they didn't.

Cornwell, Burnel, Black and Greenfield made the

most interesting and demanding noises of the day,
were the most out of place group but kept a sense
of the absurd, and (along with Lofgren) dropped
hints that they are still discovering, exploring,
rectifying: that they are moving forward,
somewhere.

The Who were as far away from what rock'n'roll

must surely be as it is possible to get.
I could sense shadows and taunting remnants of
times when they were vital, when they were angry,
striking, exploring. But their two hour showcase was
a deeply depressing and unashamed rite of

The group started steadily with a revealing sample

of songs from The Raven 'Nuclear Device',

848

irrelevant, empty nostalgia and its unsatisfying,

predictable triumph relied on past feats, the
regressive belief of their flock and, most
pathetically, props, gimmicks and the standard
poses.

The Ace Faces Forgotten Story: Pete Meaden

Steve Turner, NME, 17 November 1979
Im the face baby
Is that clear?
Im the face
If you want it.
All the others are third-class tickets by me baby
Is that clear?
Pete Meaden for the High Numbers, 1964.

It was an appalling exhibition of complacency.

Songs that must have had special, necessary
meaning and feel 'My Generation', 'Substitute',
'Won't Get Fooled Again', 'Baba O'Riley' were
reduced, bleached, chucked away as passionless
golden oldies.

Towards the end of his life Pete Meaden told me

that hed read an interview in which Nik Cohn, writer
of the story that became Saturday Night Fever,
attributed the origins of the fable to his own
memories of Shepherds Bush Mod society circa
1963.

If people were inspired by what those songs once

meant, it didn't mean anything NOW.
It was unnecessary nostalgia; unforgivably clinging
on to the past; a damning diversion of spirit.
Anything but rock'n'roll.

In particular, it was from this experience that he

took the idea of "the face", an idea which focused
itself in the movie when Travolta swept into the
2001 Odyssey disco to hushed whispers and
respectful glances. Travolta was The Face.

Such a static, stagnant waste of energy had me

frustrated close to tears, and when the darkness fell
and the effects were tagged in, cynical close to
hateful.
Pity is probably the only true reaction. The Who
don't need step back. They've done everything that
they needed to. As a rock'n'roll group, the
challenges went a long time ago.

The connection Meaden was making was that if the

Goldhawk Club equalled 2001 Odyssey, and if The
Face equalled The Face, then Pete Meaden was
John Travolta. The last time something like this had
happened was when The Who released
Quadrophenia in 1973. He had listened to it and
thought: "I am Jimmy. Townshends writing about
me!"

All that's left are the revival shows.

They disposed of their greatest hits with aimless
enthusiasm: 'Long Live Rock', 'Sister Disco', a
couple from Tommy, a couple from Quadrophenia,
'Boris'. The encores were 'Summertime Blues' and
'The Real Me'.

Even if neither connection was justified, Pete

Meaden deserved to feel that he was the stuff of
legend. After all, it was he who saw the possibility of
calculatedly making a rock group the focal point of a
teenage revolution The Who being the group, the
Mods being the teenage revolution. Without his
style, his suss, its doubtful whether The Who
would carry the cultural weight they do today and
its doubtful whether Modism would have spread so
far, so fast.

Kenny Jones was able, Pete Townshend was

erratic, Roger Daltrey fiery, John Entwistle steady.
They could have been played by actors.
Townshend windmilled a dozen times, leapt spreadeagled; each time the audience bawled in worship.

What Meaden had was a flair for image, a love of

music and a gift for gauging the spirit of the times.
What he didnt have was organisational ability and a
tough business edge. His shortcomings saw him
virtually giving The Whos management away just
as the group were making it on the strength of his
ideas.

Daltrey twirled his microphone lead a dozen times;

each time the audience bawled in worship.
The laser beams lit up the sky; the audience
ooohed at the sight.
It was another little section of The Who Story that is
going to look pretty in the history books and
splendid on film. But it meant nothing, absolutely
nothing at all. So sad. So unneccessary.

I first met Meaden in the summer of 1975 when I

was researching for a book, A Decade of the Who
(Fabulous Music Ltd). After a series of phone calls I
tracked down the man nobody had heard of for

Paul Morley, 1979

849

years. He was a patient in a mental hospital just

outside London.

result but I cant imagine him being more than

amused at the Mod revival; the spirit of Modism was
after all so much against re-creating the past.
Modism was pushing forward.

Our first talk together on the phone got us off to a

good start and resulted in the two interviews
combined below one of which took place in my
flat, the other back at his room in the hospital. Hed
talked to the press only once before and it was as
though all the accumulated history was bursting out
now hed found someone to listen. He also seemed
to feel that hed found an opportunity to establish
his role in the history of The Who.

*
Where do we begin?
Existing is what its all about because with society
as we know it breaking down, I think that survival is
of the utmost importance. Its all very well being
immensely talented, having a good time and
making great music but not being able to sustain
it. This sustaining bit is the most important of all,
and The Who are survivors. Thats what Im
interested in, what Ive always been interested in.
There was a long period of time when The Who
didnt have any hit records at all, but their music is
survival music, by the pure power of sustaining
sustaining power thats what you have to say
about The Who. This is what I built on in the very
first place; I say I, because I think nobodys had
more effect on their career, as I did, in putting
together the High Numbers. I met them with guy
called Bob Druce and another feller called Helmut
Gordon. Bob Druce was an agent who booked them
and he said he had a contract on The Who in his
desk. I was introduced to The Who by my barber,
via a friend of mine who was a mutual friend called
Phil The Greek. Phil The Greek was later to appear
on television on Ready Steady Go! with a loaded
sawn-off shotgun, you know? He was one of the
great legends of folklore and pop history.

Later I talked to Pete Townshend who admitted that

there would have been no Who as we know them
today if it hadnt have been for Meaden. Daltry too
was quick to confirm his role. "He didnt really have
to force his ideas on us very hard," he told me. "He
thought we could pick up on the Mod thing and he
was very right because Mods had no focal point at
all and The Who became that, we became the
spokesmen. When Kit and Chris took over
management they basically just took Meadens
ideas and made them bigger."
I saw a lot of Pete Meaden during the three years
following our interview. It was a time during which
he pulled himself together after years of drug
abuse, a nervous breakdown and a divorce. He got
back into the music business co-managing The
Steve Gibbons Band along with Who manager Bill
Curbishley. A decade or more after the High
Numbers, here he was back again in The Who
camp.
The last time I saw him was in June 1978 when he
came along to hear me read my poetry at a small
theatre club in Waterloo. He was full of smiles but
there was a vacancy behind it all. We went for a
drink and his conversation was disjointed, abstract.
All I can remember now are some apocalyptic
visions of the end of the world and some questions
about religion; "Whos the one then Meher Baba
or Jesus?"

Do you think the Mod thing is still alive?

I wonder actually, where all the old Mods went
theyre probably all in garages, second-hand car
outfits, scrap-yards, something like that. Cos
theres such a thing as Mod Suss you know
sussing out a situation. Thats what Mods are about
suss out a situation immediately, its potential,
controlling it. Rather than letting the potential
control you. So I would think theyd get in the car
game thats where most money is made very
quickly.

Within a month he was found dead in bed of

barbiturate poisoning. He was 36 and back living
with his parents in the home where hed dreamed
up the High Numbers and written I Am The Face.
The coroner passed an open verdict although close
friends feel that Meaden knew too much about
drugs to die of a careless mistake.

Are you in touch with any of your old mates?

Yeah, ones a coke-dealer, ones in prison, and
another ones the guy who appeared on television
with a shotgun, with The Who, on Ready Steady
Go! who was the greatest Mod leader of them all
Phil The Greek. Pete Townshend and I talk about
him often.

It seemed a very Mod place to die, a cramped

terraced house in an Edmonton cul-de-sac, and
also a very Mod way to die. Before his death hed
been feeding in ideas to the writers and producers
of Quadrophenia. I think he would have liked the

850

The black girls are Mod chicks of today those

little spade chicks you see running round in stacked
heels and wedges, wearing sort of Ossie Clarke
clothes. The blacks were always there in 64, there
werent so many of them they were late-night
kids like us youd go out on a three-day bender,
you know? Hit out on a Friday night, high on speed,
down to Ready Steady Go!, down to the Scene
Club, dance all night till Saturday morning, Saturday
youd go shopping, to buy a pullover, or scarf, or
something pair of socks, cos your feet hurt,
dancing all night in desert boots, and then all
through Saturday night again at the Scene Club all
through to Sunday morning, thats when the comedown comes down, cos you cant sustain it much
more than three days, two nights. Three days and
you start heading home to Mamas place, you
know? Cos you live at home, you cant afford to live
anywhere else apart from Mamas place, and then
you crash, round about Sunday morning, if you can
get a lift home to North London, where I was. And
that was the life it was the most amazing sort of
life you could imagine it was so amazing.

with sound, and then they start pulling down all the
stops, youre getting a psychedelic record in 64. So
youre picking up on the body all the time, this is
what Mods are about, theyre very physical people.
Drynamil is a drug for Mods, because its a
functional drug, its a drug you can work on, you can
steal in the shops on it, do all the things you need to
do, you can dance on it you lose all lack of
confidence, you lose guilt. It opens up the capillary
vessels in the body, so you become aware of your
system, become aware of your body, therefore, with
the aid of this drug you have your own society, you
have Nirvana, in a single little purple pill. Plus you
got good togs, which is your clothes, you have the
confidence, plus you have the sustaining power
three days up, two nights up. I think its a groove, I
think its fabulous, man!
When did you first notice all this happening?
When my doctor gave me Drynamil for anxiety. She
gave me the original Drynamil, the original Purple
Hearts. And I went back that night to my place, my
parents house where I was working from, and I got
out the pills and I took one, it was just like medicine,
you know, it doesnt do anything. Its probably doing
something physically way down in your system and
you dont notice it. Then suddenly Bang! I was free !
I was unburdened by chains of resistance. I was
able to write and draw and do all the things I
wanted to do, without the restraints of normal
civilisation bothering me, like feeling its late, and
having to go to bed. It was all just as simple as that.
I sat up all through the night, and finished the book
in that one night.

What do you mean when you say you got The Who
together?
I got them together, in that I loved the life so much, I
got The Who and I dressed them up in Mod clothes,
gave them all the jingoism and all the paraphernalia
of Modism, boxing boots and fashionable things,
right on the button, timing just right, cos timing is
where its at, you know?
You were already a Mod, by then?

Were pills very popular then?

Yeah, I was a Mod, it was my life. There was a little

club called the Scene Club, just a Ham Yard, off of
Great Windmill Street, and there, on several nights
a week the greatest records you can imagine were
being played. There were records like Aint Love
Good, Aint Love Proud by Tony Clarke, Major
Lances stuff, Smokey Robinson, early Curtis
Mayfields Impressions stuff, you know, which was
eminently danceable by people who were not
emotionally involved with other people. There was a
lack of women in those things, I mean we all dig
women, but if youre in the West End, you know that
you pay for your women, and well, you dont get
them, cos the girls that come up are mysteries,
right. You get the girls that come up and dance
around, little girls that just dance around in the
pubs, just having a little dance around, just having a
little groove. The records were played very loud
over those big speakers, like fairground speakers,
and in a small room, which was what the Scene
Club was, with concrete walls, so it comes bouncing
back, hitting off the floor there was no wooden
floor, hits off the ceiling, so youre getting saturated

No, well this is how I discovered them. This was

1962 actually.
So the Mods werent in existence then?
No they werent in existence, but Jack Kerouac
was. So anyway, I took the Drynamil. I finished the
book in a night, and I was up for three nights trying
to wear my energy off. My own personal feeling is
that the debt you have to pay for drugs is too much
to compensate for taking the drug in the first place. I
always say dont take any drugs whatsoever. A few
smokes, a few beers, speed a little bit now and
again, be careful with anything else. Thats all.
Did you sort of think that you were the King Mod at
the time?
No. I was the feller who saw the potential in
Modism, which is the greatest form of lifestyle you

851

can imagine its so totally free totally antifamily London in so much as that there were
lonely people having a great time. Not having to be
lonely, not having to be worried about relationships,
being able to get into the most fantastic, interesting,
beautiful situations, just out of music. You could
dance by yourself, you could groove around. I saw
this as a weekend. I mean, imagine this, on a
Friday night I would go down to Ready Steady Go!
groove around there, and one weekend I had three
people on there, I had the Crystals, Chuck Berry
and the Rolling Stones doing publicity for those
three people. They used to say, "The Weekend
Starts Here" and the weekend would begin there, I
would take my speed and go down there, I would
go up to the Green Room, and watch my people
that I was working for having a great time on the
television. Thered be all the faces and people that I
knew. A face is just someone you recognise, you
might not even know his name, but hes known as a
face.

could add the visual impact of a really tough group,

which was what I wanted, then you had The Who,
you had the High Numbers in fact, you gotta
remember that and not forget. It was known as the
High Numbers and that was the focal point of Moddom.
Tell you what we never got on to, when you met
The Who.
Yeah, I was ... a friend of mine called Phil The
Greek who was the flashiest Mod that I knew, he
was the Mod leader, in so much as that he wore a
dark blue suit, mohair suit, and he used to come
down with me to the Scene Club, and we used to
go to the same barber called Jack.
Did he do some good Mod cuts?
No, he was just a barber who would do what you
wanted him to do, like how barbers should be. Not
like the guy up at Crimpers or something, saying
how he thinks your hair should be. Now if you go to
those Jewish barbers they do your hair just right, as
you ask him. Jack said to me that he knew of a
group that was interesting.

Thats why you called it I Am The Face?

Yeah, I Am The Face is one of the people who is
familiar. Ready Steady Go! was interesting in so
much as it got the vibe right out, with the right
amount of grit edge on it. It was no good trying to
get in through the doorman, cos there was always
so many kids outside trying to get in as well, so you
had to thrust your way through that with a lot of
hard chat, to the main foyer at ATV House, down
there in the Strand, and then you go downstairs into
... oh you go into the Green Room first, and you
have a few sherbets, to round the edge off the
Drynamil, and then down into Ready Steady Go!
And there was Mickie Turner and Phil The Greek
dancing around with some of the girls and thered
be Sandy Sargent, who is Mickie Turners wife now,
and Cathy McGowan, and thered be the Stones
around, or The Who or Paul Jones, Manfred Mann,
and that would be a great foot for the weekend to
start off on. That would be a nice edge, like the kickstart on a motorbike kick it WHOOMP and she
starts firing, and you go off into the weekend.

Some months before that Id been thinking out very

seriously of how I could get the focus, or the focal
point for my feelings and the feelings of Mods who
used to go to the Scene. The Club was owned by
Ronan ORahily of Caroline fame, at the time, but it
was run by a feller called Lionel Blake. Now that
was the real hardcore fashion situation, system, call
it what you will, position of glory if you like, because
I used to go down there, it was very private, if you
danced yourself To the music, which was new-wave
R&B.
I was taking pills, in so much as Id been introduced
to pills by my doctor for the anxiety thing, while I
was a graphic designer for John Michael, the
clothes shop. I took some Drynamil, and it kept me
up for three days, and I zoomed around on that I
had such a great time, fabulous time. I would go out
with ten bob in my pocket, and my doctors pills
from the National Health, which didnt cost anything
in those days I think, she would give me thirty a
month, Purple Hearts, the triangular ones with the
line down the middle. So anyway, I was living this
lovely life of Riley, where I was just listening to the
music I liked, which was very private I didnt
have to get hung up on birds early Mods never
did. Well, they used to go out with birds down at the
Tottenham Royal. I used to go down to the Scene
Club, and there it was very private, very dark. I
used to go down there with Brian Jones, and Chuck
Berry I took, a few people like that. The Animals

You didnt sleep at all?

No, you didnt sleep at all you stayed up all night.
You saw The Who becoming a focal point for all
this?
Yeah, they were the focal point, because I was
thinking about revolutions then, thinking about
society was great when you had speed, a couple of
pints of cider, listen to the music and you can be
completely enveloped in music, sounds, and if you

852

used to play there, but none of that was exactly

purism Mod which was a society unto itself. As I
say, Modism, Mod living is a euphemism for clean
living, under difficult circumstances. You have your
own values, your own set of time scales, your own
units of existence, which are to have a good time,
because its alright, as the old Curtis Mayfield
Impression song goes.

You say Mods werent into chicks?

Not too heavily into chicks, no, because chicks you
got to remember are emotional distressful situations
for a man, and we were totally free because your
sex drives, your libido, I think its called your libido,
was turned right down low, well I call it your sexual
drive, is taken right down low, by the drug,
Drynamil. You didnt need to get too heavily into
sex, or pulling chicks, or sorts as they were called.
Like, "Any sorts coming down tonight? Well, it
doesnt matter anyway" was the trip then, it was
only a bother when they came down anyway. There
were three of them dancing over in the corner.

Id been knocking around with the Rolling Stones,

Andrew Oldham, the manager of the Rolling
Stones, who had Andrew Logan, and I was his first
business partner in a company called "Image". We
were doing things, and I went to Spain for seven
months, came back from Spain, I met the Stones on
my first morning back, they were recording Come
On and Money, at Decca, West Hampstead. I saw
Andrew in the studio, pushing up the control knobs
on the deck there, all I could see him doing was
bringing up bass lines, and the high treble on the
top end of the guitar line, and putting Micks voice
forward, and there was Bill there. He had a great
pair of trousers they were stove-pipe trousers,
which I was very much impressed by, cos I was
very much into clothes. Anyway, so I knocked
around the Stones, and I used to go to their early
gigs, and in fact, I lived with Mick for a little while, in
Cricklewood, bordering on Kilburn you cant get
much worse than that, as a bedsitter-land, because
nothing happens out there, I can tell you. Anyway, I
sussed out what the Stones were about, and their
appeal, and I saw for the first time in my life, all
those little girls screaming at them, and they were
just playing their R&B stuff, none of the Booker T or
the Georgie Fame trip, but just doing real good
R&B, and there was Mick up there in his gilly jacket
but the collar wasnt right anyway. Andrew was
making fortunes then, you see, I was doing publicity
for people I liked, like Chuck Berry.

Were they similarly not into sex?

They were similarly not into sex, they were very
matriarchal, they would be looked after and
protected, but thered be three girls dancing
together theres a famous picture of them
dancing the block.
Women were just the people who were dancing
over in the corner, by the speakers.
So if you took away the dancing and the music...
Took away the dancing, well youd have the West
End, grooving around on a Saturday morning after
a long night out, all Friday night, cos youre bunged
out on your earhole about six in the morning, its
very cold, grey and dry. You have a couple of
drinks, you drink cider or beer with your pill because
you know that the tiny bit of alcohol in a pint of bitter
makes the barbiturate in the Drynamil, Purple
Heart, the blue, or the frenchie, or whatever you
can lay your hands on its just a matter of
whatever you can lay your hands on lay a
doobrie on me anyway so you get back to the
West End, on a cold, grey Saturday morning, and
you go to some caf which sells you French coffee.
You sat around till the shops opened on a Saturday
morning, then you groove around, you go and sit in
the park or something, then you go down to Cecil
Gees, although mainly youd go to Austens buy
yourself another Arrow shirt, with a button-down
collar, and a little button on the back of the collar,
then groove around with your new purchase, and
itd be a groove! When you have paradise on hand,
I mean, in most Mod languages, 200 Blues in your
inside pocket, in your tonik jacket, youd have
sustained relief from the world, sustained release
comes when you go down to the Scene Club.

So the Stones played down at the Scene Club?

Oh yeah. I used to go down there with Brian Jones,
who was a very close friend of mine, he liked to
groove around, he used to come down with his
snakeskin boots on and his regency stuff and the
high scarf and that regency collars. Hed come
down to the Scene Club, and I used to wear Ivy
League, which is Canadian-cum-American Esquire
Ivy League Jackets natural shoulder line, you
know? Id groove around in my desert boots, bop
around, listen to the music, and Brian came down,
and he was top superstar number one, coming up
fast, and he felt out of place in the Scene Club, it
was so clique-ish, so highly identified with
themselves. And he was with the hippiest, heaviest
outfit in the world coming up which was the Stones,
if they didnt fit in, that meant that something was
going wrong somewhere.

But take away the dance and take away the music,
and thered be no point in the pills?

853

No, youd be a hippy, then. A hippy doesnt depend

so much on music as a Mod does. A Mod needs
hard, fast and loose, new-wave R&B, you know all
that heavy air-base R&B stuff, which we used to
play down the Scene club, cos Sandra was the disc
jockey there, and she had a boyfriend from the airbase who used to lay these R&B Soul records on
her.

the real purist Mod band, which was a band which

played R&B. I managed them for three and a half
years, and that was Jimmy James who had the best
voice Id ever heard it was the purist thing, in so
far as Mod was concerned.
And they were coloured?
Yeah, they were coloured.

The pills are directly tied in with this?

Was there no white band that stood for the Mods?

Yeah, that gives you the freedom, sustaining power.

Imagine having a party which starts Friday night
and doesnt end till Sunday morning, and you can
have it any time you want it. If you want it to start on
Wednesday night, you can...

Oh yeah, The Who.

Before that, there wasnt?

What was your attitude towards your job during the

week?

No, before that there wasnt. There was old Chris

Farlowe doing Mod stuff, but they werent Mods,
man, they didnt look like Mods.

I used to work at an advertising agency during this

time, before I first started to be a Mod, and then I
split from that, I was a graphic designer.

Did you feel there was a need for a group like that?
There was a need for The Who, yeah, coming back
to that. Now I had all this life going along for me,
which was really having a good time, enjoying
myself and existing in a house with other people,
where nobody bothered anybody else, but smiled at
each other, not in a hippy way, but a Mod suss
smile, like "I like the suit, man, and groove on", you
know. Not too heavy, you know. You used to see
those three or four Mod kids, up in tonik jackets,
Levi jeans turned up just once, pair of desert boots,
or pair of Hush Puppies, and theyd lean forward,
they had the energy of leaning forward up Great
Windmill Street or down Shaftesbury Avenue, and
theyd be four of them just talking and they had their
French crews on ... crew cut ... and there Id be
wearing a cycling jacket, with a number on the
back, or just a white one or a black one.

Did you think it was a cop-out to be in a job?

No, it just used to buy my clothes, and then I
became a publicist, I went to Spain.
So you sort of used society in a way?
No, I didnt use society, I became a publicist.
You said the thing about a Mod takes whats there...
Oh he takes whats there yeah...
But a hippy doesnt?
The hippy doesnt do anything except vegetate. You
move off of various identification points, such as
religions, which are easy to identify with, cos thats
all they are identification points. They are
specially sculptured and carved by man, to appeal
to other men, in a delicious, or sensuous, or
aesthetic way, whichever way you want to do it. I
mean theres Buddhism, Maoism, Christianity,
Judaism, Hinduism, theres the Scientology guy ...
Ron Hubbard ... and you can pick up on the
process people, you can pick up on Charles
Manson if you want to. I personally happened to
pick up on the Mods.

So I thought, "Ah, well, this is we have to have a

focus" and I was thinking about, there were no other
bands about who were doing this purism, cos Im
really the detail man, when it comes to details its
my trip, and so I thought, Ive gotta have a band Ive
gotta make the focus.
So I went down with Jack, who introduced me to
Helmut Gordon, who was a doorknob manufacturer
in Shepherds Bush, who introduced me to another
feller who was called Bob Druce, an agent who ran
a little circuit of half a dozen or so pubs, where hed
put his bands in. He said hed got a contract on The
Who Im not sure if he did or not. Bob Druce was
the hard man of this situation. He was a man who
was just into booking a group into his pubs, or
clubs, which he knew was a success if the band

So its like a religion?

Yeah, I made an album called The New Religion
with Jimmy James and the Vagabonds, which was

854

was a success, I mean. Then he could more or less

guarantee to keep them working, in his six clubs,
this circuit, which is definitely tailored to "Kid Pub"
unit sort of situation, which means to say that he
knew where his market was coming from, and he
was just trying to heighten it up a little bit. Now he
said, "Listen, why dont you come in and help us
out, and get this group, which is very good, theyre
called the DeTours The Who as well but they
were called the DeTours. Do you think you could do
something, what with you being in the pop
business, and knowing the Rolling Stones and
Chuck Berry and all those people do you reckon,
what with using your knowledge from the Rolling
Stones, do you think you could make a supergroup
out of them? Well give you 50 to start off on."

come along with me, Ive got the plan for making
you a mastergroup. I have the key to it all. Ill make
you a supergroup please be my mates, cos all I
need is for you to talk to me, all I need is the
friendship of four geezers."
But you also wanted them to be the focal point of
the Mods?
I went down to the rehearsal rooms and I said, "We
gotta get some clothes together, and you gotta do
this certain sound of music, which Im calling newwave R&B, which is like R&B funk, fast soul. And I
wanna call you, not The Who, not the DeTours, but
the High Numbers. High Numbers because were all
into pills, a bit of pot, into doing these things, and
when were hip, we gotta dress hip, and were
gonna be called the High Numbers. You dont look
exactly like Mods, but Ill make you as best you can.
Im gonna make you so superb that you can stand
up in any conflict, any conflagration, any problem
situation, and be the best mates that any other
mate could possibly have."

So I said, "50, well, thats a lot of money, isnt it?

Great, nice one." I mean, I was known as the lowbudget man fucking hell, no one ever pays me.
I was doing Georgie Fames publicity up until them,
so I thought "Great Man, here we go, another lowbudget number fifty quid I got this time, to make
a supergroup out of." So all right, not being
facetious or anything. I was knocking around with
Peter and Gordon before that, and I was Bob
Dylans publicity in this country, the first one, and I
knew where it was at, and handled Tommy Tucker,
and I also was publicist for Chuck, the Crystals and
the Rolling Stones, you know, so all right squire,
youre gonna give me fifty quid are you? So for fifty
quid Ill put The Who together. Yes, so I was asked
to make The Who a supergroup on fifty quid now ...

I remember, we went out, and we spent the fifty

quid, and for 35 we bought a coat, the rest went
on boxing boots, which Peter paid a bit towards. I
went with them on the handout ... Ivy League
jacket, wearing buck-skin shoes Roger had a pair of
Hush Puppies, they were dark blue, well, they were
brown, but I painted the back dark blue and the
front white, and they were the two-tone brogues,
which we got into. I put all that together, an actual
Ivy League jacket with actual side-vents five inches
long, which Im wearing now, mine cost $150, and
that one cost about 30 in Austens, and they were
into buying their own Arrow shirts, and button-down
collars, comfortable, Oxford collars, you know? And
I fitted out, I spent 30, 35 on the jacket, the rest
of it, we chipped together, we went into this.

How did you spend it?

I spent it on clothes of course, cos togs are the only
things that keep a Mod together. And I said, "Well,
make a record too, we gotta make a record, do it
with Fontana, cos youll make it there quick, and
with no strings attached thats the record out, Ill do
all the work on it, all the publicity, Ill do the
promotion.

Theyd never had any contact with the Mods before

that?

Fifty quid a week this is?

They were singing Beatles songs, Dylan songs,

blues songs mostly, you know?

No, fifty quid, thats all.

And I was easy riding into a situation where they
would see that Id spent time with the Stones, who
were the most successful hip group at the time, and
I said, "Wheres it at, man? Well top this." Just as
casually as that. Im not trying to sound casual now,
I said, "You listen to me, man," to Pete, and Roger,
but they had rolled a drummer in at the time, and
Peter said, "Not too keen on him, what do you think
of the new feller whos just come up?" And I was
walking down Knightsbridge with Keith Moon, and I

Was this the first time youd met them?

Yeah, the first I met them they were all wearing
Pierre Cardin leather jackets, they had cropped hair
at the back, and Beatle cuts at the front, and they
were called the DeTours, cum The Who, and they
were into John Lee Hooker early blues style. Roger
was playing the harmonica, which I liked. I didnt do
any more than say "Listen fellers, if you wanna

855

said, "Look, Ill speak to Pete Townshend, my mate,

hes my mate, Ill talk to him, and I think youre in,
because you know, you look like the better man."

the cycling jackets just right, and the T-shirt under

that, the boxer boots on, the jeans, the Levis with
the one-inch turn-up, so the inner seam just showed
out, from the outside, and Petes jacket was right
on, with the top button just done up, and they went
up the Railway Inn, at Harrow, Wealdstone. I was
the one who went up to Kit Lambert and said,
"Listen, man, this is the heaviest group youve ever
seen, give us a gig, cos Im hustling for my boys.
Theyre my mates; and whether you like it or not,
Im doing my thing here! I gave him the handout
which said "Four Hip Young Men From London, who
say Im The Face, and wear Zoot Suits. The first
authentic Mod record". Well, that was my trip, I did
that entirely myself, off my own back. Nobody
helped me, nobody encouraged me, but I laid it on
you, on you Kit and on you Pete.

Keith said that he got himself in...

He did, yeah, but I asked Peter, and we brought
Keith in for the session. Im responsible for Keith
Moon being in The Who.
So you took them down the Scene Club?
Yeah, took them down the Scene, went down there,
had a groove around, and I said, "Look, you cant
go wrong, its not just a market. Why dont we
become the focal point, the focus of this brand-new
feel, of music and lifestyle?

So when did you write I Am The Face?

We went down to Welwyn Garden City, and I

remember what actually happened was that I said,
"Listen, weve got to do this record, and weve gotta
do it fast. I havent got much money, and I havent
got much time, in so much as I dont know whos
supposed to be manager, but I think Im supposed
to be managing. Im taking over responsibility for
this. I took over responsibility for The Who thats
what Im saying now.

I wrote it on the morning of early 64 ... it came from

Guy Stephens record collection. There was a
record called Got Love If You Want It by Slim
Harpo, an R&B musician, who didnt make much
money, as I found out when he died recently. He
used to get paid in wine. Anyway, I took the rhythm
track, I cant hold a tune in my head.
What about Zoot Suit?

What was their reaction to the Mod scene?

Zoot Suit was the fashion record of all time it

pinched the backing track of Country Fool by the
Showmen, which was the B side of It Will Stand.
The Showmen are now known as Chairmen Of The
Board and It Will Stand is the rocknroll tribute
anthem of all time. I heard the melody, and the night
before the session I dreamt up the lyrics, and I
wrote them all down I wrote them down on
speed. The actual words were "Im the hippest
number in town, And Ill tell you why" and it goes on
to "I wear a Zoot Suit jacket with side-vents five
inches long" and its a great song, man...

Well, Pete identified immediately we went down

to Austens to get the jacket made. Yeah, I worked
very hard on The Who, the High Numbers...
I used to lie in my bed, in my single bed at my
parents place in Edmonton, and think, "Name
name. WHO? World Health Organisation. Well
thats alright, but its too abstract, its too ethereal to,
too airy fairy to connect with me. Now if it was
called the World Health Organisation and thats
good, but I want a name that is adaptable, that is
going to sustain more than just six months. I put this
brochure together which was completely Mod,
without any help from their so-called manager and
was asked to become their manager. I was
manager of The Who and I put it together like,
whoever wants to say it about them, the Mods are
what The Who are all about, its as pithy, as
euphoristic as you can get, no one was gonna tie
them on that, and that is what Ill say right now. Can
you turn this tape off?

Did the Mods catch on to it?

Yeah, course they did, it was a fashion song. I
bought 250 records off the record company, off
Fontana, to get it into the charts and I used to take
them round myself. I worked so hard on that, man.
Did it get in the charts?
No, but it got so many plays that I got 112 I
dont know how many pence you get for each play,
but there was quite a few plays. It was nothing to do
with pirate ships, Mickie Turner only played it a few
times for Caroline.

Why?
Well Im getting angry now, in so much as, well not
only in the sense of anger, but realisation is coming
upon me to say, where I got the suits right, and I got

856

And Townshend wasnt writing at this time?

right, there must have been a point where they

suddenly decided they were Mods?

No he wasnt.
Yeah, but Mods is a ... like I went down to Hastings,
in 66 ...

What sort of music were The Who playing?

What to kill a few Rockers?

R&B the DeTours were an R&B band; The Who

was Pete Townshends song...

There werent any Rockers, there were just Mods,

thats how overpoweringly successful the whole trip
was there was something like fifteen thousand
Mods down there, and there were three rockers in a
caf three. There were two down the road in
another caf, or sitting around on their bikes, and
the Mods came down, it was beautifully succinct.

No original material whatsoever?

No, they were playing a little bit of Bob Dylan, but
mostly Beatles records and R&B. When I met them
I said, "You gotta play Mod music," which was newwave R&B all the time, man, all the time right on.
Classics like Aint no Good, Aint No Proud. Have
To Dance To Keep From Crying was one of the
records I was doing with them.

How did you lose The Who?

Well, I wasnt too hip in business trips in the
music business... Kit Lambert came round that night
at the Railway Inn in Harrow, Wealdstone, and he
came up to me, he lied to me, he said he was a
promoter looking for a band, to put in his club, so I
gave him the hard sell: "This is absolutely where its
at. You cannot fail on this, squire," I said. "If youll
just listen to me, you can make a lot of money out
of this, as promoter, because they are of the
people, they are the hippest numbers in town,
theres no one quite like them. Just look at that
queue down there." And so I hard sold myself right
out of a band.

So by this time, are The Who becoming the focal

point?
Yeah, and the Mods would talk about them. I got
them the residency, and then Tuesday nights things
would start picking up again, you know? The Who
were real Mods now Id changed them, because all
a Mod is is having self-respect.
Did they wear the Mod clothes offstage?
Yeah, I told them to, I bought the jacket for Roger, I
mean, the jacket was the high point of my career.

What happened?

Did you make them get their hair cut?

Kit came back to me, anyway, I tried to get in touch

with Pete for a few days, but strange things were
happening. Pete didnt answer his phone he
wasnt at home. Then Roger said, "Were going with
this feller lets go and have a drink."

Yes, of course I did, I took them down to Jack the

barber.
Was there ever any feeling that youd made them
do it as a commercial exercise?

So they approached you independently?

Yeah, I think Roger felt this way, perhaps, but

John ... I dont know about John. He said he didnt
want to wear the clothes, and went through a
puddle in his boxing boots.

Well, Roger was the leader of the band, so Roger

and I went and had a drink in a pub in Brewer
Street, and I bought him a drink, and he said, "Well,
listen man, were gonna get paid 20 a week, now,
and plus our cars, why dont you go and have a talk
with Kit?" He came out straight with it, and there
was nothing more to say about it, except Kit got in
touch with me and said, "Lets have lunch." I think it
was probably Pete said "Look after him" or
something, cos Im a fragile person, you know?

Yeah, well, you see, I knew it was right on, how can
you deny a fact of something smack bang in your
face, man: "This is where its at, this is what were
doing. Please do it, were gonna become a
success, we cant help it, and then you can be my
mates as well."

You didnt have a contract with them?

There must have been a point where the band I
mean Ive read interviews with The Who where they
say it was about 64 saying We Are Mods

Yeah, I had a contract with them.

857

So did Kit buy it, or what?

Well, I was with Beefheart then, I had Jimmy James

and the Vagabonds from 1965...

No, I just signed over any rights I had for them for
the first figure he gave me. So I figured if thats what
my mates want to do, then thats what they have to
do. Maybe in the future theyll look after me cos I
need looking after in this life I need looking after.

Yeah, I was talking about music, I was talking about

clothes...
I was into continental clothes, Curtis Mayfield
clothes...

And did you continue your friendship after the split?

What do you think was the ultimate Mod kit?
Yeah after the split, Kit Lambert took me into a
restaurant which I worked in, as a matter of fact
where I worked for three days, when I was much
younger, to learn how to carve onions. And Kit said,
"How much do you want?" and I said, "I dont know
how much I want, Kit, I dont know what sort of
value you put on it." I was frightened out of my life,
because Id made a monster, I knew it was a
monster, and he said, "Ill give you 500 for them." I
learnt later that I was supposed to accept 5,000
but I just said, "Yeah, thats alright, thatll do
thanks a lot."

Tonik jacket, blue jeans, or tonik trousers in different

colour...
Thats jacket and trousers?
Jacket with about a seven- or eight-inch centreband, and ... its a stiffish quality cloth, and its tight
you wear tight sleeves, tight shoulders, and a
comfortable jacket, you know, with a centre-band. It
was straight enough to be drape, and small enough
to be tight enough, and you just did the top button
up, and then youd have youre a pair of tonik
trousers of a different colour, probably blue and
bronze, straight down but wide-ish, hipsters. Youd
have your belly-button showing, with a French
jersey, with a crew neck on it, and then youd have
a Mod scarf, with a single twist in it so it flies out on
both sides. A pair of desert boots, and youre set for
the weekend. Or if you got a scooter, you got a pair
of dark glasses, maybe a stingy brim hat, with an
inch-wide brim, or else a pair of dark glasses, and
then an anorak, and then you sit on your scooter,
and youd have everything, even your sleeping-bag,
which is your anorak, Parka, yeah...

Still, least he was honest enough, and didnt just rip

them off me. So he sent me something like 145, or
142 or something, in various sums, and a couple
of weeks later I went down to
[MISSING TEXT?] ... heres my band, playing in the
Aquarium, Brighton, and I couldnt even bloody go
in and see them, man there were so many
fucking Mods about, the whole of the South Coast
was turning into the Mods, right away. I mean, Id
done publicity, Id got them into every single
magazine you can possibly imagine Id made the
High Numbers the hippest number in town...

What about your haircut?

Did you keep the cuttings?

Well, it closed down about 1966.

French crew razor-barbered, you know? There

was no lacquer, it was blow-dried, it was called the
college-boy, short at the sides, cos youre mostly
blond, like fair-haired geezers, they all seemed to
be dont know why you didnt have too many
whiskers like that Samuel Palmer picture, you
know? He hasnt got too many whiskers.

In your opinion, when did the Mod thing phase out?

Some of the Mods got into make-up, didnt they?

About 1967, when acid came in.

Not really, they could have done, but thats because

effeminists got into it.

Yeah, I kept them, but I threw them away after a

while.
Was the Scene Club still operating?

You think acid phased it out?

Did you ever hear about Mods using make-up?

Yeah.

Yeah, I heard about it, man, but when youre out for
four days on the trot man, you dont listen about
make-up. All youre doing is trying to have good
time, and try to keep yourself clean, you know?

What about ... cos you get these styles, and you
develop out of it, dont you? Did it sort of burn itself
out, or what?

858

Were there ways of walking?

us, they should have been there, THEY SHOULD

HAVE BEEN THERE WITH US!

Yeah, you walked speedwise, which is like, you put

both hands in your Mod jacket. Of course, your
heads bent against the wind, so you got your head
down, talking left to right, and speaking left to
right...

You must have felt elated...

Yeah, I was elated when I was there, like seeing
fifteen thousand kids, all on the street with you, with
exactly the same clothes I was with Bob Bedford,
whos now a millionaire insurance broker, and he
was a Mod same as me, he used to work on a
music paper, and we went out in 67, down to
Hastings I knew it was over, I knew it was falling
apart, but I went down there because I wanted to
see what the riots were about. I had my own Mod
band, which was the Vagabonds. There should
have been a conscious effort on the part of The
Who to stick with the Mods, not to go into pop art or
those things, because pop art was not where its at.

Was there a way of smoking?

Yeah, you smoke it as cool as you like, man, and
youre smoking king-size...
What, inside your hand?
No, its never covered. You drink black coffee, cup
of French, you know? Youd be on French brews,
and you smoke as cool as you can be you know?
And you drink French brews, just to keep your
system down, cos youve been up for three nights
already and your stomachs starting to rise.

Did the Mods follow the pop art?

No they did not. They never did, you can never say
that about the Mods. That was a sell-out on The
Whos part. Im not bitter now, but it was my
revolution, I had 250,000 thousand people on my
side in uniform, fighting for something which was
clearly defined to me...

Did Mods read?

Theyd read things of knowledgeable interest, like
William Burroughs, I reckon, if they ever got on to
William Burroughs, to find out what new drug trips
were all about information on drugs ... practical
things.

Would you say My Generation was a Mod song?

Course it was. It was a pride factor, on Pete
Townshends part, to talk about... No, I dont think
he was too much into Jagger or anything like that,
but he was talking about ... more about pop stars,
songs, like Dylan, Lennon and Jagger, people...

What was the Mod revolution all about then?

My Mod revolution was an undefined revolution
against commodities and people. That is people
were commodities, my parents treated me as a
commodity, and Modism to me was a release,
sweet release, relief. The burdens of mundane
existence, and I had, personally had something like
250,000 Mods running around the South Coast,
South of England.

He was turning on to them?

Yeah, course he was getting turned on to them
they were his friends, they were my friends as well,
Jagger was my friend, and I was Dylans first
publicist.

Did you go to the big fights?

When do you think that The Who lost their grip on

the Mod market?

Yeah, I went to some of the big fights, I saw them.

What was it like?

67, easy, maybe before that.

Just too many of us, and none of them we

overpowered them like ZAP!

While they were doing the pop art stuff they still had
the Mod clothes, as well?

What sort of feeling did you get, actually being

involved?

Im not letting down The Who, Im just saying that,

Ive gotta draw a perspective of what the situation
was. The situation was, that here was a huge group
of people, well the market, I tend to call them
markets cos ... well, I try to be humane about it,
human in so much as the Mods were, for me, the

There was no focal ... no focus ... The Who were

letting us down, they should have been there with

859

revolution, the revolutionary group, theyre like the

Vietcong, out in Cambodia, you know? The
Vietcong. Theres a North Vietnamese army who
are stolid troops, and theres the Vietcong who are
like Mods, who are the ones whove been fighting
all the time. Theyve never let down the side,
theyve never come in in strength, theyve always
been fighting in a minority group, against the vast
armour of the American army.

They did work, because they worked during the

daytime, you gotta understand things...
Well what about Nurses ... nurses cant be Mods,
can they?
Course they can, theyre the best Mods of all...
What if theyre on night duty?

What did you think of the movie Quadrophenia?

Well, theyll come out in the daytime, go shopping

with you, and theyll have the short haircuts, and
nurses are about the best Mods of all, because
theyre actual practical people. Cant you
understand, thats what Mods are all about.

Brilliant, its ... I identified with it entirely, cos Jimmy

could easily be Jimmy James and the Vagabonds.
Hes talking about a Mod, well, I am a Mod, the Mod
who made Mods out of The Who.

When did you stop being a Mod?

When do you feel The Who let you down, as

representing Mods?

I stopped after acid came in ... I used to call myself

a Black Tripper.

When I never got that ticket at Brighton Aquarium,

that night, when I saw fifty thousand kids queuing
up down there.

So you were into a Hip thing?

The Mod thing was style as opposed to content,

wasnt it?

No, no, hippies wore flowers, I had the Allie Kans

jacket, a 300 jacket...

Yeah, in as much as you can dismiss life as having

no substance, there was no substance. But if you
can put life together as having substance, a reason
to believe, then you have Modism, which is where it
was, which was via having a pill, having a few
drinks, via having music to listen to, and a style of
your own, so succinctly beautiful and selfcontained, where privacy was everything, and no
one ever disturbed your privacy, because you are
all the same...

And when did all that come out...?

Well, that was when I brought Captain Beefheart to
Great Britain ... I had my mental breakdown, my
nervous breakdown...
Was that a result of all your old hard-living, do you
think?
Yeah ... Id done three and a half years on the road
with Jimmy and the Vagabonds, which the purist
Mods ... they werent believing me any more, and I
was feeling that the structure is breaking down, and
Modism Modism has to be sustained up and it
has to be a rigid, rigorous structure for Modism to
function in it.

It takes a structured society to support that sort of

thing?
Yeah, you have to stretch society, thats why they
had policemen walking around...

Do you think that The Who eventually became

Mods, or at least Pete and Roger, or something...

I mean, it takes a structured society to support that

sort of thing, I mean everybody couldnt be a Mod,
because...

I thing Pete is the greatest Mod of all time ... and

myself.

No, anybody can become a Mod, thats the beauty

of it, anyone can become a Vietcong...

Were you interested in them being Mods, or just

appealing to a Mod market?

Can you imagine twenty million people, staying out

every weekend?

No, I made them into Mods, and they werent Mods,

they were ... they have always said they were never
Mods ... I made them like ... its just saying, theyre
my best mates, and if I cant make my mates into

Thats what my dreams was...

But who would do the work?

860

the best mates you can ever make, mates you can
be proud of, then I cannot do anything for my
friends, then if they go off for ten years or
something, Ive still kept in touch with them, but if
they go off for ten years ... all I can say, all it was,
as I said to Pete Townshend on the telephone, " I
only made you into The Who because I wanted you
to be my mates."

been disappointed and let-down, but he's not bitter

and won't indulge in slanging matches.
He still thinks the Small Faces, which he tried to
revive a year ago, had the smack of greatness
about them and should have been kept alive, if only
to reap a just financial reward. He's not entirely
happy, though, about mates who left him with a lot
of unpaid bills when the project collapsed.

Steve Turner, 1979

But now he can concentrate all his effort, energy
and commitment into the Who. It's a curious
coincidence that Kenny has consistently worked
with powerful lead singers, like Steve Marriott, Rod
Stewart and now Roger Daltrey. There's something
about his powerful, cliff-hanging drum style that
admirably suits the strutting heroes out front.

A Face in The Who: Kenny Jones

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, December 1979
ZERO HOUR approaches. Soon the Who will be
back on stage, and the whole world will be
watching. Kenny Jones doesn't mind admitting that
he's nervous. On his shoulders has fallen the
responsibility for powering the most demanding of
rock bands, and the fates have conspired to put him
in a driving seat previously occupied by one of his
oldest friends.

Kenny was at Shepperton Manor, a rambling, longneglected house in the middle of the film studios,
now partly owned by the Who, and used by them as
an office and for storing everything from John
Wolfe's laser equipment to Kenny's drums.
The studios where Flash Gordon and the latest
Titanic movie are being made have a shaky look
about them, as if a strong gust of financial ill-wind
would blow the lot away. At the back (or front) of the
Manor house, surrounded by trucks, props, cables,
cars and machinery, stands a bizarre Edwardian
conservatory filled with the heavy-duty
paraphernalia of a supergroup, from smoke
generators to speaker cabinets.

When tragedy struck and Keith Moon died, Kenny

Jones was the obvious man for the job.
Ties of friendship and background led Pete
Townshend to approach the drummer, once a
bright-eyed Mod kid with the Small Faces. From the
earliest days in the Sixties when the Who and Small
Faces were popularly supposed to be deadly rivals
for the crown of Mod Kings, they were mates who
shared a riotous life-style and a particular sense of
humour.

Kenny Jones insists that he loves the atmosphere.

His drums were set up in one of the rooms, and the
roar of his kit echoed throughout the deserted
building.

It didn't take long for Kenny to accept the offer,

made last Christmas, and since then he's been
practising and rehearsing every day for the moment
next month, in France when he will make his
debut.

Kenny is a firm believer in the solid realities of life.

He has a candour which remains with him from his
schoolboy days with the Small Faces that should
not be mistaken for naivety. He's been broke
enough times not to want to give it all away.

It's come at a momentous time in the Who's history,

with the release of two films, Quadrophenia and
The Kids Are Alright. The arrival of a new drummer
and the possible addition of a keyboard player may
drastically alter the traditional sound of the Who.

Has joining the Who upped Kenny's salary?

"You could say that. Actually, I don't know what a
salary is, I just spend a lot. I'm afraid I'm spoilt from
the Small Faces days, from the age of 15. We
earned a lot and spent a lot."

As far as Kenny is concerned, he won't be

attempting to copy the style made famous by his
predecessor, but will concentrate on keeping the
beat rock steady. In the process I think he will
surprise a lot of people.

Was Kenny only 15 when he joined the Small

Faces?

Jones has been through the rock mill knowing ripoffs, exploitation, and incompetence of a kind that
plagued the rock business in its early days. He's

"I'm trying to remember. I was 13 when I first started

playing, and I met Ronnie Lane two months later.

861

We formed a band called the Outcasts, followed by

the Pioneers...which took me up to 14. Then we met
Steve Marriott and formed the Small Faces, virtually
without playing. I'd just left school, and I was 15.

and tie. The car was waiting to take me to the gig,

but the group wouldn't let me in. They drove off! I
looked like Coco the Clown, you know what I
mean? I was walking down Carnaby Street
wondering why everybody was looking at me. I
thought I was THE Mod. It was hilarious really."

"In between being musicians, Ronnie and I worked

at Selmer's, making amplifiers. He used to test 'em
and I put all the bits in. He used to reject all mine,
on purpose. We got the bullet, so we went straight
down that caff in Denmark Street, the Giaconda,
called up Steve and said, 'Right, let's go
professional.' We started off living on sauce rolls."

The Carnaby Street era didn't really last long and

was swiftly replaced, much to everyone's
astonishment, by the concepts of psychedelia which
took the London scene by storm in late '66-'7.
"Yeah, that's when the band went funny on me. We
all had this house in Pimlico, do you remember?
The band lived together, but I couldn't take it and
lived with me parents most of the time. I'd go round
there and Steve would be walking about groaning.
They'd all be out of their heads on whatever it was. I
couldn't never get through to them. I was the only
straight one! Hence I got this reputation, 'Oh,
Kenny's the straight one'."

Kenny tells how, in 1965, the band got a booking at

the Cavern Club, just off Leicester Square, which
went so well that they got a residency and began
building up a following. They also met their
managers-to-be, Don Arden and Pat Meehan.
"By this time we'd already given up trying to make
it, believe it or not, after just a few weeks. We were
terribly impatient."

At least Kenny has kept his health and sanity over

the years.

The managers talked the band into continuing and

signed them, then next day they went into IBC
studios to record Watcha Gonna Do About It, their
first hit.

"Yeah. Steve looks terrible. But he was well into the

beads-and-kaftan thing. Ronnie could never decide
whether to go the whole way or not. Steve went well
over the top, but Mac (Ian McLagan) would wear a
suit all the time. The house was insane. It was a
party all day and night."

"Oh, we hit the big time," said Kenny, ruefully. "We

were sent out to WORK. I got a big head, which
lasted three or four months. I was very serious
about playing...it got up everyone's nose when
people said I was the only musician in the group.

Presumably, in between the partying, the band

managed to fit in some gigs, but from my memories
of Small Faces concerts it was quite likely that their
lead singer might storm off stage in a rage.

"We never stopped gigging, and I actually managed

to save 800 by the time we knocked it on the
head. When we were at our peak, we had accounts
in all the shops in Carnaby Street, so every day we
used to wake up and go shopping, buying ten pairs
of shirts and shoes in each shop. We were very
similar to the Who. I'm trying to remember the first
time the Small Faces and Who actually met up. It
was hilarious, but I can't remember what happened,
it was so long ago. I think it was a Radio
Luxembourg miming session, at the Lyceum.

"Oh yes, he was a moody sod. He'd throw his guitar

down on stage and we'd say, 'Look, you've broken
it. We can't play now.' But I remember one open-air
gig when I got covered in black dust just as I was
going on stage, all over me white trousers. It really
upset me. That's all I cared about then.

"We got compared to the Who because I used to

move around a lot more on the drums in those
days, and Steve used to play a lot of feedback on
guitar. Remember that? The music wasn't similar,
really, but we appealed to the same audience and
anyway we were the only two Mod bands.

"A lot of people compared the punk thing with the

old Mod thing, but they were totally opposite as far
as I'm concerned. We used to try and play right,
and we dug people like Booker T and the MGs. So
did the Who. We used to wear Mod gear, but we
didn't stick a pin through our noses and de-tune the
guitars. We always tried to play our best, really, and
a lot of good musicians came out of that era."

"We used to be snappy dressers, but I had no

colour sense. I went into a shop in Carnaby Street
and bought a pair of check trousers, a check shirt in
a totally different colour, canvas check shoes,
different colours, a check jacket, and a check belt

In between playing with the Small Faces, the Faces

with Rod Stewart, and now the Who, Kenny has
done quite a bit of session work, although he's
known the frustration of sitting by the phone, waiting
for it to ring. He's played with P. P. Arnold, Chuck

862

Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Joan Armatrading, Andy

Fairweather Low, John Lodge, the Rolling Stones,
and David Essex.

would make the decision and, as it turned out, it

was the wrong one.
"I still feel a bit weird about joining the Who,
because Keith is dead. If Keith had left the band,
and then they asked me, I'd be fine. But Keith is
gone, and I miss him. If only I could reverse this
situation and not be in his seat, I would. Keith and I
always got along, whenever we met. We always
had a sensible conversation. We'd have a little drink
and a laugh, but if he was going to be nutty, it would
be with somebody else. I never saw him go over the
top, that much. I only see him that way, perfectly
normal. I know he was a loony, but so am I when
I've had a few."

"I do sessions at eight in the morning. It's great

exercise for the mind, and I like a challenge. I've
always been like that...I've never been a night
person. That's why I stuck out in the Small Faces."
Some of Kenny Jones best recorded playing can be
heard on the classic Small Faces album, Ogden's
Nut Gone Flake, and I recalled the great pride the
band felt when it was first released.
"I'm still really upset that the album didn't do well
purely and simply because of people like Andrew
Oldham and Tony Calder and bloody Immediate
Records.

How did Kenny receive the invitation to join the

Who?
"Bill Curbishley (Who manager) called me. I was
putting a band together at the time with Glyn Johns,
all fabulous musicians. We were rehearsing to go to
Nassau to do an album, and we had a fantastic
record deal.

"If we'd been treated properly we'd probably have

stuck together. We'd have seen the money and we
could have invested in ourselves, like the Who. But
it's hard to say what might have happened. When
you look at Steve and see what he's like now you
think 'Jeez.' I tend to think he would have ended up
like that anyway.

"Then Bill called and said the Who were going to

stick together and would very much like me to join
the band a s a permanent member on an equal
footing. I'll never forget this...I said 'Oh, maybe we
should have lunch!' I met Pete and Bill, and
chinwagged for two or three hours. I suddenly
realised I'd known Pete most of me life, Bill was an
East Ender the same as me, and these were the
people I should be with."

"The album was a success, but the rights were sold

off to different weedy little companies and there are
versions of it with tracks added by Amen Corner,
and tracks without vocals. They really pissed about
with it, and if I could get those people I'd strangle
them. How anybody could do that to such a classic
album, I don't know.

Did he feel it was the right decision for the Who to

carry on?

"If the Small Faces had stuck together, we could

have done a lot with that album. You see, nobody
ever listened to me in those days. I was always 'the
quiet one.' And I never was the quiet one. They
were all too busy taking bleeding LSD and all that
shit.

"Yeah, because it had been going for so long. To

break up is what everybody does. I've lived all me
life with bands that have 'broken up' and wrecked
their bloody careers.

"When the Faces split up I was going to form a

band with Rod and we were going to continue,
because before that it had got a bit silly, with
various people who shall remain nameless. We
put a band together in England and auditioned Billy
Peak. But at the same time I wanted to re-form the
Small Faces and play a few nights at Hammersmith
Odeon, play Ogden's Nut Gone Flake live on stage,
and film and record it and sell it as one package.

"I think the Who have made a wise decision. They

aren't just a group anymore: it's a big organisation
into films, promoting other people, helping
talent...and that's what is badly needed in the
business anyway. They are good, sensible people."
Although Ken feels a vague unease about replacing
his old mate on drums, he has fond memories of
the escapades that Moon got up to on the road
when the Small Faces and Who were touring
partners.

"While we were rehearsing, it was all pally, 'let's

stick together boys.' The day I was leaving for
America to rehearse with Rod, Mac came round
and told me they had a record deal and that I
shouldn't go with Rod but should stick with my
mates. Mac was really upset, so I thought, okay, I

"The only time I got into the car with Keith, coming
from the gig, we're going through the middle of
Glasgow and he's got these inflatable plastic legs, a

863

loudspeaker and a microphone. He's screaming

'Rape, rape!' and waving these legs through the car
window.

IF ANY one person symbolises the most positive

continuing aspects of British rock over the last 15
years, it's Pete Townshend.

"We caused so much havoc that as we drove out of

town about a hundred squad cars came out of
nowhere. They thought we were raping someone,
and it was all hands up against the wall. Back at the
hotel, we explained to the police we were just
messing about.

His vision of rock and roll as vehicle for rage,

elegance, ecstasy and ultimate salvation started
him out as a contemporary of The Rolling Stones,
The Beatles and The Kinks and finds him now as a
contemporary of The Clash, The Jam and The
Specials; not simply the guiding spirit of The Who,
but a man whose ultimate concern has always been
that rock should live up to its frequently broken and
tarnished promises, and actually become that force
for positive action that it has so often pretended to
be.

"Meanwhile Keith went up to his room, got the

plastic legs and blew them up again, put them in a
bath full of water, pulled the shower-screen across,
and then came down and told the police: 'You won't
believe this, but there's a dead body in my bath.'

1980 finds The Who and Townshend himself in

better creative fettle than they've been for years,
with a Townshend solo album just plopping out of
the pipeline and a new Who album on the way.
Townshend has appeared either solo or with The
Who on behalf of causes ranging from
Kampuchea to Rock Against Racism and Amnesty
International as part of his re-involvement with
positive political action, has quietly and
unostentatiously used his money and facilities on
behalf of several new bands and is contributing
once again to a scene which has in turn
revitalised him.

"A copper goes up to the room, sees the legs

hanging over the bath and goes 'Arrgh!' He fell for it
until he pulled the shower curtains back and then
fell about laughing. I'm sure that's the only reason
they let us off."
Kenny is currently spending a lot of time going
through Who records to get the feel of the material,
and dutifully goes to the studios every day to
practise on his own.
"It's hard to learn just by listening, because the
music will probably change on live gigs anyway.
Even the live tapes of the band I've got vary. The
best thing I can do is stay myself, and wait for the
proper rehearsals, and it'll all come out there.

The first Pete Townshend interview took place a few

weeks ago in the offices of The Who's management
company. Last week, we reconvened to cover some
ground left untouched by the first interview mainly
to discuss specific aspects of the Empty Glass
album and to amplify a few points made in the
first interview. The text as presented here is more or
less complete (barring a few sections erased as a
result of cassette breakdown and human error) and
presented more or less in the order in which it
occurred.

"It'll be different, anyway, because I'm a different

kind of drummer and I don't want to copy Keith. The
best thing I can do is not be influenced by him. I
expect to get a lot of guidance from Pete, but I
always work fast at rehearsals and in the studio."
How does Kenny feel about his first live show with
the band, which will be in France?

First of all, let me congratulate you on your newfound beardlessness...

"Nervous. I'll feel more at home once I've learnt the

stage act. I can't wait to get it over and done. A lot
of eyes are gonna be on me."

I shaved it off about a month ago, mainly for

medical reasons. My face started moulting, so I
shaved it off and my kids started screaming and my
wife started screaming. I've had a beard since
1970, so my youngest kid has never seen me
without one except for when I played Widow
Twankey in the pantomime. At that time the Kenny
Everett false chin was not available, otherwise I
would have worn one. The director said I had to
shave. Nobody knew who the fuck I was.

Chris Welch, 1979

Pete Townshend: Conversations With Pete
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 19 April 1980
On an up with britain's longest serving honest
man of rock

864

In what way are the songs on your solo album

Townshend Townshend songs rather than 'Who'
Townshend songs?

write the longer you write, the easier it gets to veil

what you're really trying to say behind clever words
or words that anyone who didn't get an English
GCE wouldn't be able to understand.

I don't actually know if I make that distinction. The

only distinction I made was that if I was really going
to do a solo album deal properly and I'll tell you
the reason why I did it later on the only way I
could do it would be to take the best of any material
that I had at any particular time, rather than knock
together solo projects of any sort based on material
that The Who had rejected. So my album though I
was able to take a lot more risks with the material
than The Who would could have been a Who
album if we'd happened to be recording at that time,
just as the Who album that we're doing now could
have been a solo album.

So to have a heavier delivery, a more abandoned

delivery, a more if I can just use this word once in
this whole interview credible delivery, which Roger
is more than capable of doing, it helps to get what's
really in the song across, helps to get it through the
words. That's what's always great about Roger
doing the stuff; he can smash through stuff that
might be pretentious. My heavy delivery always
comes across cynical, rather than real guts.
You mentioned the 'naturalistic accent' earlier; I
wish that had been adopted as early as
Quadrophenia.

I just decided to write to write straight from the hip

and offer everything to the project that's going at the
time, not earmark stuff. I think that what's quite
interesting is the way that l do a song as distinct
from the way that The Who would do it, and I don't
want to deny myself all the Who-type material
because y'know, that's what I am.

Yeah, but it hadn't really been done up to then.

There was only one band I can remember doing it,
quite an arty band ... but it always made me feel as
if that was put on. The first band who made me feel
that it wasn't being deliberately done but that they
were just singing was The Sex Pistols. I really got
into their albums and played 'em all the time, so
when I was ready to do demos it felt quite natural
just to do it myself.

But when you're writing, do you feel that you want

to sing that song yourself?
Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I feel that I
get a little too precious about a song, and I feel that
I don't really want to hear the band play it because I
like it the way it is on the demo. But I'm always
pleasantly surprised.

It's quite weird the way The Jam use it, because it's
almost like a mixture: sometimes it's American,
sometimes it's English, sometimes it's grammar
school and sometimes it's... compre'ensive.
Probably what's a bit of a pity is that everyone's
very conscious of their accent, and that if they're
using a particular accent, they're very conscious of
it. Joe Jackson sings in an American accent, Elvis
Costello sings in an American accent... it's like they
actually sat down and thought, 'Am I going to use
this new English accent thing or not?'

Some of the material that we've been recording with

The Who I've sung with a half-English accent as
is the current trend and I never thought Roger
would be able to do it, but he just lunged right in
and did it and it sounds much more natural than
singing in his normal Bob Seger accent. He was
pleasantly surprised and I was pleasantly surprised.

I don't know if you've been in LA lately, but there's a

big, big punk scene happening there in the Chinese
restaurants, and what was amazing was seeing all
those American bands singing in Cockney accents.

I think one of the great things about having done my

solo album stuff and decided to chuck really quite
nutty material in... is that the changes which have
taken place between the last Who album Who Are
You and my solo album have affected the next Who
album.

Part of what differentiates The Who from the

generation of musicians that they came up
alongside is that you take notice of what's going on
and you're open to influences.

Roger really likes my album though I don't think

that he's particularly mad on 'I Am An Animal' but
everything else he really likes. He likes the sound of
it, the feel of it. It's affected all of us, it's a pool to
draw from. It's affected Roger's singing and
delivery; he's using a much more modern delivery,
and the new material needs it. I still have a
tendency to get very wordy, and as it gets easier to

Well, we tend to... I don't know, anticipate things.

For two years I was anticipating the punk thing,
wondering how it was going to happen, and getting
really frustrated when it didn't. I spent a lot of time
literally personally forcing the band, especially
Roger, into conversations about it and around the

865

time of The Who By Numbers we used to have

really quite heavy conversations about where music
was going to go particularly in this country and
whether we should be involved in it, and the
problem with Moon living in America and living that
Hollywood lifestyle and whether we should try and
force him to come back to England ... all those kind
of things. Whether our music should change,
whether we should let the Who tradition just bash
on until it got really boring, whether we should try
and force change by starting labels and working
with other bands.

Obviously that screaming guitar sound's been

around for ages and it's distinctly English and it
wasn't just me that was doing it. But I think Keith's
drum style was totally unique and it was great to
see it acknowledged and developed.
One of the things I found particularly noticeable
about The Kids Are Alright was that the latest
footage looked contemporary and the earliest did
also, but the Woodstock period seemed really
dated.
A lot of that was tied up with Roger's development
as a separate ego, and everybody in the band
started to define their images a lot more. I used to
go on wearing a boiler suit and Dr Martens in
defiance of fashion, d'you know what I mean?

Before the emergence of punk, The Who were the

only band who actually sat round a table to decide
'Should we go on or not?' Would we be doing music
a favour if we just fucking stopped? We actually
considered that.

This was immediately post-LSD and Roger was

wearing fucking shawls and I don't know what... I
don't think Roger ever even took acid, but at that
particular time that was what everybody did, made
sure your clothes were kinda trippy (laughs). It was
that Beatles and Satanic Majesties period when
everybody was really turning out crap.

You faced the consideration of your own musical

obsolescence?
Yeah, no question about it. I think it's amazing that
someone like Peter Gabriel puts out a single like his
new one and it can fit quite gracefully somewhere in
between Joe Jackson and XTC and on the other
side someone like Gary Numan and yet when you
put it in context with the rest of his stuff, he hasn't
changed at all.

I think we diluted our appearance and our music by

separating up. What I find really cheering about you
saying that was that in that period just prior to
Keith's death, which is when stuff was shot at
Shepperton, we were starting to cut at the individual
egos again, saying, 'Look, this is a band. Let's not
be afraid of being a band. Let's not be afraid of
being The Who. Let's not be afraid to be different.
Let's not be afraid to take stances. Let's not be
afraid to be affected'.

In a way, he's a lucky one, and I think The Who are

lucky because our sound has always been
reflected.
I saw The Damned at the Nashville once and Boz
from Bad Company got up and Rat Scabies was
having a terrible go at him 'Fuck off! Go on, get
out!' and Boz refused to go, but the band actually
sounded great. They reminded me of The Who, in a
lot of ways, and Ratthe Viv Prince of the punk
world! just looked like he was impersonating Moon
and getting pretty close to it on occasion. And I
suddenly realised that the tradition particularly
Moon's drumming had affected a lot of bands and
they were getting away from that tidy Ringo-style
drumming which was really just an impersonation of
black music.

That was a conscious decision that we took after a

talk round the table it was in a pub, actually and
it was most effective in my relationship with Roger.
We decided not so much to stop fighting as to stop
deliberately getting in each others' way and giving
each other a lot more space. And then, of course,
once we started giving each other a lot more space
we realised that that space was not what we
wanted. As soon as you shut someone in jail all
they want is freedom, but as soon as you get 'em
out they realise that there's quite a lot of
advantages to being in nick. There are a lot of
people who as soon as they get out of jail just
commit a crime so they can get back in.

Much as I think Ringo is a great drummer and

Charlie Watts is a great drummer, I think what they
do is derived from black music in too much of a
straight line. What I like about many of the modern
English bands is that their music has managed to
skip that direct route. I think it's caused some bands
some problems when they've not acknowledged
any roots at all, but just dealing with the drum style,
I think it's loosened it up, freed it.

Ah, I thought you were going to cite George

Jackson or Eldridge Cleaver or people like that who
became philosophers in prison...

866

Or McVicar becoming a professor of whatever it is

that he's a professor of.

are the best principle, 'cos it's harder to do things

short anyway and that's the most effective rock so
much as suddenly realising that there was no way
we could go on working like that.

As early as 1970 when Live At Leeds came out

you were slipping bits of Who trivia inside the
packaging, stuff from '65 or thereabouts. Even five
years after that period, you seemed to be regarding
it as kind of touchstone for The Who...

After Tommy we were shocked that it had been

accepted at all, because it had been a real fucking
last-ditch attempt. If we couldn't go on doing what
we were good at, which was just making singles,
then what the fuck could we do? I imagined us
spending our lives like The Searchers or
somebody... going round cabaret clubs and then
finally going broke and opening up grocery shops.
And I didn't know what we were supposed to do
next.

Well, that album cover.., wasn't it based on

bootlegs? That was just a brilliant idea by some
designer who used to work at Track at the time,
always coming up with nutty album sleeves. The
first super-controversial album sleeve was the one
with Lennon and Yoko naked on the front, and
Track distributed that; and then they brought out the
Hendrix one with all the naked birds on the front,
and they were really into album covers and we
weren't We didn't really give a shit, despite the
resident art-school member.

Were we supposed to make lots of Tommies?

When it was ecstatically received in America and
Europe, I thought, 'Fuck this.' We're still really only
any good at singles. That's why Tommy is big; it's a
series of vignettes. It was supposed to be a series
of singles and any departures from that were
introduced really by Kit Lambert's coaching: 'keep
that, write another tune, then repeat that'. So I just
wrote bits, stuck them into songs.

As far as I can remember, we had very little to do

with the cover of Live At Leeds, but if I think back to
that period, of more importance is the reason why
we put out a live album at all. It was because it was
all we had. My writing had gone completely ape-shit
I won't say it had completely stopped, but I was
definitely coming out with some really weird stuff
like 'Dogs', 'Magic Bus', bits and pieces, really
strange things.

It may appear to flow, but when I presented it to the

band, it was just a series of songs. So the point with
Live At Leeds wasn't 'back to business', it was all
we were capable of doing at the time.

It was seen as a refreshing change: a live album

and a few oddball singles after Tommy...

We did a hell of a lot of roadwork, particularly in

America, just exploiting Tommy.

We were actually shocked by what happened with

Tommy, that it actually did what it was supposed to
do, which was to shatter the preconception that
people had of the band.

You've got to remember that Woodstock was the

renaissance of Tommy, it was after Tommy and it
put Tommy back into the charts again. But virtually
as soon as we finished recording it I was thinking of
other things: 'Rock Is Dead Long Live Rock'; an
early version of Quadrophenia, Lifehouse; maybe
developing 'Rael' from The Who Sell Out; just
searching for something which we could get away
with, and if The Who were identified with Heavy
Metal in the States, it was because... Live At Leeds
is the best and most exciting Who live stuff I've
heard. It may be a bit of a headbanging album. It's
not pretty or brilliantly performed or anything, it's
just energy.

Remember we'd only really existed in the UK at that

point as a singles band. Even though we'd had a
couple of well-conceived albums in fact, I think all
our first three albums were great we were
confused about why we'd stopped selling singles
when we'd felt that the quality of the singles was
going up. I mean, 'I can See For Miles' was one that
the industry reacted to very favourably. By 'the
industry' I mean broadcasting. We'd just lost the
pirate stations, but it was on the radio all the time,
Top Of The Pops played it every fucking week but it
still made only a very low showing in the charts.

It wasn't so much the fashion of the time, but we

were affected by bands like Led Zeppelin suddenly
appearing, but then we'd been affected by other
people suddenly appearing and we still are.

I felt it was a very powerful single from the band,

but people had obviously got bored with hearing
The Who do that sort of single.

I can't tell you what a shock it was to be on a bill

with someone like Jimi Hendrix after having been
established for two or three years as The Person
Who Smashes Guitars and then see someone

So it wasn't like we retreated from singles as a

principle for rock I've always believed that singles

867

smash 'em, set 'em alight, use feedback and play

the most astonishing guitar I'd ever heard in my life.
I was also affected by Cream when they started. I
thought, 'Well, this is another fucking rip-off for a
start'.

lightweight philosophy, but that's what mods were

about.
And I certainly don't like being accused of trying to
influence kids what to do, either with the film or with
some of the obviously exploitative things which
have followed in the film's wake.

But then afterwards I realised that The Who have

something that none of the three bands that I've just
mentioned have, which is a unique chemistry
which is something that we can always go back to
and lean on.

Yeah, but you endorsed the Quadrophenia clothing

line...
I had very little to do with it. That's more to do with
Kenny Jones.

I don't think we've got it as much as we used to

have, because a lot of it was to do with Keith and
the four of us, but maybe an element of it is still
there. And what makes that chemistry magical is a
lot of the tradition, and the length of time that the
band's been together.

Kenny was very interested in that and he went

along to see the fashion people. Someone ought to
talk to Kenny about that and find out why he did it,
because it's the last thing on earth I would want to
do, to be involved in clothing lines. I never even
saw the clothes.

When the decision was taken to film Quadrophenia,

had you any idea of what would be going on
outside the cinemas by the time it was released?

I wouldn't mind a Sting suit, mind you, but the suit

Sting wore in the film must've cost about 300 quid.
But you can get anything you need to be a mod at
the shop at the top of the road. It doesn't have to
have a Gucchi label in it or a Quad label or
whatever they call it, but then I don't know why so
many kids that I see wear the bloody Who badge.

No, not really. Although it was probably very lucky

for us that there was no original mod movie and
never will be other than from England, so it hasn't
affected the success of the film anywhere else.
In America, the film is slow. It does good business
in the cities, but when it goes out on the road it
stays in a cinema for a week and then moves on.
Probably because it's a music film it'll make its
money back over a period of years, like Monterey
did.

Outside the Rainbow where we did our first concert,

I couldn't resist going up to a row of kids in parkas
that all had 'The Who' on and I said, 'Have you ever
seen The Who play before?' And this kid turned
round and he didn't know who I was. He was
queueing up for tickets and I don't think he cared.
He wasn't interested. He gave me a look like 'Fuck
off, cunt' and I suddenly realised that that symbol is
just a symbol, just like the bloody swastika was to
the Hell's Angels. It meant nothing to them.

The reason that it's doing incredible business in

England is that we were lucky that the mod
movement was having its renaissance around the
time that the film came out. In fact, it was already
well-established, as I understand they certainly
didn't have any trouble getting people for the film. A
lot of the kids in the film were actually existing mods
from Sheffield, Stafford and a few other places, and
they had scooters and they had parkas and they
had all the kit.

The people most responsible for the mod fashion

thing coming back are The Jam. They started it, and
we were just lucky that the film was there.
You see, it costs so much to make a film that when
you make one you've got to try every fucking device
in the book to get your money back. We're just
proud of the fact that we managed to make a film in
England. It wasn't entirely English money, but
McVicar was made with a lot of English money and
The Kids Are Alright was made with all our money,
and it'll make it back.

The film was 18 months in the making, and while

we were making it we saw the mod thing starting,
and some of the kids told us that it had never
stopped. In Stockton there's a group called the
Stockton Footsies who were a mod-type situation
and they'd sparked off a skinhead fashion in the
Midlands but they'd retained a very clean image; it
wasn't all tied up in unnecessary violence. In fact, it
was the reverse: it was like an American 'cool'
scene where you didn't get into fights because it
was uncool. They were just interested in dancing
and looking good, which seems a bit of a

It's great to be able to cock a snook at all the

Americans who say that we're finished as a nation
of film-makers. Most film-makers don't have the first
fucking idea of what gets kids into the cinema, and
it's not just tagging music onto something. It's

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making films in the British tradition, which is the

only kind of film that I think we can make well,
which is the kind of Saturday Night And Sunday
Morning thing. I know it's depressing, but that's our
cinema verite, if we ever had one.

well. Perhaps Selecter are a little too serious and it

worries you: you think. 'Christ, they're going to get
weighed down with all the world's problems'. The
Specials have got a really good balance.
I really like The Pretenders, for example, 'cause
Chris Thomas was producing my solo album and I
heard all the tapes and got to knew 'em, but I don't
think that they're a new band particularly. and the
whole sound of the band is to do with something
that leads on a bit more from establishment music,
and I think it's far more likely that something like
that will be easily accepted in America because, for
a start, she can sing! It's based on vocal quality,
and if you've got a good singer in the band, you've
got a better chance of getting played in the States.

At the Kampuchea concert you did, you were

amazingly unselfconscious for a band who've been
going so long.
We're still just about alive! I enjoyed that particular
day and I went to all the concerts, except I missed
The Queen one because I didn't realise that it was
going to start that early, but I saw all the others. I
think the one I disliked most was the Wings night,
because they were obviously under-rehearsed and
unconfident and seemed to feel out of place.

When I was there, they were playing a hell of a lot

of Pretenders and a hell of a lot of Clash in LA,
which I was amazed at, and they also seemed to
know which were the best tracks on the albums to
play. They were playing 'Clampdown' all the time.

Well, it can't be too relaxing to follow Costello and

Rockpile.
I don't know, I think that's what McCartney
welcomes, that kind of opportunity. I think he likes to
keep his feet in what's happening, whether or not it
deeply affects what he does.

It's a bit weird for us at the moment, playing in the

states, because all the influences that the new
bands have had on our stuff starts showing up in
our music before those bands actually get there
themselves. I ain't exactly saying that The Who are
going to make a 2-Tone record, but it affects you.
The Who have done a vaguely reggae tune for the
next album.

But on each night there were seven bands that

were keen to do it. The Clash were keen to do it,
and in their case it turned out to be a mistake. It
was the wrong kind of thing for them to do, but they
did it, and it's the kind of thing that's important for
them to do. Just as it's important for us to be on a
bill with bands like them, even though they actually
played a different night from us.

How'd you first meet The Clash?

Through Kosmo Vinyl, who used to work for Keith
Altham (Who publicist) and of course, I know the
old boy Ian Dury pretty well from Kilburn And
The High Roads, and it was through his
involvement with their camp.

Did you enjoy The Specials?

Yeah, not 'alf! I think they're going to be enormous
in America if Madness don't steal their thunder.

I got persuaded to go down to Brighton to see them

live properly, and it was one of the best concerts
I've ever seen. It was fucking incredible. They
asked me to go on stage and play, which was a bit
embarrassing because I'd only had London Calling
about a week, and I wasn't too sure of many of the
chords, so I turned the guitar to 1 and just
pretended. It was really exciting.

We were watching kids' telly and they had this little

girl on there and she looked like she wanted to go
to the toilet. She could hardly speak! She'd been to
one of Madness' under-15 matinees and they'd had
a press conference after and they asked what that
was like. And she said one of the most revealing
statements about Madness that you could ever
come across: 'Oh, everyone just sat around and
asked the gang questions'.

The Clash are still a young band and they're

working incredibly hard on the road, and so you can
get patchy gigs, and I'm really glad that when I saw
them was as good as it was.

She didn't call 'em a band: she called 'em a fucking

gang!
The thing that I like most about The Specials is that
they're not just out for laughs. The music is exciting
and they're obviously really enjoying themselves,
but there's something very serious about them as

I liked their first album a lot, but one of the problems

I have, playing albums at home is that our house is
quite small and Clash music needs to be played
pretty loud, and I can't stand listening on

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headphones. And it disturbs the kids. I could never

play 'God Save The Queen' or any of that stuff; the
kids would actually start to cry, get disturbed, get
out their painting-by-numbers books and switch on
Magpie to define reality. So I'd just stick it on a
cassette in the car and blast myself while driving
around.

owners! But then that's probably a reflection of their

problems. One should never be too hard on people
who sell booze!
A point currently being made quite frequently is that
'rock' has become a series of empty gestures and
rituals. Certain parts of The Who's show are rituals
and you've certainly stated that you're aware of
this...

I used to get most of my records actually sent from

the bands at around the same time as the radio
stations and I always listen to the Peel show or
have it recorded for me when I'm in the States, so I
hear all sorts of stuff from bands with their own
labels. Which was very encouraging, and so I put
my own label together, which didn't really happen
properly, but I've still got the Eel Pie label.

Well, in the end... for ages, my reaction to that was

just to stop.
For two and a half years we didn't do any shows
because I just refused to play, but then I started to
hang around with a few bands and it was probably
Steve and Paul from the Pistols who told me, Why
the fuck do you worry about it? Just get up and
play. Alright, it's ritualised. Who gives a shit? Just
play!' It was that who-gives-a-shit attitude that just
got me: 'So it's ritualised. Who gives a shit? Yeah!'

What can you tell a band who come in and ask to

be on Eel Pie except 'Why not do it yourself?' We'll
tell you where to go, give you 200 and that's it.
Pay us back off the top'. We've done it three or four
times now. To press 2,000 singles costs and dealers
keep records of how fast things sell, so they could
take the sheet into a major record company and
say, 'Look, we've sold 2,000 records in a day'.

That's what I feel at the moment. Bits of The Who's

show are still rooted in tradition, and we go through
the motions to a certain extent because people do
wanna hear old stuff. My wife went to the Dylan
concert and came back ecstatic because he played
a lot of old stuff and revitalised it. I'd hate to go to a
current show and just hear that one bloody album
and gospel songs and not hear him do any of the
other stuff.

So I've gotten out of that, but I still get sent a hell of

a lot of stuff direct.
Anyone can make a record now for 8 or 10 an
hour which by 1965 standards would be of
exceptionally high quality. But what fucks bands up
now is PA, because the standard of PA that people
are used to now, even from small bands, is so high.
You can go on with a Telecaster copy, but you can't
go on with a shitty PA, and unless the club or the
other group have a good one, you've got to spend
150 to hire one.

In a way it's a really sensational, daring thing to do,

but I don't think it's the kind of thing you'll ever find
The Who doing; just doing a new album and some
other stuff, ignore what went before and try to be
completely different. What you've got to watch is the
hypocrisy of pretending that you're not proud of
what you've done, and the hypocrisy of pretending
that you don't enjoy and are able to lean on the
value of those gestures.

In my company, we try to cut across that by forming

a co-op, allowing bands to use the PA and the van
free, and If they got a deal they'd put money back
in. But the only one who did that were Craze who
used to be The Skunks and they were the only
band out of that original four or five who actually
managed to take advantage of what we were doing
and then feed money back.

At the end of a two-hour show the lasers were

fucking helpful, because then you could stand still
and let them do the stuff. Or if I was having a
problem playing a decent guitar solo, I could whirl
my arm a couple of times and it would have about
the same effect as a well-played guitar solo. And
that da-da-rrraaanggg! gesture that I do: every now
and then I do it and I think. 'Christ. I'm fucking glad
that belongs to me'. It gets me out of so much
trouble (laughs)!

But what's more important than gear even is

management: day-to-day encouragement and
assistance and making sure that the band get paid
for what they do. When we started in '61 or
whenever it was, we got 12 a night down the Old
Ford Tavern. Groups are still getting 12 at the Old
Ford Tavern, but in those days 12 was 12. Now
its fourpence. The cost of PA's and guitars has
increased tenfold, but groups are still getting paid
about the same. The same old rip-offs... club-

I understand what they're saying, but what's

annoying is when you realise that most of the
gestures are used upend it's fucking difficult to
come up with anything new, because rock is so
simple and so limited and within the framework of

870

rock so many things have been tried and explored.

On the edges, though, it's frontiers have been
defined, and if you go over the edge you turn into
something else, into jazz or classical music.

I've had some incredible rows with audiences. I

think the most famous one was in America, where
we played the Metropolitan Opera House, and we
did two shows, each two and a half hours long.
That's the longest I've ever played, because they
were pretty close together and it was five hours of
solid rock, not Grateful Dead stuff but heavy,
exhausting stuff. We never did encores anyway,
and I was told that we didn't have to do an encore if
we didn't want to, but I should at least go on and
thank the audience for their 15 minutes of
spontaneous applause. Of course, their 15 minutes
of spontaneous applause was about as
spontaneous as an orgasm. It was extremely
worked-on. By the time they got out there they were
already in their own private hell, bloody raw hands. I
went to speak and someone threw a can of Coke at
me.

I think Jon Anderson and Yes and people like that

are actually producing classical music; and it's very
clear that Keith Jarrett playing his piano solo things
would work nicely within a rock form, but he doesn't
atop there, he goes off into all sorts of head trips.
And people like Peter Gabriel occasionally step
outside because they're not really interested in rock
as form. They don't recognise the limitations of the
thing and they don't really value them. But a lot of
new bands do, and whether or not they call it rock,
the limitations are there; the strictures, the
realisation that you only need so much to be able to
play.

People in London are very jaded, just like people in

New York and LA because they see such a lot of
good music, but it's still less ritualised then the
American tour market. or the heavy metal venues
like Wembley Pool, where people who've been into
rock for ten years expect a particular kind of show,
a particular kind of value-for-money and they're
disappointed when they don't get lasers for the
price of their ticket.

What was your reaction to Public Image? Their

statement is that their music isn't rock, that rock is
rubbish by definition. Anti-rock!
They may be right. The thing with Johnny Rotten is
that I don't know whether to believe everything he
says because he always says it with a wry grin on
his face and you never know whether he's taking
the piss or not. Maybe he's not. I suppose their
record isn't a rock record, but it's a rock package.
That tin is the greatest rock package I've ever seen.

Obviously I'd rather go to a Clash gig, but I like a

few heavy metal bands because some of them play
all right. I think the head-banging thing's a good
laugh.

Maybe it's the overfree use of the word 'rock'

without anybody understanding what's meant by it.
A lot of Americans use the word 'rock' like they don't
know what they're saying. They might use the word
'rock' and then mention Bob Seger, Billy Joel, The
Sex Pistols and The Rolling Stones all in the same
sentence. I think they're all a different kind of rock. I
have an image of what it means to me, but it isn't
actually a form of music.

It was what always used to frustrate me which is

why I got reasonably good at words because
there were so many things that I couldn't do
musically. A lot of the heavy metal records that I've
heard recently just have an incredibly high standard
of musicianship, very skilful playing.
YOUR Lifehouse project is going to be filmed by
Nicolas Roeg...

To me, talking about 'anti-rock' and calling it music

is a contradiction in terms. To me, rock is something
almost like a pill funnily enough which you take
and it makes you fly. If Public Image make you fly
then in my definition of the word it becomes
rock. There are bits of classical music which make
you fly, but not in the same way. I mean, I don't
know many people who put on Tchaikowsky and go
ape-shit.

Well, I sent him a script...

Via Nick Lowe?
Yeah, via Nick Lowe (laughs).
Roeg is loosely interested, but I don't know if it's the
kind of thing that he would want to do, but I really
love the films he's directed, he's English, and his
new film Bad Timing just smashed me.

I think the riot at the Rainbow gig shows, in a

sense, how ritualised rock concerts have become,
when the most impetuous geezer in the band
decides that he's not going to play an encore
because he doesn't feel like it and still clings to the
misconception that it's his choice. Is it his choice? Is
it fuck. He goes out there, mate, and he does it.

The most important development was that a

treatment was sent to Ray Bradbury, because I
fancied getting someone like him to finish it off. I'd

871

done a couple of scripts for it, but I can't see the

wood for the fucking trees any more. Anyway, he's
interested, and if he did the script, then maybe
someone like Nic Roeg would probably be a great
director for it, but I don't think he'd agree to do it
without having control over the script.

It was that which stopped you taking drugs, wasn't

it?
I think so, but I was also suffering from the effects of
over-imbibing, because I was an absolute fanatic
about pot and pills. I wasn't that keen on acid, it
scared me. If you're someone who has a vivid
imagination anyway, then acid can really be a hell
of a problem. The stuff around at the time was hard
to grade: sometimes you got your head blown off,
other times nothing happened at all, so I was about
to stop anyway.

Lifehouse was originally a fiction, almost a science

fiction, concept with a concert at the heart of it. The
action which was a story about an approaching
army heading toward this concert and busting in at
the climax. But the two things would be shot
separately and inter-related.

The thing that really happened to get me into Meher

Baba in '67 was that I suppose I was slightly fucked
up. I was determined to get myself sorted out and it
was the first thing that I came across... after a brief
encounter with flying saucers. I was surrounded by
all sorts of things: interplanetary this and occult that,
macrobiotic food eaters, meditation and all that.
LSD just unleashed all this craziness in people, but
I was listening to all the things that they were saying
and not using acid.

At one point I was imagining a 10 week concert, not

just with The Who but with lots of other musicians
as well. The idea was that it was set in the future
and that this was a sort of illegal concert which they
were trying to track down and stamp out. Like an
expunged church: the lost art of rock and roll.
When they finally break in, the concert has reached
such a height that the audience are about to
disappear (laughter).

When I say that it was the first thing I came across,

I didn't really mean that: I meant that it was the first
thing that I became committed to properly, and from
which I got the results.

It was kind of a nutty idea at the time, but I've since

brought it a little bit down to earth, rationalised it a
bit.

It's a hard thing to explain, but if you live your life

according to the guidelines set down by Meher
Baba, you don't need anyone else to tell you how to
do things. It's about living a better life and a more
loving life in a traditional humanitarian way which
we are all born with the potential to achieve anyway.
But having a focus, somone you really respect but
don't necessarily think is a super-being, someone
you respect above anyone else demonstrating a
real love for you when you think that you're a lump
of shit... that's all it needs. It just needs someone to
give you back your self-respect, and then it's your
job from there.

But still what excites me about it is that it does

contain a concert and a story, and it does contain a
lot of my feelings about what rock is and what
music is, and why music has a spiritual value and
why the effect of rock music has a spiritual value.
Well, that theme runs through a lot of your work
with The Who: the extremes of spirituality and
violence.
The two coexist anyway; can't wriggle out of it. One
of the things that I've always loved most about rock
is that it's not ashamed of any of the things that it
sets itself up to be.

A few of the guys from Misty flipped through the

Baba books when they were recording at Oceanic
which is the studio at the Baba centre and they
didn't find anything deeply at odds from what they
believe. A few of the Baba people came to talk to
them because they were interested in Rasta. But I
know a lot of people who are involved with different
gurus and the different sects that are about in
California, and the only time that I've ever been able
to find out what they're about is when there's been
some mutual respect.

I know it's fashionable, probably less fashionable

now, but at one period it was fashionable to knock
the fact that most of the established rock elite had
become interested in Indian mysticism of some sort
at some point. Whether or not they needed it is
debatable, but it was fashionable to sneer at it, and
all that coexisted with the violent side of the music
as well.
Whether or not The Who ever achieved a balance
within it, or have ever achieved a balance or ever
will, I don't know. I feel I've had some great things,
and felt a hell of a lot of warmth from my
involvement in the Meher Baba thing.

And yet there's a part of me that's cynical and

British and jaded and I think 'Fuck all this! There's
this obvious loony that they think is God in human

872

form and maybe they're thinking the same thing,

and maybe we're all loonies anyway. But what
redeems the whole concept of searching is that it
can draw people together. Everybody's got to
respect people's need. This incredible, violent
modern attitude that man needs nothing, that he's
got to stand alone, that his strength is just in his
mere existence is obnoxious to me. It's an
indication of the nastiest medico-psycho-bullshit
that I've ever come across.

Tony brought up Keith as well and said, 'Fuck Keith

Moon, we're better off without him. Decadent cunt
driving Rolls Royces into swimming pools, if that's
what rock and roll's about, who needs it?' And to a
certain extent I agreed with a bit of it, but I feel that
it was a bit of opportunist cock.
I don't know if they care, but I'd like to see this
fucking Rolls Royce in the swimming pool. I spoke
to the guy who bought his house, the drummer from
10cc and he said there was one in there, but I get
the feeling that someone wheeled it in just to
validate the story.

I find it most hard to talk to psychologists,

psychoanalysts and doctors about things like Meher
Baba. In the end, one doesn't. You just try and
respect the fact that obviously through their work
they've found some kind of answer to their needs,
but to actually deny anybody the need for
something... once you admit there's a need, alright,
you can call it what you like, you can use any fancy
word or violent word or psycho-dependency or
whatever you like, any kind of terminology, but
they're all aggressive. They're all a sneer...'Ahhh,
you weakling.'

The most interesting Keith Moon stories aren't

about Rolls Royces being driven into swimming
pools. The secret of Keith Moon's driving problems
was that he couldn't steer. When he was behind a
steering wheel and he wanted to go left he used to
turn it the wrong way, so he only used to drive cars
in his own garden.
I just wrote the song as a reaction. I rang Tony up
the day after I'd written it and said that I'd written it
and explained. I was going to send him a copy, and
then I decided I wouldn't send him one until it came
out after I'd decided that it was a good song to go
on the album. I thought, 'Fuck it, he'll get it in the
end.'

See. I'm very heavily into Meher Baba, but I also

drink like a fish. I'm still not the most honest person
in the world. It's difficult, but I do at least know
what's happening to me. I accept that there is a
larger reason for me being alive than just being a
rock star.

I only read their book the other day, and I quite liked
it. I changed the title from 'Jools And Tone' to 'Jools
And Jim' because it's not directly about them; it's
about ever taking a stance and believing what you
read. It's just another 'Don't Believe What You
Read' song. I think it's one of the best songs on the
album. The energy's great and I really like the
singing on it.

It's not just because I need something to hang onto

that I believe in God.
If all there was as a pinnacle of human achievement
was what I achieved, then there's not enough. It is
just not enough. I could not live believing that what
I'd achieved was all that was achievable. To many
people it would be a dream come true, and to me
it's my childhood dream come true, but it's still not
enough. It's not high enough, and it's not pure
enough.

TELL US a bit about 'Jools and Jim', the song on

the album about Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons.

But I was amazed at how well-written their book

was. I hadn't read much rock press for a long time,
because when that incredible first rash of new
bands appeared and NME got very fiery, I got
confused and I couldn't keep up. I'd go away to the
States for a month and when I came back
everything would have changed. You needed to
read it every week very carefully, and I just like
flicking through them, so I stopped altogether. But I
read something Julie wrote recently the Radio 4
piece and I could see her ending up writing for
The Listener, but I thought their book was great. It
was the sort of thing that I would be very proud of
having written if I'd written it.

I wrote the song after someone from the Guardian

wrote an article about them to promote their book,
and he got very animated about how they didn't
give a shit about Sid Vicious going down. And then

It was almost like a challenge. That's what it was to

a lot of people like me. Their presence really shook
me. Their book is about hypocrisy, pretty
exclusively, but I think you can accuse anybody of

I'm not there yet, and that's what life is about:

having to aspire to. You have to aim higher, and if
you're going to aspire to anything you might as well
aspire to the universe as opposed to aspiring to the
house next door, or to someone's tits.
Do you know what I mean?

873

hypocrisy and be right. I think everybody's a

hypocrite in one way or another. There is no bigger
sin than hypocrisy, but then there's no more
common one.

In a sense, it's to do with semantics, but ultimately,

you vacate. You ask for help.
I can't back this up, but I think that when I've
sincerely prayed, I've got an answer of some sort.
Not in the ways that I've ever imagined I'd get an
answer, but I've got one. If you go on challenging
life, saying 'Why won't life do something for me?
Why am I the one who's always losing?' then all
you're doing is perpetuating life as is, the idea that
life revolves around you as the centre of the
universe, which is not true. It's not realistic and it's
not practical.

Calling someone a hypocrite is the height of

hypocrisy.
How about 'Empty Glass, itself, the title track?
The spark-off for the song was when I read
Ecclesiastes again and it was so powerful it just
reminded me of the way Britain was today.
Everyone walks around complaining about one
thing and another, but when they're talking about
futility, if you're talking about Britain as a country
with a history and an empire, they're talking about
futility after a consummation. Bringing it closer to
home, to my age group, after winning the war you
end up with fuck all.

You're just another fucking cog in the wheel and

you're nothing. You only mean something and you
only become something when you believe yourself
to be nothing. That's why I put that little footnote on
the cover, which was only a repeat of something
Meher Baba said: "If you want nothing, then you've
got 'everything".

You got King Solomon talking about how after he's

fucked everybody and had everything and gone
through everything, the only piece of advice he's got
is that life is useless. But it also contains some
great inspirational poetry: "There is a time" and all
that but it really reminded me of a lot of Persian Sufi
poetry, that it's only in desperation that you become
spiritually open.

But unless you have everything you cannot want

nothing.
I don't think you can put it in that order. It's not
debatable in that sense. It might be possible to say
that it's someone like the guy in Ecclesiastes who
has enjoyed everything who can say, 'Life is futile'.
But it's apparent to me that a lot of kids today who
are teenagers grew up in horrible and dire
situations and they've got fuck all and they feel life
is futile in much the same way that the jaded king in
Ecclesiastes thinks that life is futile.

In other words, religion is action.

I don't know what religion is. It's a machine that
surrounds spiritual need. Spirituality is the need,
and religion is the junk food, really, and what's
amazing about finding something like Ecclesiastes
in the Bible is to realise that what it is is a refutation
of religion as society and junk food, if you like. It's to
say 'Listen, you won't get what you want through
sex, through people, money, through over-eating,
through triumph, through anything. The only way
you'll get it is by getting on your hands and knees
and asking for it'.

It depends what trigger is required to get you to that

point of being desperate enough to actually ask for
help.
The line "He laid me back like an empty dress" in
'And I Moved' is the weirdest line on the whole
album.

Spirituality to me is about the asking not the

answers, and I still do find it a very romantic
proposition, that you hold up an empty glass and
say, 'Right. If you're there, fill it'. The glass is empty
because you have emptied it. You were in it
originally. That's why it's only when you're at your
lowest ebb, when you believe yourself to be
nothing, when you believe yourself to be worthless,
when you're in a state of futility, that you produce an
empty glass.

I don't really know what that's about. Originally I

wrote it as a song about a voyeur, but it went
through some permutations. A lot of people feel that
it's about me and my father or me and Meher Baba
or me and a relationship with a woman, but I
listened to it last night because I was checking the
pressings, and I thought it was a bit like an
admission of homosexual tendencies. 'Rough Boys'
is more of a paternal thing, but 'And I Moved' is very
peculiar and I think it's probably best not to try and
explain it.

Because normally, you occupy the glass. By

emptying or vacating the glass, you give God a
chance to enter it. You get yourself out of the way.

But originally I wrote it when Bette Midler's manager

had written to me and said that she was doing an
album and she liked what I wrote and asked if I

874

could send her a song. He said, 'Make it a bit dirty,

because that's the kind of thing that she likes'. So I
sent it to her and heard nothing for a couple of
months, and then I heard from him and he said, 'I
couldn't really give it to her because it's smutty'. I
said, 'What?? You asked for something dirty'. And
he said, 'It isn't dirty; it's smutty'.

someone who is so full of their own selfconsciousness that they can't be themselves in
front of you. And the last three of four years of my
life have been so full of the discovery of women.
I wouldn't say that it was a fulfilling thing, but the
last time I took such a step forward was when I was
at art school. Discovering that women actually
talked to men having been to a boys' school.
Discovering that women were actually
approachable human beings. Single-sex schools
breed all these attitudes... sometimes you hear
geezers in the pub going poofters this and poofters
that and I feel like saying, 'Try a cock up your arse
sometime, you might like it'.

One of the purest pieces of schoolboy poetry I've

ever written. You see it on paper: 'And I moved
towards him dot dot dot Pete Townshend 6B'.
Followed immediately by a pen drawing by
Penarric, 7C.
This thing that I was talking about before about the
empty glass, it's this whole thing about the
innocence and purity of the heart, and whatever you
do the heart will remain pure. But you have to go
out and suffer life; you can't just sit there going, 'I
am pure. Peace will come to me'. The song's about
this guy sitting at the bar and waiting for life to come
to him and say, 'You have won a star prize!'

What's embarrassing about it, what's hurting about

it is that it not so much makes you question your
own feelings, but it makes you realise that you're
not free, and anything that inhibits freedom is in
the end damaging.
It's not just society, but in rock. People in rock
imagine that they're so incredibly fucking liberated
and anarchistic, but they're not. They're so
incredibly closed up and macho, and in many ways
rock is more reactionary than the rest of society,
because the business side of it is so supercorporate, the money flow of it so controlled, and
the forefront of it is so commando-trained, so
macho, so concerned with uniforms and hardness.

One of the things that struck me about 'Gonna Get

You' is that the girl in the song is virtually incidental
to the narrator.
That song's nonsense, it's just a word game. I don't
think it means anything.
Well, it does whether you meant it or not. The
narrator wants the girl not because of any qualities
he sees in her, but because he's uptight about
himself and she's a means of reassurance.

I would never do a Tom Robinson, but it was

refreshing that he nearly managed to do it within a
rock framework. But it's easier in rock and roll to
look tough rather than to be tough, since everyone
in rock and roll believes what you look like anyway.

Isn't that the only reason anybody ever pulls

anyone? I'm talking about pulling, not falling in love.

I ain't tough. In a way, I was tough and we were

tough because I decided to do what I wanted to do.
If I want to go to Regines, I go to fucking Regines.
That isn't to say that Regine is the greatest place on
earth, but neither is the Goldhawk. Neither is the
arcade down Wardour Street where I also spend a
lot of time, but I think I should be free to do what I
want to do. But I think the problem is that in rock,
the music has become that macho.

On the cover, you appear with two conventionally

gorgeous models while wearing a halo. Is there any
reason for this?
Bob Carlos Clarke did the cover, and he normally
does semi-erotic stuff, a bit like Helmut Newton but
better. British photographer: he has to have women
in his photographs. I asked him to do the cover and
he said he'd love to, but it had to have women 'in it.
At one point I was going to call the album Sacred
Animal...

It's interesting the way that certain threads of

balance have started to push their way back again.
It's slow, but it's happening. It's almost like a
reaction. It has to filter back through so much shit.
Maybe it will, maybe it won't.

One thing it does reflect is that one of the weirdest

things that's happened to me over the last three or
four years is that all of a sudden I've initiated this
process, not so much of growing up as not caring
about looking a bit of an idiot, saying the wrong
thing or being told that you're wet. That's one of the
most important requirements if you're going to pull
successfully. There's nothing more annoying than

I mean, l can get away with a song like 'I Am An

Animal', but for someone new, people would laugh.
I mean, Roger says it's a pompous song and I say,
'If you feel pompous be pompous'.

875

Do you think rock will ever conquer its need be

tough?

naked emotions had me in tears. Who's Next was

the band's first "adult" LP for the '70s and its use of
synthesizers made it hard for traditionalists to
accept. Quadrophenia, which seemed an overblown
mess at first, later became clear and elegant. Who
Are You was and is a lost cause, sunk by a variety
of factors.

Well, a lot of people in rock are genuinely tough,

like your Daltreys are genuinely tough and I'm very
brutal with words. I think, 'Yeah, it has to be tough
because it mirrors high energy. In rock, low energy
is only permitted if its spiky, bitter or profaning. Rock
has to be tough, and I think a lot of rock isn't
pretending, I think it genuinely is tough, and I think
a hell of a lot of the bands that have made it are
very tough people with an awful lot of stamina,
people like Keith Richards.

Face Dances is an excellently produced (by Bill

Szymczyk) and performed collection of well-written
and up-to-date sounding songs by a band of
legendary status. It is every bit as good as Gaucho,
Double Fantasy or Autoamerican and more or
less interchangeable with them. In context with the
Who's enormous and illustrious body of work, Face
Dances is a pleasant and rather meaningless album
that proves, not the Whos continuing genius, but
rather their ability to churn out "product," watered
down from their days of glory.

To last 20 years in this business you need t have an

awful lot of stamina and an awful lot of toughness
and to care fuck all for anybody but most of all fuck
all for yourself.
The reason it has to be tough is that you need to be
that way to get people's attention, to convince
people that you're serious. If you don't shout at the
top of your fucking voice in this world, people don't
think you care. You either do it with weight of words,
or like the skinheads of this world, with the weight of
fists or with the weight of chords. But I don't think
there's any question that it's the weight of chords
which is the most effective.

Of course, it is silly to expect consistent passion

from anyone over a 15-year period. Charter Who
fans would have to be deaf or beyond reason to find
the contemporary Who anything more than
acceptable; recent converts can be forgiven in light
of their limited perspective. No one signs a lifetime
pact with a rock band, and there is nothing wrong
with re-evaluation over the years. Too many fans
work hard to like their idols' records whether the
music is to their taste or not.

For the less musically or verbally erudite, a bottle

over the head is the next best thing. And I know it's
not necessarily to be applauded, but everybody
uses their own method. And has to be brutal and it
has to be direct, and it has to be aggressive,
because rock is not just music.

Face Dances offers a few novelties: new producer

Szyczyk's West Coast credentials belie a direct, nobullshit approach the Who has needed for a while.
Drummer Kenney Jones, in his recording debut with
the band, isn't as bad as he was on tour. A new
record deal also makes Face Dances the first Who
LP not on Decca or MCA in this country (excluding
soundtracks).

Charles Shaar Murray, 1980

The Who: Face Dances (Warner Bros.)

The songs are a mixed lot. You Better You Bet

(longer than the 45 version) overshadows the other
eight tracks both in structure and melody. It's
probably the best recent Who number, despite
questionable lyrics (another Who Are You-style tale
of self-loathing), with a catchy tune and lively
performance. Don't Let Go the Coat, which follows,
contains pretty guitar and backing vocals; this eventempoed smoothie has the same feel as Let My
Love Open the Door.

Ira Robbins, Trouser Press, June 1981

ONCE UPON A TIME, the Who was a guiding force
in the life of many people (myself included). The
wisdom of Chairman Pete Townshend, as
communicated via his songs and interviews,
comforted many a confused adolescent with
understanding and sympathy. That the Who is now
just another superstar rock band is hard to swallow,
but nothing lasts forever.

Cache Cache appears to be a lullaby to soothe a

scared child, and serves as undistinguished filler
preceding John Entwistle's The Quite One which
opens with the kind of guitar explosion that hasn't
been heard from Townshend in ages, and
introduces a lively auto-biographical rocker sung by
the composer ("I ain't quiet; everybody else is too
loud!"). Entwistle's songs never vary too much, but

Listening to a new Who album in 1981 presents

quite a hefty challenge. There's a lot of superlative
and deeply moving rock in their repertoire, and my
passionate feelings toward old Who music hasn't
changed a bit. I've always had initially negative
reactions to Who LPs, expecting the instantly
astonishing Tommy, and Who By Numbers, whose

876

appear infrequently enough to retain their attraction.

Did You Steal My Money sounds like Who Are
You's Music Must Change and falls into the same
morass, distinguished only by a harmonica tone last
heard on Join Together.

When the Who left MCA following Who Are You

after 13 nearly uninterrupted years with the label it
was logical that MCA should, contracts permitting,
summarize the band's career with it. The Who's US
catalogue currently includes the retrospective The
Kids Are Alright film soundtrack, two versions each
of Tommy and Quadrophenia, and two albums of
hits and leftovers. Add a hugely successful English
collection, The Story of the Who (all 26 tracks of it),
the recent complete boxed set from Germany and
countless other foreign reissues, and it becomes
clear that few groups have had their recordings rereleased in so many formats.

Side two opens with How Can You Do It Alone,

sung in Roger Daltry's worst "sophisticated" voice.
The track has cool bass work and not much else.
Much better is Daily Records, Townshend's simple
ode to the joys of putting music on tape for fund and
profit a revised version of Guitar and Pen. With a
shy nod to the new wave, he admits "I just don't
know how to wear my hair any more." Even though
it goes on for too long, Daily Records is once of
Face Dances's truly worthwhile numbers; a guitar
bridge that sounds left over from Quadrophenia
doesn't hurt a bit.

Hooligans, issued just in time for Christmas, now

swells the already bloated ranks of Who
anthologies. This project fell to (or was grabbed
by?) the band's manager Bill Curbishley and Mike
Shaw, another longtime Who executive. Whatever
their goal in compiling Hooligans, the double album
serves no clear purpose. 19 tracks represent
neither greatest hits, significant rarities nor critical
favorites. There are some obvious inclusions,
equally noticeable omissions and three non-LP
single sides from the cloudy period between Who's
Next and Quadrophenia including one track never
released in the US. One whole side is culled from
Who's Next; Who Are You and Quadrophenia
contribute three songs apiece leaving precious little
room for the rest (and best) of the Who repertoire.
Many of the songs that made the Who peerless
aren't here; others familiar from concerts and loved
by longtime fans are also sorely missed.

Entwistle's second track, You (sung by Daltry),

tries valiantly to get off the ground, but the song
lacks zip, and Kenney Jones' heavyhanded drums
drag it down. The album closes with Another Tricky
Day, as vague a song as Townshend has ever
written. A chant of "This is no social crisis" takes all
the fun out and the song winds up nowhere.
Like Who Are You, Face Dances proffers no
wisdom or insights either on life or the men who
make the music. Once upon a time, a Who album
was an important event; now it's just another batch
of radio tunes. Fame and importance are two
different things; Face Dances confirms that the Who
will never recapture the latter.

The Who's long career resists simple analysis.

What the band was about in 1967 has nothing to do
with the present-day group, even allowing for
drummed Keith Moon's death. Yet the Who have
steadfastly reveled in their past, having a film made
about it, playing the old songs doggedly tour after
tour, and having books written to document their
history. Indeed, one of the band's truly amazing
feats is that they've refused to let their early
accomplishments exist only in the memories of
aging fans. The generation gap narrows a bit when
a kid gets the same feeling from a Who concert in
1980 as the band's early fans got in 1968. No other
group has maintained that same impact for nearly
as long.

Ira Robbins, 1981

The Who: Hooligans
Ira Robbins, Trouser Press, January 1982
From a fan's point of view, there is nothing worse
than a compilation album put together by either a
group, whose nearness to the material can make an
intelligent selection impossible, or their recentlydeparted label, greedily and/or spitefully taking
advantage of their legal rights before they expire.
Not that anyone else's selection would please
everybody but few would deny the thoughtfulness a
loving and knowledgeable fan may bring to a
reissue project. (John Mendelsohn's Kink Kronikles
immediately springs to mind as an example.) Wrap
the records in enthusiastic and informative liner
notes, and you've got an artifact that serves both
new fans and longtime followers well. It's too bad so
few topnotch compilations are made.

Instead of griping about Hooligans, I spent a

Sunday afternoon listening to old Who records and
creating a companion album to fill in what
Hooligans leaves out. Two records can't include
every Who song I would want on a desert island,
but the following list is a personal creme de la
creme selection from US singles and albums. I don't
know how much my taste matches that of other
Who freaks (and yes, despite my slagging off the

877

last two LPs I still consider myself a devoted fan for

life); there's certainly room for disagreement. There
are, of course, countless foreign and unreleased
items live, studio out-takes, Townshend demos,
TV broadcasts, etc. that would drastically affect
any serious collector's view of the best of the Who,
but it's not fair to go into that here. Suffice to say
that a no-holds-barred collection would be radically
different than the following theoretical album. But
this will have to do.

Whiskey Man
Released originally as the flipside of Happy Jack
(1967) and subsequently included on the second
LP, this was the second John Entwistle song to
reach the world. (He had previously collaborated
with Keith Moon on a B-side, "In the City," that
reflects the latter's surf/Beach Boys fixation more
than the bassist's sombre, sarcastic outlook.) A
simple tale of a drunkard's fantasy, its throbbing,
insistent bass line and French horn (also played by
Entwistle) give the song a unique flavor. As
Entwistle's first true songwriting display, Whiskey
Man evidenced a substantial talent that would
continue to develop.

SIDE ONE
My Generation
This was originally released as a single in 1965 and
was the title track of the Who's first album. This
cracked Billboard magazine's Top 75, making it the
most successful of the Who's first six 45s. My
Generation is a concise statement of then 20-yearold Pete Townshend's social viewpoint; the line
"Hope I die before I get old" has been held up to
him ever since by people expecting him to act
literally on that young-rebel stance. "My
Generation" is a true teenage anthem for all
generations. Singer Roger Daltrey's stuttering adds
great tension to the delivery; a key change imparts
a sense of acceleration; an awesome bass solo by
John Entwistle hints that the technical mastery of
his instrument was already well underway.

So Sad About Us
One of Pete Townshend's finest early compositions
(cut first by the Merseys), this is a pop song of truly
classic proportions. Townshend's downcast
viewpoint (about love lost) and aggressive sound
work with, not against, sensitive harmonies and the
beautiful melody. So Sad About Us is a complete
primer on power pop, with everything necessary for
a credible and successful single. Amazingly, it never
was a 45, appearing only on the Happy Jack album
(A Quick One in the UK) in early 1967. Everyone is
in fine form here: Townshend playing pizzicato
guitar, Moon hammering tuned tom-tom's, Entwistle
twanging and popping his bass strings; Daltrey's
endearing vocals and the ensemble "la-la-la"s add
icing to the cake. (Incidentally, Happy Jack's
centerpiece, the awesome A Quick One While He's
Away, belongs on this compilation, but was left out
because it was too long.)

The wild raveup at the song's end was merely a

starting point for what would become the Who's
routine show-closer for many years an excuse for
Townshend to make whatever noises come out of a
guitar being totalled, while Moon and Entwistle tried
to keep some musical pattern going. Only when
Townshend had no strings or instrument left and
Moon's drum kit had fallen (or been kicked)
completely to a shambles did the band
acknowledge their set was over. Smoke bombs
heightened the effect in the early Union Jacketed
days, and Townshend lanced his guitar neck
through empty speaker cabinets (which held the
band's expenses within tolerable limits).

I Can't Reach You

Leading off the second side of The Who Sell Out,
undoubtedly one of the Who's three finest albums,
this song proves how quickly they were progressing
as a band. I Can't Reach You verifies Townshend's
status as a poetic lyricist who can supercharge
fragile beauty with might and majesty. This is a
certified chills-up-the spine number, with
Townshend's lead vocal (one of a number on Sell
Out) shimmering over a pretty arrangement. Lyrics
are decidedly acid-induced, but not silly in
retrospect. An especially nice touch here is piano,
adding delicacy amidst the crashing guitar and
cymbals.

The Who has recorded My Generation in a number

of versions: the long jam on Live at Leeds, a slow
swing blues on Kids Are Alright and even a version
done for British Radio One ("Talkin' 'bout my
favorite station"). My favorite, though is the one
captured by filmmaker D.A. Pennebaker in his
Monterey Pop documentary. "This is where it all
ends," Townshend says grimly before giving the
song a full 1967 treatment. He obviously shocked
the hell out of the attending hippies, who had not
yet witnessed Jimi Hendrix or anything quite as
non-summer of love as the Who.

Rael
Townshend's second attempt at what would later
come to be called "rock opera," this excerpt from a
larger, unheard piece is more of an organic whole

878

than its predecessor (A Quick One). Is Rael an

abbreviation for Israel (as was suggested at the
time)? Does the reference to "red chins" mean the
Chinese or something more obscure? Was
Townshend on drugs when he wrote this?

love with the girl in the picture and is heartbroken to

learn that the object of his desire has been dead for
years. Not your basic moon/june mush.

What is important is that the song was conceived as

a concept piece with a cast of characters (all sung
by Townshend) and a plot line linked by musical
structures. Rael still holds up nearly 15 years later,
although the reverb box crashes now sound a bit
archaic; remember the opening to Wipeout?
(Musical themes presented here were developed
and used as major components of Tommy a year
and a half later.)

Scathing guitar and a pulsing bridge create a

tension between the taut and the casual, while
soaring vocal harmonies and a brilliant descending
chord line emphatically set the Who off from their
competition. This two-and-a-half minute
masterpiece was issued as a single in mid-1967,
reaching #51 in Billboard (possibly as a result of the
Who's appearances in America that summer). The
follow-up, I Can See for Miles, came four months
later and found its way to the Top 10 the Who's
biggest success to that point.

SIDE TWO

Glow Girl

I'm a Boy

Although Glow Girl is among the Who's very best,

it was known only among collectors until it was
included on Odds and Sods in 1974. Recorded in
January 1968, it foreshadowed Tommy with its
closing line, "It's a girl, Mrs. Walker, it's a girl."

This is one of several songs that revealed

Townshend's anti-social tendencies. The lyrics
concern a boy whose parents think of him as a girl.
On one hand, it deals with the frustrations of male
adolescence using sex role confusion as a dramatic
tool; on the other it's a fairly perverse view of a
disturbed family situation. My preferred version
released as a single in December 1966 and not
appearing on any US album (the one on Meaty
Beaty is different and not as good) is a melodic
sing-song with a fierce one-chord guitar bridge and
sound similar to the Happy Jack album. Daltrey's
taunting vocals are spot on, and the background
"oooh''s top off the paradoxical sweet-but-vicious
tone. A dab of French horn and manic Moon
drumming completes the bill.

Glow Girl uses guitar explosions to simulate a

plane crash; the sketchy lyrics suggest that a baby
born during the crash is the only survivor. It's easy
to see how that could have been the opening for
Tommy. In any case, Glow Girl is a tiny
masterpiece with a haunting melody and truly
frightening guitar noises.
Underture
Glow Girl segues quite nicely into this long
instrumental piece from Tommy. This is not one of
the well-known (and overplayed) hits from the rock
opera that made the Who a household name and
bisected their career into a before and an after in
terms of outlook, quality, and following. Only preTommy fans understand exactly how much was lost
(and gained) on that day in May 1969 (Townshend's
24th birthday to be precise about it) when Tommy
hit the stage.

For me, I'm a Boy was another song that

separated the Who from all the other bands of the
day. While sex and drugs were becoming
increasingly popular subjects for rock writing, here
was an unpleasant song of enforced androgyny
years before such behavior became chic with
adults. That Townshend camouflaged such themes
in delicate, engaging melodies was even more
subversive. Not surprisingly, the single stiffed in the
States.

There's not much to say about the flawless

Underture except that it captures Tommy's spirit as
well as any of the vocal songs, and shows the Who
moving into technically sophisticated yet
deceptively sparse terrain. While other white
rockers were jamming their asses off, the Who
created a thoroughly (and beautifully) composed
instrumental. Performed live, Underture was
mesmerizing; the band used the piece's framework
to good effect, stretching out without any of the
pointless rambling that might have been.

Pictures of Lily
Another classic song in a similar vein, Townshend's
epic about masturbation provoked by a vaudeville
poster treats another forbidden subject without a
hint of unpleasantness. This is actually a love song,
albeit a strange one. Daltrey sings of a present from
father that makes "my life so wonderful," "helped
me sleep at night" and "solved my childhood
problem." The kicker comes when the boy falls in

Dogs Part II

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This is the opposite end of the spectrum: a wild,

silly, out-of-control knock-off B-side "instrumental
with chorus" dog barks, that is. The song Dogs,
never released here, was a charming British single
about Greyhound racing; this successor is a Keith
Moon original (actually he shares the writing credit
with Jason and Towser Entwistle's and
Townshend's pooches) that starts at a breakneck
pace and gets wilder. Townshend's guitar and
Entwistle's bass fly all over the place while Moon
keeps all four limbs pounding non-stop in a Gene
Krupa sendup. Perhaps not one of their finer
technical presentations, Dogs Part II nonetheless
presents the Who as interpreted by Keith Moon,
and is a mighty impressive exercise.

enthusiastic. Opening with a flurry of Moon cymbalogy and a huge guitar crash, the song is built
around a convincing Daltrey vocal and inventive,
fluid bass line. It's a weirdly constructed piece
more or less a one-chord jam will lyrics that almost
falls apart in a few places that somehow hangs
together for over six minutes. There are gaps when
Townshend doesn't play at all, but then he'll add a
blistering solo to rekindle the fires.

SIDE THREE

That they released this at all is a real surpirse, but

then the Who was real good about using non-LP
tracks and live favorites as B-sides whenever
possible. Complete with a false ending and some
amazing sloppiness, this remains an essential live
recording and one you never hear on radio. Turn
it up!

Heaven and Hell

Young Man Blues

Unquestionably John Entwistle's songwriting

pinnacle, this song was well known to anyone who
saw the Who perform before 1971, as it opened all
of their shows during the 1968/71 era. A
monstrously powerful clash of guitar and bass
makes the lyrics (which no one could understand at
the time) secondary. Rather, the brilliant chord
structure, enormous guitar sound and wild bass
swoops made the opening moments of a Who show
almost unbearably exciting.

Not the one that appeared on Live at Leeds, but a

better version (London Coliseum, 1969) on the Kids
Are Alright soundtrack. The performance isn't
radically different but sports heavily distorted guitar
(as on the Woodstock soundtrack), runs a minute
longer and is a lot more exciting. The fuzztone gives
Townshend a jazzy sound that works beautifully
with the song's boppy rhythm and there's nothing
like the squealing sound of a Gibson SG guitar.
What strikes me most listening to this now is the
improvisational freedom Townshend had because
of the Moon/Entwistle back-up; their non-stop
prescence allowed Townshend to do whatever he
wanted: chords, leads, accents, frills.

I have a vivid recollection of a Fillmore East Who

gig in Spring, 1969: with the stage dark but for a
glowing purple backlight, the band ambled onstage
as Bill Graham gave the introduction. Then the
stage lights came on, a big title slide of "THE WHO"
flashed on screen behind them and the band
launched into "Heaven and Hell" Townshend, in
mid-leap as they began, landing in perfect unison
with the first chord. The Who hasn't come close with
any other song for an opener, and I can't say I've
ever seen anything more stunning at a rock concert.
When Heaven and Hell was finally released (as the
flipside of Summertime Blues from Live at Leeds in
June, 1970) the faithful loved it instantly, but new
converts never really made much of it.

Naked Eye
Like Heaven and Hel" and Pure and Easy, Naked
Eye was a concert staple between 1969 and 1972.
This, one of Townshend's finer spiritual songs, was
recorded at his home studio in 1969 for an English
EP that never saw the light of day, finally turning up
on Odds and Sods (1974). Of the other three
tracks, I Don't Even Know Myself appeared as the
back of Won't Get Fooled Again in 1971; Postcard
is also on Odds and Sods; and Water finally
surfaced with the 5:15 single from Quadrophenia.

Baby Don't Do It
Another B-side, Baby Don't Do It was coupled with
Join Together and released in 1972 while the world
awaited the follow-up to Who's Next. (They would
wait until 1973 for Quadrophenia) The band's sound
on this 1971 San Francisco live cut of the Marvin
Gaye song makes an interesting alternative to that
of the contemporary Live at Leeds (1970). Instead
of a trebly hot sound, this presented a new live
Who: more refined, less aggressive but every bit as

An instantly recognizable riff (not unlike the one on

David Bowie's Running Gun Blues from 1970) and
a slow, ethereal verse turns this smoldering epic
into a grand workout. Townshend plays high,
squawky notes in little clumps (his style at the time)
that don't cohere into a melody but are almost
random in attack. Daltrey's serious though not
pompous vocal leads into Townshend's plaintive,

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more emotional delivery and some inspired guitar

work.

Townshend spares the listener nothing, and delivers

a somewhat mixed-up musical confession.

SIDE FOUR

However Much I Booze masks its bitterness with

almost jovial music, but the message is
unmistakable. Singing the tune himself, Townshend
punishes himself lyrically until the welts are almost
visible. Then he turns on the Who's devoted fans,
baiting them for their expectations and smugness.
The song demands "a way out of this place" yet
concludes there is none; life goes on. But the pain
won't go away.

Pure and Easy

My all-time favorite Who song, Pure and Easy first
appeared in concert as a coda to Song is Over; the
studio version of the latter (on Who's Next)
concludes with the first line of Pure and Easy, so it
was obviously left off, not added on later. The song
first appeared in demo form on Who Came First
(1972), Townshend's first commercial solo album,
but the band's version on Odds and Sods is
substantially better.

How Many Friends

The most searing indictment Pete Townshend has
ever written, How Many Friends continues in the
vein of Booze but intensifies the anguish. Daltrey
sings and the band switches easily from full-frontal
assault to fadeaway softness; the lyrics are tragic in
their pain and doubt. "I wonder in the dead of night
how do I rate?" "No one will ever speak the truth
about you." The final verse takes on the Who's
internal troubles and winds up blaming their fans:
"How come they can sum us up without suffering all
the hype we've known?" Ever feel guilty for buying
an album and loving it?

This has everything: power, beauty, poetry and

delicacy. Townshend originally prepared the song
for the aborted Lifehouse project, and it clearly lays
out his views on the interrelationship between
music and divinity. Whether one accepts the song's
message or not, it's a beautiful statement of his
spiritual sensitivity and loyalty to music, and the
band's playing enhances the heartfelt lyrics. The
song moves along at a cheerful clip, with Daltrey
carrying the melody over light instrumentation. The
gritty ending sounds grafted on but drives home the
message: "There once was a note, listen!"

Ira Robbins, 1982

Sea and Sand

Pete Townshend Stops Hurting People; Stops

Hurting Himself

This has always seemed to me the essential song

from Quadrophenia. The lyrics are overpoweringly
desolate, and the song has an uncommonly vivid
cinematic depth. A variety of musical segments
finally dissolve into a rousing chunk of I'm the
Face, a reprise of the first song the Who ever
recorded. Sea and Sand comprises a catalogue of
Quadrophenia and beyond. There are other great
tracks on Quadrophenia The Real Me, Dr.
Jimmy, The Punk Meets the Godfather but none
as good as this.

Chris Salewicz, Creem, November 1982

"PERSONALLY I LIKE the idea of embodying evil in
the devil it doesn't really matter whether you
externalize the evil or recognize it as within. With
regards to that, I found that experience I had in
California at the beginning of this year very
interesting."
It was on the last day of his month-long stay at the
drug rehabilitation clinic outside Los Angeles that
Pete Townshend took a walk along the nearby
beach. Down by the edge of the Pacific, his
attention for some reason or other focused on a
large bottle that obviously had been washed up
from the sea. Even as he walked towards it
Townshend intuitively knew what was in it. He
picked it up, unscrewed the stopper, and with a
forefinger put to the end of his tongue some of the
powder it contained. His hunch had been correct: it
was cocaine. Much to the chagrin of his walking
partner, the Who guitarist tossed the bottle back
into the sea, watching it smash on some halfsubmerged rocks.

However Much I Booze

I gather I'm in an infinitesimal minority, but I still feel
Who by Numbers is a generally overlooked
masterpiece. Except for the wretched Squeeze
Box the album exudes the raw pain of suffering and
guilt, forming both a trenchant examination of the
rock star myth and a self-analysis by Pete
Townshend. His rage, disgust and self-doubt merge
into a seething stream of venom directed both
outward and inward. As with other harrowing
albums of emotional truth (John Lennon's Plastic
Ono Band, Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks),

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"I discovered there was a simple enough, rational

explanation of why it was there. The nearby port is
one of the biggest smuggling bases for stuff going
into Los Angeles. Obviously whoever was taking it
in lost their nerve and chucked it into the sea.

of my life, because I couldn't live within those

principles. But in a way I did it almost deliberately,
and now I've come back in a full circle."
Today is a particularly special day for Pete
Townshend: it is his 37th birthday, an anniversary
that a year ago he never expected to reach: "Not
because I was really self-destructive, but because I
had an intuition that I was going to burn out I had
a couple of very close shaves through getting very
drunk and irresponsible, and taking things people
were giving me when I didn't know what they were.

"But I do find it very interesting as an example of my

feelings about the way in which the devil operates."
However you view evil it seems that Townshend
was confronted by a curiously sinister temptation:
for this was the final 24 hours of a two-year
downward plummet in which the Who guitarist and
songwriter split from his wife, succumbed utterly to
the clutches of the alcoholism that had caused the
marital breakdown, replaced the booze dependency
with addiction to heroin and other drugs, and came
close to both financial and spiritual bankruptcy.

"I really miss booze a lot, but I've started to call

myself an alcoholic in other words, I don't intend
to drink again. Like every arsehole writer, I felt that
it was helping me to work, or at least helping me
with some of the pressure I was going through.
Quite how things will proceed from now, I don't
know: the alcoholic's mentality is just to deal with
the present day."

At his Boathouse studio in Twickenham in a

spacious, first-floor room overlooking the leisurely
flow of the Thames, Pete Townshend sits in one
corner of a four-seater sofa and calmly
contemplates his two-year spell of total dissolution.

Townshend's two-year nonstop party suggested that

the man who when he was 19 wrote the line "Hope I
die before I get old" as part of the albatross-like
anthem that 'My Generation' was to become for the
Who, had felt it necessary to prove how sincere he
had been at the time of writing that song. In fact,
this near-suicidal excess was motivated largely by
his uncertainty over his relationship with the Who:
"It really came down to an absolutely archetypal
problem, which was that I was starting to feel very
uncomfortable in this business, doing what I was
doing. I was drinking myself into oblivion in order
not to face up to the fact that there were certain
things I couldn't do and certain things I just didn't
want to do. I had to wake up and face up to the real
reasons: was I still working with the Who just for
money, or was I working with them just for
friendship? I wasn't running away from life, but from
particular issues. Those are the things that at the
moment I'm having to deal with head-on. I'm finding
them much more invigorating than I ever imagined.
I'm enjoying a sense of balance that I lost."

There is no trace of strain in his eyes, but the bags

that linger under-them appear to rise up from
somewhere down by his jawbone: coupled with his
famous anteater nose a teenage complex about
his hooter was a major factor behind Townshend's
desire to prove himself through rock 'n' roll they
give him the lugubrious look when he is not smiling
which he often is these days of a turkey
contemplating Christmas Day. In time to the almost
rhythmical ebb and flow of the passion in his
speech in some four hours of conversation, he
lights and re-lights the thin, irregularly burning
Indian cigarettes he smokes. Their sweet scent fills
the air like incense, aptly enough, for the room
serves as a semi-shrine to Meher Baba, to whose
teachings with little fanfare Townshend first devoted
himself in 1967: we are surrounded by memorabilia
and portraits of the Indian mystic whose everpresent smile was like an affirmation of his faith.
Townshend gives over the upstairs floor of the
large, modern looking building to the Meher Baba
Society. Baba's presence in the room is a constant
reminder of Townshend's battle to win back his soul,
and he speaks with the clear strength of someone
who has recently emerged victorious from such a
struggle.

The willful hedonism in which Pete Townshend

indulged would be unremarkable in many other rock
'n' roll figures. Yet, deliberately or otherwise,
Townshend carries the burdensome responsibility of
being regarded as the conscience of British rock 'n'
roll, supposedly in direct communication with its
unsullied source. Though a blameless life might be
an excessive and contradictory demand,
considering the form's rebellious framework,
Townshend is at least expected not to make a prat
of himself. Particularly considering that he had
close acquaintance with one of rock 'n' roll's
archetypal loonies in Keith Moon, the Who's
drummer who finally imploded in 1979 one might

"After what's been going on in my life for the last

couple of years I've ended roughly back in the same
place," he admits, with a sense of relief. "During
that time, however, I was living against a lot of the
principles of Meher Baba that I initially found
enriching. Meher Baba came down heavily against
drugs, for example. So for a while I pushed him out

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suspect that at least a small cause of Townshend

starting to hit the bottle with greater and greater
frequency was a some form of reaction to Moon's
death. In fact, the damage Townshend wreaked
upon himself with such ostenbible delight after
moving from his family home by Eel Pie Island to a
flat above Kickers shoe shop on the Kings Road
suggested he was in some way attempting to
emulate Moon's mad feats: "Except I didn't have the
constitution of Keith Moon, or the will to live of Keith
Moon...Although before he died Moon had been
playing a game with everybody, because he'd made
everyone believe he'd cooled out and was going to
get married. Yet behind the scenes, he was
knocking back anything he could get hold of not
just drink."

crutch for drink, he rapidly became addicted to not

only a number of prescribed tranquilizers, but also
to heroin: "I just took anything I could lay my hands
on as a way of passing the time really, because I
hated the sensation of not being drunk."
Townshend says he did not realize at all what he
was getting into when he found himself moving in
affluent rag trade circles where it was common to
free-base cocaine, which now and then would have
a little heroin sprinkled in with it just for flavoring,
as it were. This is the only time in our talk that
Townshend quite reasonably, in this case
displays any of the zeal of the reformed convert:
"Someone would be free-basing, and you'd see
them puff in a bit of burning junk through a straw.
And that's it! A lot of people don't realize you are
going to get addicted to heroin instantly by smoking
it. If you snort it you don't get addicted instantly, but
if you smoke it you do. It's not as dramatic as sitting
at a party and drawing out a hypodermic and
banging it in your arm, but it's the same thing.

Townshend found his subconscious delivering two

warnings to him that he should quit drinking. The
first was during the last series of British live dates
the Who played, in the spring of last year. When the
group played the Rainbow, an already drunk
Townshend proceeded to consume four bottles of
brandy onstage during the course of the set:
"Basically I'd decided to go out and not play. I was
just going to talk until somebody stopped me from
talking by knocking me out. I went out and started
to talk and the band began to play without me. Then
I started to talk again and they continued to play
without me. I don't really remember a thing about it,
except that I'm surprised I didn't kill myself.

"What was incredible to me was to watch the

pushers sweetly come in and say, 'I've got some
nice stuff here, but it's not good enough for snorting,
it's really for smoking.' And that was it. At least 50
people I know got addicted in the space of six
months last year."
And Townshend himself was one such casualty,
which is how he ended up in a California drug
rehabilitation clinic at the beginning of this year.

"I nearly poisoned myself on another occasion

when I woke up in hospital after going down Club
For Heroes. I went blue. I think my heart stopped.
That was the point when I decided I was going to
have to do something about my drinking.

Like many people's, Pete Townshend's life is

formed from a complex set of paradoxes, some
self-created and some imposed by external forces,
that can often seem hypocritical. But again like
many people, Townshend lives on several levels at
the same time, and is at least aware of his
contradictions.

"Last November I went to my doctor and asked if

he'd put me in touch with someone who specialized
in alcoholism. I was put in a clinic where a doctor
talked to me for three days, gave me books to read
about it, and taught me the Twenty Tenets Of
Alcoholism. I thought ' 'Ang on a minute: it's
'appened Jimmy Greaves!'

For example, at the same time as he reacquaints

himself with the philosophies of Meher Baba, he
claims from personal experience, it would seem
to detect a dishonesty when people "turn to the
East." "You're not actually looking inward at all,
you're not dealing with God. You're just looking to
the East, and hoping for a new set of answers. It
does give temporary peace.

"I feel a lot better for not drinking. I don't really feel I
want to do it anymore. In the past when I've
stopped I stopped for two years in 1976 and '77
I was always looking forward to the day when I
could get back to drinking again. But now I have to
face up to the fact that I can't ever do it again."

"But the good news or the bad news is that

eventually you do what I did, which is to keep
coming back and looking at the world and saying, 'I
still think it's a shit-heap, and I still can't bear to live
here without doing something about it.'"

But worse was to come during this time in

Townshend's life that he now views as "a period of
complete desperation." He had given up drugs in
1967, aware that their supposed benefits are
illusory. But in what he describes as a conscious
attempt to provide himself with a replacement

883

There are more basic contradictions: the Who sell

out every concert seat whenever they tour Britain,
yet their U.K. record sales are low, America being
their main market. And then there are the higher
truths Townshend finds in the ostensibly simplistic
form of rock 'n' roll: "I feel the real potential for rock
on a spiritual level is that it's a drug all on its own. I
don't mean a drug you can get addicted to, but an
effective uplifter. Music has always done this: it has
a very unique quality it both takes you out of and
into yourself. When the modern musician uses it to
lyrically say something either about himself or about
the way society is wrongly set up, and that is
combined with music, two amazing forces are
brought together the power of poetry and the
most powerful, abstract art form. So when it does
work, it works on double, and apparently
contradictory levels: it's capable of both uplifting
you, and rubbing your nose in the shit.

The absolute nadir of '60s youth culture was

represented for Pete Townshend by the Woodstock
festival, at which the Who played. "All those hippies
wandering about thinking the world was going to be
different from that day. As a cynical English
arsehole I walked through it all and felt like spitting
on the lot of them, and shaking them and trying to
make them realize that nothing had changed and
nothing was going to change. Not only that, what
they thought was an alternative society was
basically a field full of six foot deep mud and laced
with LSD. If that was the world they wanted to live
in, then fuck the lot of them. That self-deprecation
lasted a long time."
During the course of the Who's Woodstock set,
Townshend used his guitar to club Abbie Hoffman
off-stage, when the American radical attempted to
seize the stage to use it as a platform for his views:
"I won't get involved with platforms in the way
Vanessa Redgrave does I prefer the role I've
played recently: doing gigs for Rock For Jobs and
things like that. I wrote 'Won't Get Fooled Again' as
a reaction to all that 'Leave me out of it: I don't
think you lot would be any better than the other lot!'

"In the past I've said that rock allows you to face up
to your problems and then to dance all over them.
That to me is what effective rock is about, and it's
something which the Clash," he mentions a group
to whom he turn returns again and again as a
yardstick, "are a prime example. When you listen to
the Clash you're facing up to life, and at the same
time being given strength to deal with it which is
what rock 'n' roll is about."

"The kind of violence we need is the most difficult to

produce: it is to stand, if you have the opportunity,
six inches from Margaret Thatcher's face and
scream until the blood pours from your eyes, but
not to lay a finger on her in case you catch her
fucking rotten germs: we've got to be absolutely
clear about how incensed we've got to appear to
be."

Where Pete Townshend differs from almost all of

the other rock superstars of the 1960s and why of
all those figures he alone was spared from verbal
execution by 1977's punk reappraisal is that he
has not forgotten what initially motivated him to pick
up a guitar, he still burns with a true fan's passion.
He carries within him a broad-based chronicle of
contemporary culture, often gleaned from personal
experience, which he has from time to time felt
inclined to interpret in print, as in the case of the
Time Out cover story he wrote on the Jam early in
the spring. "I'm really very weak when it comes to
trends," he reflects amusedly on his flirtation last
year with New Romantic nightlife. "I adore them,
and always get very drawn into them. I see myself
wandering around looking for the latest thing like
some George Melly or Larry Adler figure."

This talk of the one female who, by her evil actions,

has come so close to putting the women's cause
back by a few hundred years that her very
existence might well be construed as an
establishment conspiracy, leads Townshend to
consider the currently jumbled feminism issue.
"Having two daughters really points this out,"
Townshend prefaces his contentious point, "but the
strangest thing I've learned over the last five or six
years is that the one set of people who as a group
have suffered the most and are about to suffer and
will suffer for a long time are young women.
Because behind all the superficial freedoms from
restraint is still the same old male lust and the same
kind of confused reaction to an intelligent, well-puttogether woman who knows her position and fucks
when she wants to. There's still the same old
attitude where if she fucks she's a slag, but halfwayalright-for-the-night, and if she doesn't she's a painin-the-arse.

He recalls far more ruefully his own springtime of

the '60s, a supposedly vibrant, liberated time whose
human and spiritual wreckage is visible with greater
and greater frequency as an indication of much of
the cause of the current sickness and confusion:
"Was it not similar to a load of ostriches going
around with their heads in the sand? Or a load of
people doing what I did last year, walking around
drunk, having a lot of fun, supposedly enjoying life
when really everything was terrible behind the
scenes, or at least on the route to going wrong."

"Behind that there's the confusion that a lot of girls

do see the family as a remnant of the old order of

884

restraints, which is going to tie them down live life

while you're young...It seems to throw women into a
sense of futility because so much more now
depends on their youth and vitality and their
strength and their courage. As soon as they run out
of any of those qualities, they're given no respite
they're discarded.

Like a number of rock 'n' roll musicians who are

similarly untrammelled by academic snobbishness,
Pete Townshend draws no distinction between
writers of musical lyrics and writers of literature.
Amongst his favorite wordsmiths he lumps together
Dylans Bob and Thomas ("So perfect in the use of
words: he can make a normal sentence so
rhythmical and musical I think he was a musician
without realizing it."), Bukowski, Joe Strummer,
Echo and the Bunnymen, and T.S. Eliot. His belief
in the hand-in-hand relationship of rock 'n' roll and
prose writing enjoys its physical manifestation in Eel
Pie Publishing, the book publishers Townshend
founded in the 70's, which specializes in rock books
as well as having a healthy catalogue of children's
books.

"It really annoys me that in the generation in which

feminism was born, men still don't know how to
treat women. Mind you," he chuckles ironically,
"they don't know how to treat themselves either."
One's intuition hints that Townshend's unconscious
may well have prodded him in the direction of his
wild hedonism in a pursuit of fresh subject matter
a former art student, Townshend spends most of his
existence in the gap between life and art, but at
least has sufficient sensitivity and humility to
perceive the play-acting necessary for the
maintenance of his role. As a consequence of this
perception he is inclined to tumble temporarily into
bottomless pits of black angst over his doubts about
the probity of his position. But at least he can profit
from this pain by using it as subject matter for new
songs.

Eel Pie Publishing his Eel Pie recording studio is

located in the basement of its Soho premises
developed from Townshend's Richmond bookshop,
Magic Bus, frequently the best-stocked and most
atmospheric bookshop in London: "The original idea
behind Magic Bus was that I hoped it would teach
me a lot about publishing, and in fact it taught me
one thing: that most bookshops could learn a lot
from operating the way we did in other words, by
putting people that are alive and well on the desk."

His new solo album, All The Best Cowboys Have

Chinese Eyes, contains a number of harrowing
instances of this. The opening song, 'Stop Hurting
People', is, he says, a prayer for him to be reunited
with his wife. "I wrote it last summer," he
remembers. "I suddenly broke down and scribbled it
out on a piece of paper, and didn't realize until later
quite to what an extent it was a prayer.

However, Magic Bus never made large profits it

would break even, at best. And last spring,
Townshend was obliged to sell the shop to Penguin,
as though to remind him of the fact that when things
are bad, the one thing of which you can be certain
is that they are likely to get even worse, his already
miasmic existence was thrown into even greater
turmoil by seemingly disastrous financial problems;
through a combination of unbusiness-like
benevolence and inept advice from quarters other
than the Who's management, he found himself
personally in debt to the tune of around half a
million pounds. Eel Pie Publishing came close to
collapse and Townshend began to sell off his
possessions. Magic Bus had to go: "That hurt my
pride I don't like failing. But in the context of the
fact that I almost failed at the most important thing
of all, which is staying alive, I don't mind losing
things like that."

Townshend has gone on record as an advocate of

the power of praying: "Sometimes you can pray
quite eloquently, but other times you just beg, 'God
help me!' It's incredible what a last resort it is to a
lot of people, and how often it also helps in that last
resort. Yet equally incredible is once that situation is
departed from, how quickly you forget the value of
it.
"I don't know who it is that you actually pray to:
whether you are doing it for yourself or to
something inside yourself or to an externalized
image of God or what. But there's something about
that actual act of sublimation in which you put
yourself aside for a second and try to see yourself
clearly for once.

By the end of last year he was close to bankruptcy:

"I was caught in an incredible cleft stick: I'd not
wanted to blow the money I had on mansions or
Rolls-Royces or homes in L.A., because I thought it
was much better to create jobs or put the money
into something which helps other people create,
and to accept that this was part of my responsibility.
But then I was unable to properly follow it through,
either because I was so fucked up or distracted or
simply not here because I was on the road with the
Who. Also, the people I'd appointed to do the work

"For centuries and centuries this concept of the

power of prayer has lasted and survived, and yet
now in this incredibly complex and busy world, it's
got lost."

885

thought there was an endless supply of money. I

suddenly realized that after all the sneering I'd done
about Apple, the same thing was happening to me
people were spending my money faster than I could
earn it."

future of the group with whom he had played since

1963.
"For a time I believed the band wasn't going to go
ahead," he confesses. "I also believed there were a
lot of things the band was incapable of doing that I
could do on my own. But I've since learned that it
was a question of me not fighting hard enough
within the structure of the band to get my own
feelings across I'd become tired of having to fight
within the band.

Townshend also had to come to the sad realization

that his friendly National Westminster Bank was
"just a fucking bank...I still had an account at the
same bank in Ealing Common that I'd opened with
my first art school grant check when I was 16. I had
the same bank manager as well, but he was about
to retire and was getting very worried about all the
money I had oustanding I think he was worried
they were going to take it off his pension.

"What I feel now is that not only am I willing to fight

again within the structure of the Who, but willing to
fight again within the structure of society. I think
that's the only thing that can keep the Who alive,
and the only thing that can keep me alive. I don't
think that sitting in isolation making solo albums
provides me with enough fulfillment.

"He asked me if I'd come over and talk the the area
manager. So I went and suddenly realized that
behind this nice man is the National Westminster
bank who are rats, and they want my bollocks:
despite the fact that I'd put every personal penny I
had into the company to keep it afloat, they wanted
more. They wanted my house, they wanted my
recording contract they wanted me to sign with
them, and they would sign to my record label.

"I've had to face up to the fact that the Who still

have fantastic potential, which the band has
rejected or neglected or turned away from."
Recently the Who were in the studio, recording their
newest album with friend and producer Glyn Johns.

"Furthermore, the bank never understood, and still

doesn't, how I earn money. They don't see how I
can go in one day without a penny to me name, and
then the next morning a royalty check can come
through the post and I can be rich. So they thought I
knew more than I was letting on."

"Recording has rejuventated us" Townshend

enthuses. "Not so much in musical terms, but in the
sense of standing together and saying that we're
prepared to actually change the way that we live,
and the way that we operate, if it will make a
difference. The new Who songs are violently
aggressive, the most aggressive stuff we've ever
come up with. The songs that I've written are totally
preoccupied with the danger and tension of living in
the 80's. And that is the common attitude and
stance that the band has."

"In the end, I was quite seriously considering the

joys of bankruptcy 'Great: fuck the lot of you I'm
going to go bankrupt and live in Paris and have a
peaceful life.' But in the end I though, 'No, I'll beat
the bastards at their own game. I'll come back from
the dead and make some money.

"I must say that at the moment I don't know whether

to just shut up and enjoy what is one of the happiest
and most fulfilling periods of my life, or to go rub my
face in the shit. Really, I'm trying to do both. Though
I am delighted in a sense how things have
developed delighted is the wrong word, because I
occasionally feel quite euphoric at the way things
have turned out. But that kind of euphoria can lead
to the state of mind where you think, 'Oh, everything
is OK,' and, of course, it isn't OK at all. I think that
juggling act is the most difficult balance of all to
achieve.

Although Townshend knows this to be by no means

the ideal situation, the delivery to his record label of
the master tapes of All The Best Cowboys Have
Chinese Eyes, has pulled him a large way out of his
state of relative penury, and restored some
semblance of solvency. However, he realizes this is
not the best way to run a business from now on
the publishing company must be self-sufficient. "In
the past," he admits, "my answer to financial
problems always has been to go out on the road
with the Who or to sign a music publishing deal, or
to get another record advance. Which basically
accounts for the problem I've had for a long time
with overwork and overcommitment. It's not
altruism. It's basically fuckin' stupidity."

"Our generation has had its fun, we've had our

peace, we've had a relatively quiet time, and some
really great moments, a great period of life.

But Townshend's 1980 deal with Atco was

motivated more from a lack of confidence in the

886

"But what kind of world are our kids going to be

going out into? Because in a way we've neglected
all our responsibilities. We've done nothing.

biography that doesn't spend most of its time

inflating its subject in order to justify the book's
existence.

"And that's got to alter."

Yardbirds is heavily illustrated with all manner of

period guff, sardonically captioned and deftly laid
out. Considering that it is dealing with the band that
not only bridged the gap between Brit R&B and Brit
psychedelia better than anybody else but also
featured three of the main incons of '60s rock guitar
(Eric Clapton, Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page, in that
order), it is staggeringly unpretentious.

Chris Salewicz, 1982

The Who, Yardbirds books
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 7 January 1984
Before I Get Old: The Story Of The Who by Dave
Marsh
Yardbirds by John Platt, Chris Dreja and Jim
McCarty

Concurrently with the Who, the Yardbirds broke

down the barriers of the conventional pop and blues
song structures in order to explore pure melodic
and rhythmic excess. To be more accurate, the
Yardbirds dissolved these barriers while the Who
demolished them. Similarly, they refused to be
satisfied with the standard manufacturers' and
musicians' notions of how guitars, amplifiers and
microphones were supposed to behave, and that is
where the resemblance ends. The Yardbirds had no
ideology and less image: their vocalist, the late
Keith Relf, had a flat, nasal voice and decidedly
suspect pitching. Up against Roger Daltrey's chesty
assertive bellow and snarl, poor old Relf sounded
nothing but weedy.

I remember the burst of excitement I felt when my

two favourite boyhood bands, the Who and the
Yardbirds (the Beatles and the Stones didn't count
because everybody liked them) teamed up to play
the same live-in Paris special edition of Ready
Steady Go! I Also remember my disappointment
when the sound turned out to be so naff that it
completely jumbled up both bands' sound, and the
arguments at school on Monday morning about
whether the Who had really pissed in the street
when they ran out of the studio under the closing
titles.

The Yardbirds' final (and most suspect) claim to

fame is that Led Zeppelin were formed from their
ashes by Jimmy Page after all the founder
members quit on him (Chris Dreja, offered the
chance to play bass in the new band, very sensibly
went off to become a photographer). It is, I
suppose, the final act of respect to their memory (to
praise whatever minor deities guard the reputations
of venerable eccentric rock bands) that Page
decided to commit the phallocentric absurdities with
which he whiled away the '70s under a new name.

A week immersed in these two books with

appropriate soundtracks brings out the contrasts;
Dave Marsh, the author of the only readable book
ever written about Bruce Springsteen, weighs in
with well over 500 pages of heavy-duty research
and analysis, a work so painstaking that it makes
most rock biographies read as if they were dashed
off in a week and a half while the author was
watching telly.
Every last quake and convulsion of poor old Pete
Townshend's ultra-sensitive psyche produces a
faithful read-out on Marsh's seismograph, and every
last act of attention-grabbing or petulant clowning
from Keith Moon seems to be present and correct.
Anybody who wants to know more about the Who
than Dave Marsh tells them must have an
obsession that long ago passed the pathological
stage and is now heading for outright psychosis.

The Who, of course, made the most remarkable

rock noise available between the respective arrivals
of the Beatles and Jimi Hendrix, but they reinforced
it all the way with a total commitment to selfmythology and theoretical framework. Pete
Townshend's conceptual armoury has always
mattered as much as the arm-swing and the Amajor crescendo it was a very long time before
groups got used to supplying as much of their own
analysis and theory as part of the package and
therefore any biography of the band has little
alternative but to draw on Townshend's incessant,
ongoing commentary in order to tell the story.
Before I Get Old seems weighed down by the
myths it alternately (and sometimes simultaneously)
seeks to celebrate and debunk.

By contrast, John Platt chief researcher for

Channel 4's recent series The Sixties and his coauthors (McCarty was The Yardbirds' drummer
throughout their career, while Dreja started out on
rhythm guitar and ended up on bass) tell the story
of The Yardbirds' career in cheerful, breezy and
sardonic manner, with a remarkable lack of ego. It
is astonishingly refreshing to read a musical

887

Perhaps inevitably, even the earliest stages of

Marsh's telling of his hallowed tale seem ponderous
and melancholy. No section of the book remains
unshadowed by the death of Moon and the
withering away of The Who's creativity. The end of
the story finds the band at their most successful
and at one and the same time their most
meaningless. This irony a hard one to swallow
for a band as obsessed with content as the Who
has certainly not escaped Dave Marsh, and it sours
the book just as it soured the band.

Woodstock
Chris Salewicz, Mojo, July 1994

WOOSTOCK BEGAN ON A GOLF course. Three

years before they were to be responsible for
Governor John Rockefeller declaring the
Woodstock Festival area "a state of emergency",
John Roberts met Joe Rosenman playing golf in
affluent Huntingdon, Long Island. "We were
essentially what was known as straight,"
Rosenman now reflects. "I came upon him on the
green, adjusting his life".

Marsh has invested an awful lot of love, empathy,

energy and skill in this book, but ultimately it is a
failure. It is too insular: it concentrates on events
within the Who's bubble to the detriment of that
sense of context which would have been gained by
a wider view of the rest of the musical universe (and
maybe even occasionally the non-musical
universe).

Sharing the same sarcastic sense of humour, the

two men rented an apartment at 85th and Third
Avenue in Manhattan; Roberts had begun working
on Wall Street for a small brokerage firm,
Rosenman had just started out as a lawyer. Quickly
bored with their jobs, the pair decided to try writing
television sitcoms. One plot idea, Rosenman
recalls, was to write a vaguely autobiographical
sitcom about two well-heeled young men "with
unlimited funds and no brains, making money out of
hair-brained schemes."

It is also partisan: it is clear that throughout much of

the Who's history, Townshend regarded Daltrey as
little more than an aggressive yobbo (just as Daltrey
regarded Townshend as a megalomaniac middleclass smart-arse), but Marsh appears to buy the
Townshend view too completely, though he
acknowledges the validity of Daltrey's view of
Townshend. Yet in a 1971 interview, Daltrey made
the following observation, one far more penetrating
than anything he is quoted as saying in the book:
"Pete's got the biggest ego and we all feed his ego
and none of us care about his ego. He needs it, and
because he's got the biggest ego he writes the best
material of any pop writer at the moment. If we can
feed that, then I don't mind being the food. In fact I
rather enjoy it. But Pete doesn't do it so Townshend
gets all the publicity; he does it for the Who..."

In March 1967, as research for this project, they

took out classified advertisements in the Wall Street
Journal and the New York Times: "YOUNG MEN
WITH UNLIMITED CAPITAL LOOKING FOR
INTERESTING, LEGITIMATE INVESTMENT
OPPORTUNITIES AND BUSINESS IDEAS." The
ad ran for two weeks: their box number received
7,000 responses "from every criminal in the world".
Some of the suggestions on which their money
could be spent were wonderful: power sources from
the eighth dimension, for example; or edible,
biodegradable golf balls.

It would be unfair to hammer Marsh for failing to

omit one quote; it is simply that the Roger Daltrey
that he depicts would have been incapable of
delivering that analysis.

But although Roberts and Rosenman were

researching their sitcom, they also genuinely were
Young Men With Unlimited Capital: they really did
have this money to invest.

Ultimately, though, the one thing that Before I Get

Old really lacks is the one thing that really made the
Who: visuals. Richard Barnes' Maximum R&B is,
textually, a far less ambitious and acute work, but its
dazzling photographic history of the Who blows
away even Marsh's most detailed and florid
descriptions. The most vivid rock band of all time,
their magnificence beggared description just as it
transcended vinyl. I know what I mean, but...

In the summer of 1967 they began to contact the

people who had responded the most sanely to their
advertisement. And at the beginning of 1969, John
Roberts' brother Billy introduced him to a banker
who had provided him with vast credit set against
his trusts. He could provide the same facility for
John, he said. That money would come in very
useful in the next few months. In fact, within days, it
would begin to be tapped.
*

Charles Shaar Murray, 1984

888

FAR ACROSS TOWN IN THE OFFICES OF

CAPITOL RECORDS in Manhattan, a more
alternative form of male-bonding had begun. Artie
Kornfeld, A&R man and company freak, was
standing at his desk smoking hash when Mike Lang
walked into his office with the members of Diesel, a
group he was managing. Kornfeld signed the act,
although nothing was to come of them, but the A&R
man and the charming Lang became good friends,
encouraged by their fondness for top grade
marijuana. And Kornfeld had a very nice apartment
in Manhattan, off Sutton Place at 56th and First,
where Lang liked to crash.

music played as the A&R man unfolded his

marketing plan. The 'Woodstock' trademark would
have to be maximised. Woodstock Ventures would
be the production vehicle for the festival. There
would also be Woodstock Realty, which would own
the land on which the recording studio was to be
built; Woodstock Management, which would
manage the artists to be signed to the company;
Woodstock Records, which would record them; and
Woodstock Music Publishing.
At this meeting it was also agreed that John
Roberts and Joel Rosenman would provide seed
money of $150,000. The plan was to sell tickets in
advance to finance the various undertakings. "We'll
book the talent, and do the planning, promotion and
production," announced Kornfeld confidently. Profits
would be split 50/50. Costs were estimated as
$200,000. If 75,000 people could be persuaded to
attend, at $6 a day, they'd be in clover. It was
decided that the festival should be held on the
weekend beginning Friday, August 15, 1969.

One night, during a long session smoking

Colombian Blond, Lang told Kornfeld he was
thinking of building a recording studio in
Woodstock, in upstate New York, where he was
living. The town had enormous mystique: it had
become the residence of the now-reclusive Bob
Dylan and, subsequently, a focus for musicians,
among them Van Morrison, Janis Joplin, The Band
and Blood Sweat & Tears. Accordingly, on February
6, 1969, they went to see John Roberts and Joel
Rosenman.

*
THE WOODSTOCK VENTURES OFFICE WAS
SET UP IN ROBER and Rosenman's apartment.
Every day Mike Lang and Artie Kornfeld, who had
quickly resigned from Capitol, would arrive for work.
John Roberts and Joel Rosenman would sit at their
desks making telephone calls, apparently oblivious
to the soap opera taking place around them:
Kornfeld and Lang smoking an "inspirational" joint;
the dozen or so attractive girls who would appear
around noon, ostensibly involved in putting together
Woodstock Ventures' mail-order operation; the
several other young girls sitting around in various
states of toplessness; the young man playing, as
though with a doll's house, with a model festival
stage.

Roberts and Rosenman had gone to great lengths

to appear professional. On the wall of their
apartment was a light-box with a sign that contained
their corporate name: CHALLENGE
INTERNATIONAL LIMITED. When a switch was
flipped this name became illuminated in ultra-violet
intensity. It was in this mode when Lang and
Kornfeld walked into their apartment in a flurry of
denim, buckskin, hair and cowboy boots. Roberts
and Rosenman still looked like rather preppy
businessmen, an image they felt was important to
cultivate.
Roberts and Rosenman were not convinced by
Kornfeld's rap about the Woodstock studio. But
when Lang and Kornfeld, in full-flowing hip capitalist
mode, suggested that to publicise the project they
would throw a press party at which Bob Dylan
would perform, the businessmen had a brainwave.
"Why don't we skip the studio idea and just do a big
concert? We could make a fortune." Roberts and
Rosenman loved the idea, partially because it
seemed to offer an escape route from a life of
respectability. "It sounds feasible," said Roberts,
"and not really all that risky. After all, how much
trouble can you get into putting on a concert?" Lang
and Kornfeld agreed to go along with the proposal
for the festival: but only if the recording studio would
be built out of the profits.

It had quickly become apparent that the local laws

were sufficiently precious to remove any possibility
of holding the Woodstock festival at Woodstock
itself. Another location had to be found. By the end
of March, Lang and Kornfeld claimed they had
secured a site in the town of Saugerties. But
concern was voiced by the attorney of the owner of
the land that the assets of Mr Lang were zero and
those of Mr Kornfeld only a one-acre beachfront
property and a gold Corvette.
A week later, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman set
off on an expedition into upstate New York, and
came up with the Howard Mills Industrial Park a
200-acre site in the town of Wallkill. The land was
owned by a farmer who was selling it for
development. Although it was on the edge of
suburbia and in view of a shopping centre, Roberts

Beneath a framed picture of Frank Sinatra on the

wall of Kornfeld's office at Capitol, the four of them
sat cross-legged on cushions on the floor; sitar

889

and Rosenman decided to take it for the festival.

Operations were set up in a barn, its hayloft
converted into an office. The downstairs floor was
filled with work-tables. Endless activity got under
way: a giant topographic diorama of the site was
built; poison ivy was cleared; a bridge was built over
a stream; grass was cut; bulldozers lumbered
across the land. Every semi-famous scenemaker
and loon from Greenwich Village showed up. One
of them was to build a large globe that everyone
would touch, a pulsating, communal experience.
Perfumed pools were under consideration.

They no longer had a festival site.

Woodstock Ventures set up home in Red Top, a

single-storey, long-uninhabited motel. Loud music
blared out of everywhere; ambitious sex took place
in the drained swimming-pool. When a large
quantity of cocaine turned up at Red Top, the
humidity caused the coke to melt into the paper it
was packaged in. As a consequence, employees of
Woodstock Ventures would be seen standing
around chewing bits of paper.

But after 30 seconds Abbie Hoffman interrupted: "I

don't give a damn about your platform, your
agenda. We don't give a damn about whether you
want us or not. We're going to bring this whole thing
down around your ears, and if you don't want us to
do that you'll write a cheque." $10,000 would settle
this matter, he declared.

And there were other problems. Abbie Hoffman, late

of the Chicago Seven trial and the leader of New
York's Up Against The Wall Motherfuckers hard-left
politicos an infamous liability and aggressive
"scene-destroyer" called up to demand that Joel
Rosenman meet with him in Hoffman's Lower East
Side office. Rosenman arrived with Mike Lang. The
office was small and spartan: a typewriter, a couple
of phones. Rosenman had his rap prepared: that
they all really thought the same way.

As though he hadn't heard this, Joel Rosenman

returned to his readymade rap. Hoffman leant over,
close to Rosenman's face. "Can you hear me? Ten
thousand dollars."

The bulldozed site became a sea of mud. Work

went on around the clock, despite constant
harassment by drug-hunting police (this was the
summer of Easy Rider). There always seemed to be
plenty of money for whatever was needed: $700 a
day was being spent on food and sundry other
goods for consumption. Mike Lang had somehow
graduated to driving around in a Porsche.

"I think we should be going now," said Lang.

"We'll think it over. We'll be back to you," said
Rosenman.
They got back to Hoffman: he got the money.

Lang it was who, over the inevitable joint, conjured

up the tag "an Aquarian exposition featuring arts
and crafts" to describe the festival. But despite his
stance as the personification of grooviness, he was
able to give a good account of himself at the zoning
board of appeals at Wallkill Town Hall on June 12.
The locals had been under the impression that what
was to take place in their town was to be a small art
exhibition. Questions were put about the drugtakers who would be coming to the Woodstock
Music And Art Fair. Lang's response was
unequivocal. "Well, sir, as you know, drugs are
illegal, and I don't think that the people who, will be
coming to our festival are criminal types in any way,
shape or form."

*
AS LANG RENTED HELICOPTERS AND LOOKED
FOR NEW SITES, someone called Max Yasgur
phoned the offices of Woodstock Ventures. He a
had a farm, he said, at a place called White Lake.
The first area Yasgur showed them was a flat field.
But then through a back road he drove into the
natural amphitheatre leading down to a lake, the
perfect festival site. A deal was struck: Yasgur was
to receive $75,000 for his land ("Max Yasgur was a
genuinely decent man," says John Roberts.
"Although he needed the money, he also genuine
injustice had been done at Wallkill.")

But then a gruesome reality raised its head: "How

can you be so sure that your sewerage flow is going
to by-pass populated areas?" It was something
they'd hardly considered.

The Diamond Horseshoe, a condemned hotel with

one to pool, was taken over as accommodation for
the team. Crew were constantly required to
evacuate their rooms because they were caving in
from the lousy plumbing. Everyone was getting
down. Every three days the entire crew would go to
the White Lake for B 12 shots; health had little to do

During dinner with their dates at Manhattan's

celebrated Four Seasons Restaurant, on July 2,
Roberts and Rosenman received the telephone call:
the Concerned Citizens Of Wallkill were taking the
Woodstock organisers to court to prevent the
festival.

890

with it the real reason for taking them was for

their speed-like side-effect.

Commissioner Leary was precise and to the point: it

would be a violation of regulations for New York City
cops to work at Woodstock.

At White Lake Mike Lang adopted an even more

exaggerated personel sona, riding around on a
horse like a cavalry officer. This was received by
anxious locals, one of whom would greet festival
workers by standing on his porch and firing a
shotgun in the air.

Woodstock no longer had a security force.

However, a bunch of cops showed up at the
Woodstock Ventures office to announce that they
would work all the same. And used the crisis to
raise their pay to $100 a day.

The most common question asked of John Roberts

was: "What are you going to do about people taking
a dump?" Patiently, he would reply that 2,000 PortO-San toilets had been ordered. But there was
problem: although a device called a "honey dipper"
was to empty the Port-O-San toilets, what were
they to then do the waste? The White Lake town
council insisted it was removed environs of the
town. Would there be a repeat of the Wallkill fiasco?
Woodstock organisers employed the services of a
research whom they met in a Ukrainian restaurant
on the Lower East Side with the health department:
he spoke their language and personally guaranteed
that the festival would not be a health hazard.

*
BY LATE JULY, MEMBERS OF HARD-CORE
American alternative society were beginning to
arrive at the festival site. Those counter-culture
legends The Merry Pranksters, the alumni of author
Ken Kesey and the archetypes of a modern western
picaresque life, traveled across the United States to
White Lake in their famous psychedelic bus. The
Pranksters, minus Kesey, arrived at Woodstock and
parked the bus up against the fence. Then they dug
a hole under the fence and let out the word that
people could sneak through it if they wanted to.
Aware that it was proof of the festival's credibility
that the Pranksters were there at all, the Woodstock
organisers turned a blind eye.

One June evening Rosenman and Roberts were at

Artie Kornfeld's apartment discussing, as was their
wont, this thorny problem of the disposal of human
excrement, when it dawned on Roberts for the first
time that they had omitted a crucial element: how
would they feed the people coming to the festival?
Lang eventually suggested they forward $75,000 to
one Jeff Joerger, who ran a catering company
called Food For Love: after this money had been
repaid the profits would be split 50-50. Not for the
last time, Woodstock Ventures was over a barrel:
the deal was done that day.

Abbie Hoffman and his gang, meanwhile, parked

their truck near the pate. In the vehicle was a
printing press on which Hoffman published a daily
newspaper telling people where to get food and
water, and how to locate something approximating
a latrine. Though the publication was predictably
radical, Hoffman put considerable effort into not
using it as a political soapbox. If characters such as
Hoffman were given a forum, the Woodstock
organisers reasoned, then more extreme behaviour
would be diffused.

And there was another crucial element: the security.

Joe Fink, the commander of Manhattan's 9th
Precinct on the Lower East Side, was asked to
handle it. Although New York City police were
prohibited from doing outside work, this seemed a
rule that could easily be broken: pay was to be $50
per day per policeman. Interviews took place in a
catering hall next to the Fillmore East. Candidates
were shown the uniforms: bell-bottom jeans, red Tshirts with "Peace" on the front and the Woodstock
emblem on the back, a nylon jacket and a pith
helmet. They were told that their role was simply "to
be extremely cool". Four hundred New York cops
were selected.

Lastly, The Hog Farmers had arrived the

legendary altruistic commune led by the wellmeaning Wavy Gravy and erected a bulletin
board. A hole was cut in it through which people
could insert their heads and make announcements.
Gravy and friends set about organising a backstage
baby race.
On August 10, however, a familiar problem returned
to haunt Woodstock Ventures. As they stood
outside Bethel Town Hall, the town building
inspector announced to Joel Rosenman that,
although the building permits had been authorised
in writing, they had not as yet been issued.
Technically, therefore, Woodstock Ventures was in
violation.

This led to further problems. Two weeks before the

festival Abbie Hoffman and his Up Against The Wall
Motherfuckers distributed a leaflet: "Let's all go to
Woodstock and greet the New York fuzz who will be
up there unarmed. Let's give them a real warm
welcome." The response of New York City Police

891

Rosenman had had enough: he threatened the

White Lake council both legally and morally. Almost
immediately the building inspector told him he
would get his permits. Rosenman waited outside
the building for Lang, who was to take him back to
the festival site. A chestnut mare hove into view,
cantering lazily down the main street. "If you got the
permits, man," announced Lang breezily, "I got the
transportation. Hop on."

What were not ready, however, were the turnstiles

and gates: some- thing of a problem, as by
Wednesday night around 50,000 people had
arrived. They sat and watched as several hundred
frantic hippies swarmed over the stage, fixing up
lights, sound equipment and a roof.
Then Head Of Security Wes Pomeroy told Roberts
the truth: "John, I think you should realise once and
for all that you're not going to get those gates up
and collect your money. You try getting these
people out of the performance area now and you'll
have a riot on your hands."

The festival site had now become a 24-hour

operation. Members of the stage-crew had been
taking acid for days, to stay awake and render more
pleasant their task of hanging in the air in their
cherry-pickers. The acid also occasionally caused
them to fall out of the cherry-pickers and hang there
by their trusses because someone had moved the
scaffolding.

Soon a further source of revenue was lost. Roberts

and Rosenman were informed that for Food For
Love to remain on the site the Woodstock
organisers would have to sacrifice all profits. They
would, however, be returned the $75,000 start-up
money they had been advanced.

A few days before the festival John Morris received

a phone call from Steven Stills. Stills was extremely
nervous about the idea of Crosby, Stills and Nash
performing at the festival they had never played
live before, and he was considering pulling out. As
his telephone call reached Morris, however, the
sound of 'Suite: Judy Blue Eyes' was sailing out of
the enormous PA. Stills, hardly a stranger to the
notion of the cosmic coincidence, immediately
realised they must play.

On the morning of Friday, August 15, a 16-year-old

from the Bronx was run over by the waste disposal
honeywagon. He'd been lying under it, asleep,
when a farmer had hooked his tractor to the trailer
and begun to tow it away. The boy died minutes
later.
The audience by now numbered over 100,000
already 40,000 more than the number expected
over the entire three days and the event wouldn't
begin for 24 hours. On discovering that the roads
were now blocked for 25 miles in all directions,
John Morris sent out for every helicopter he could
hire. In the end he had 16 choppers.

On August 12, Roberts, in Manhattan, got a call

from Jeff Joerger of Food For Love. Joerger
claimed that the Woodstock organisers were not
living up to their agreement: they were not building
the food concession stands to his specifications and
there was a good chance they would not be ready
by Friday, the opening day of the festival; he
referred to the Woodstock staff as "goons". When
one of them opted to thump him, he announced he
was pulling out of the festival. Twenty-five thousand
people were camped there already. Now, no food.

*
AND STILL THE CROWD KEPT COMING. BY THE
END OF FRIDAY evening, it was 500,000 strong.
As the time for the first act approached, a young
man began climbing the main lighting tower.
Warnings were called out to him from the stage, but
the crowd cheered him on as the tower swayed
crazily backwards and forwards. He reached the
top. Then, as though in some state of autohypnosis, he let go and plunged 80 feet to the
ground. And survived.

But on the Wednesday before the festival John

Roberts felt relatively happy as he toured the site.
Most of it seemed in readiness. The parking lots
were well marked and attended. The camping
Zones had been cleared. The costly pile of
scaffolding, wood and construction equipment had
somehow produced a stage. Toilets, first aid and
water tank areas were all running smoothly.
Relations with Food For Love had apparently been
restored. In a large clearing in the woods was now
a rustic hippie supermarket. Paths in the forest had
names like "Groovy Way" and "Aquarian Avenue".
Five acres had been set aside as a playground for
children: swings, Jungle gyms, see-saws,
sandboxes, a mudhole. There was a small zoo:
lambs, piglets, chicks, a baby cow...

on the stage itself the electricity power lines were

not yet in place. So all available acoustic acts were
lined up ready to perform, as workers frantically
strove to get full electrical power under way.
The first act of the event was Richie Havens. He
opened Woodstock because, as a solo performer,
he was able to fit into the four-seater helicopter that

892

was the only one available at the time for taking

acts to the site.

John Morris's trailer. This was a huge shock: no-one

had so far appreciated the immense scale of the
event, Yet the article accompanying the photograph
was extremely negative. But one of the daughters
of a principal editor on the paper was backstage at
Woodstock. Going up to Max Yasgur's house, she
used his phone to call her father. She told him the
pieces being filed by the New York Times reporter
were not true. As a consequence, the paper altered
its stance; it even carried a profile article about the
farmer: "Max Yasgur: Man Of The Hour!"

Country Joe McDonald was cajoled into going

onstage next, armed with only an acoustic guitar.
Then John Morris learnt that although he was not
booked to play, John Sebastian was hanging out
backstage. Morris begged him to go on. He agreed,
completely stoned. Sebastian went out in front of
the crowd and provided one of the pivotal moments
of the event.
There was a storm on the Friday night. Just prior to
this downpour a kilo of cocaine had been delivered
to the stage area: this was to be broken down into
smaller bags to last the weekend. But when the rain
came a pool of rainwater spilt off a piece of
tarpaulin on to the cocaine and washed it all away.

In the middle of Saturday, as Creedence Clearwater

Revival were punching through 'Proud Mary', some
guy was spotted hanging from the wires of the
bridge over the stage, the wires that link the
communications and lights. He was screaming, "I
am something!" He was peeled off and fell 20 feet
on to the roof of a van.

The Medical Committee For Human Rights' senior

doctor was helicoptered in on the Friday and was
appalled at the lack of supplies and facilities. "We
have the makings of a medical disaster here,' he
told the organisers. As Joan Baez played onstage
behind him, he chartered a plane out of LaGuardia
the next morning for volunteer doctors and nurses.
"If you don't have it here by tomorrow at 12 o'clock,"
he threatened, "I'm calling the Governor and having
him declare this a disaster area and bring in the
National Guard. I'm enraged and my colleagues
here are furious at what you have not done."

As Bobby Neuwirth (a folk-singing friend of Bob

Dylan's), Rick Danko and John Sebastian played a
small and soothing show in the bad trips tent,
Morris received a telegram from Iron Butterfly,
scheduled to play that day. "You will send helicopter
to LaGuardia. Pick us up, bring us back. We will go
immediately onstage, in front of everybody else,
and then we will be given a helicopter and flown
back." John Morris calmly dictated his reply: "Fuck
Off."
Around midnight on the Saturday, Joel Rosenman
was presented with a small problem: The Who and
The Grateful Dead, both scheduled to perform
shortly, wanted to be paid in cash. What would
happen, I Rosenman asked John Morris, if these
two groups didn't play? Morris I told him he thought
the crowd would riot. Rosenman had only one
option: he called up Charlie Prince, Woodstock
Ventures' banker, at the White Lake branch of the
Sullivan Country National Bank. The banker was
asleep. Rosenman woke him, and told him he
needed $25,000 in cash. Could he get it from the
bank? Prince explained that the bank's cash was in
a safe with a time-lock. After a moment, however,
he said he had no recollection of having put the
tellers' checks, in those days considered as I good
as cash, in the vault. How could he get over to the
bank, however? The roads were impassable.

At eight o'clock on the Saturday morning, the

slumbering crowd was awoken by a plea to help
pick up the garbage that was threatening to
overwhelm the site. Lang now feared that the event
could be closed down by the local sanitation
authorities.
Radio news items had begun to be broadcast,
announcing that there were over 500,000 people at
Woodstock and the festival had run out of food. This
hit a nerve in the Jewish mama sensibility of the
Catskills. At nearby Monticello High School
hundreds of thousands of eggs were hard-boiled
and helicoptered in.
Interesting conspiracy rumours began to spread,
such as: is some of the water dosed with acid? This
theory was lent credence by the sight of a couple of
state policemen assigned to provide the security
for Woodstock Ventures' cash supply ripping off
their clothes and dancing on their car roof, as if
completely out of their trees. They had consumed
nothing but water all day.

Joel Rosenman had the solution. Go and stand in

your back garden, he said, a helicopter will be over
for you shortly. At the bank, Prince found the checks
and called Rosenman back. "He's got 'em! He's got
'em!", yelled Rosenman. Within half an hour the
Grateful Dead were shuffling out on to the stage...

On the Saturday a copy of the New York Times with

an aerial shot of the site appeared backstage in

But the Dead had other problems to contend with. A

couple of hours earlier they'd been told they were

893

going on in about five hours and had promptly

partaken of a large quantity of industrial-strength
acid. Backstage was a sea of gesticulating
managers and agents trying to screw the most
advantageous slot out of the organisers, and the
Dead, putting up the least resistance, were duly
shepherded out into the spotlight a full three hours
early. Hallucinating badly, they began their set, only
to find that the equipment hadn't been adequately
"grounded": in the drizzle, the vocal mikes had
begun shorting. Every time Jerry Garcia or Bob
Weir got near enough to a microphone to be
audible, they were knocked back by a jolt of
electricity. The befuddled Garcia now believed the
entire cosmos was against him. "Jeez!" he hollered
into the wings. "I've just been hit by lightning! "

exhausted Townshend's eyes began to close, Bill

shook him awake again. By Saturday he snapped.
"OK. We'll do it. Just get to fucking bed." Wolff
haggled and raised their fee to an extraordinary
$12,500.)
When The Who arrived at midday, Saturday August
16, Woodstock had been declared "a free festival"
(it was impossible indeed, dangerous not to let
the ticketless hordes in), and the now acutely costconscious Michael Lang was hiding out in his trailer
backstage, attempting having to pay any bands.
When Wolff insisted on collecting TheWho upfront,
Lang threatened that an announcement would be
made informing the crowd of the situation. But Wolff
knew Lang couldn't antagonise the crowd either and
called his bluff. Rosenman handed a certified
cheque for $11,200 and The Who took the stage for
what Daltrey still believes was "the worst gig we
ever played".

Sly Stone, who was to perform after the Dead, was

then at the peak of his stardom. And at the peak of
a self-indulgence notorious even in the music
business. Using one of the backstage trailers as a
dressing-room, Sly insisted he would only play
when he was ready. But John Morris had had
enough of superstar tantrums. He grabbed Sly by
the shirt and slammed him into the side of the
trailer: "You will go on now or I'll tell the crowd
you're sitting here and you're too big to go on!" Sly
rather petulantly complied, and his set, beginning
as half a million people simultaneously lit a match,
was one of the most unforgettable moments of the
three days.

Townshend began by kicking a cameraman (no less

than Wadleigh, the director of the Woodstock
movie). In the middle of the fraught set, as the band
started an edited version of 'Tommy', Hoffman
decided to inform the audience about the plight of
John the manager of The MC5, in prison in
Michigan for possession of marijuana joint. He
came stumbling out of the wings, seized the phone
from Roger Daltrey and embarked upon a
hopelessly-stoned rant that was utterly baffling to
the half-million camped out in the pitch dark.

The Who's appearance at Woodstock had been a

nightmare from the off, according to Dave Marsh in
his Who biography Before I Get Old. Townshend
was adamantly against playing the festival. Both the
Who's managers, Kit Lambert and Chris Stamp,
were busy with their Track project back in England,
and the band was being looked after by their road
manager John Wolff which meant that
Townshend most of the decisions himself. However
The Who were already booked to play an outdoor
classical concert in Tanglewood, Massachusetts, on
the 15th, and would therefore be in the vicinity, and
the American agent Frank Barsalona, who could
sense the escalating scale of Woodstock, was
begging them to appear.

Townshend's response was swift and instinctive: a

Doc Marten straight into Hoffman's arse and a
glancing blow to the head with his Gibson SG.
Hoffman plummetted 10 feet into the photographers
disappeared for the rest of the festival. Townshend
later called it "the most political thing I ever did".
*
BY LUNCHTIME OF SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, THE
THIRD day of the festival, the weather was
scorchingly hot. As they flew over the crowd,
revealed in daylight in all its stupefying vastness, a
couple of the musicians in Joe Cocker's group
became so nervous that they threw up out of the
copter. But as Cocker and The Grease Band played
at midday, huge clouds rolled in and rain began to
pour down. Kids had to be removed from lighting
towers as an electrical storm gathered.

Over dinner in his Manhattan apartment, Barsalona

and Job had gradually worn Townshend down into
accepting an offer offered to have a helicopter
shuttle them directly from Tanglewood to
Woodstock, and from Woodstock to Kennedy
Airport. But Townshend and Wolff claimed the band
were nearing physical collapse and should not even
be playing the Tanglewood fixture. Pull out of
Tanglewood, Townshend was warned, and promoter
Bill Graham would almost certainly cancel their
week of shows at the Fillmore East. (Whenever the

When the sun came out another crisis was

revealed: the rain had washed away all the dirt
covering the main feeder cables, and the walking
on the exposed cables had worn away their
insulation. When further rain began to fall, there

894

was near panic backstage: would the audience be

electrocuted? At the last moment, power kicked in
from an alternative generator.

officials slammed his file folder down on the desk: it

fell open and there were the guarantees, unsigned.
The bank had made a dreadful error: they had
omitted to ask Roberts and Rosenman to sign the
overdraft forms. The mood shifted: the bankers
became immensely amiable and concerned.

Boldly brandishing his right-wing credentials,

Governor Rockefeller by Sunday morning had
declared the festival "a disaster area". He intended,
he said, to send in the National Guard and remove
everyone. His justification was that this was an
illegal gathering, a danger to the community, a
danger to public health.

Halfway through this meeting, John Roberts and

Joel Rosenman were telephoned from the festival
site and told that dead bodies were being found in
the mounds of garbage. Though this turned out not
to be true.

Early afternoon on Sunday John Morris spoke, in a

tone of exaggerated calm, to an assistant of the
governor. Somehow he managed to persuade him
that the festival-goers needed assistance rather
than confrontation. By the end of the conversation
Morris's requests for medical teams, a field hospital
and food had been granted. An hour or so later a
flotilla of US army helicopters brought in the
supplies.

Roberts and Rosenman adjourned, within their

meeting at the bank, to an ante-room where they
had an intense discussion with Roberts's brother
Billy. Could they get out of this mess without going
bankrupt? Was there enough in Roberts's trust fund
to cover all the debts? Suddenly, Joel Rosenman
was called out of the room to take a call. The
money from the ticket outlets had been assessed. It
amounted to almost $1 million. The law of good
karma had prevailed: the books were beginning to
balance.

On Monday, August 18, Jimi Hendrix came onstage

at 4.30am. He was using a scratch band Mitch
Mitchell still on drums, Billy Cox on bass, Jerry
Velez playing guitar and a conga player called
Juma Sultan and everyone around him could see
they weren't up to it. The rehearsals at his house
had been conducted in a miasma of chemical
experiment and, when he heard the festival had
been declared a disaster area, he decided he no
longer wanted to play. Eventually nudged into
performing, he apologised more than once onstage
for the band, and then escaped in a chopper as fast
as he could, with a girl who worked for Dylan's
manager Albert Grossman. Photographer Henry
Diltz remembers 'The Star-Spangled Banner' as
"just a moment that was wonderful. Suddenly it was
all over and this was the strange haunting end
just his guitar ringing out in the still morning air in
this field of mud". It's ironic, given the status the
song has acquired since, that Jimi's manager Mike
Jeffries tried hard to dissuade him from playing it,
as he thought it might cause a riot.

"lt's not entirely true, as has been claimed, that after

the movie and record releases we made a lot of
money from Woodstock," John Roberts now says.
"In fact, you could say that by 1980 Woodstock
Ventures had reached a break-even point. If we'd
invested our money in a bond, we'd have done a lot
better."
*
BACK AT THE FESTIVAL SITE, STEAM WAS
RISING FROM THE mud and trash in the ground. It
hung, suspended, a few feet in the air. Th Hog
Farmers stayed on and worked all Monday,
cleaning up. As additional payment, they were given
any spare equipment they wanted.
Their flight back to their home at Albuquerque was
surreal. Acid was being handed out, the chartered
plane's Kool-Aid being liberally laced with LSD. The
stewardesses found themselves changing clothes
with the Hog Farm ladies. The pilot became
concerned: he put the plane on automatic pilot and
stepped into the cabin.

The sea of mud had by now been turned over by

the rain and mixed with in the alfalfa field. If you put
your foot in it, you sank six inches. The smell of
manure was wafting up in the Catskills. While
Hendrix was onstage, John Roberts received a
phone-call from Jack Gillam, the bank officer at the
National Bank of North America in Manhattan. John
Roberts and Joel Rosenman had better be at the
bank for a meeting by 10 am. There was an
emergency. Roberts and Rosenman raced down
the now relatively empty roads to Manhattan.

He saw a large green parrot flying around it.

Chris Salewicz, 1994

The bank's top brass were present and they were

very upset. There was a huge overdraft. One of the

The Who: 30 Years Of Maximum R&B

895

Jon Savage, Mojo, July 1994

It's hard to recapture the extraordinary impact that

The Who made in 1965 and 1966. First the name, a
pop-art abstraction to place next to Them or The
Byrds later backed up with all kinds of rhetoric
about 'auto-destruction' that, if Townshend stole, he
stole first hand from Gustav Metzger, who'd lectured
at Ealing Art School. In retrospect, of course, The
Who and their managers Kit Lambert and Chris
Stamp formed a classic pop mix ranging across
class, sexuality and attitude; the mingling that
should occur in the rest of society but so rarely
does.

APART FROM THE BARRON KNIGHTS AT

BERTRAM MILLS Circus, the first group I ever saw
live was The Who: It could have been Spooky
Tooth, but The Who got there by a month, playing a
small hall in Worthing as a warm-up date for the
1969 Plumpton Festival.
Out they walked, plugged in, and BAM! straight into
'I Can't Explain': that was the last time I could hear
anything for the next couple of days. I know they
must have done stuff from Tommy, but all that
registers now is that first physical impact: pure punk
rock ecstasy.

Then there was the noise: Kinks-like, sneering pop

tunes pushed on to the next level of irritation by
aggressive vocals, crunching bass, slashing guitar
chords, total in-your-face feedback and, last but not
least, drums as lead instrument. And then they
started to go camp; the signs were there on
'Substitute', their greatest moment, with its
incestuous phrases, high heels and false ending.
Then there was their song about a transvestite
child, 'I'm A Boy': a drum explosion, a major pervfest, Number 2. Top that with 'Pictures Of Lily', a
Top 5 hit about wanking, and you've got the songs
that define my early, Ealing adolescence.

The Who didn't collectively do what they hoped to

do in their most infamous song: They survived to
become terminally unfashionable. According to
Richard Barnes in his book Maximum R&B, Pete
Townshend wanted to break up the group in 1975;
according to Townshend himself, Keith Moon's
death in 1978 "undermine(d) the whole idea". Any
Who fan can point to some appalling lapse of taste;
mine would have to be their performance of
'Substitute' at the 1988 BPI Awards. Did they have
to? Cumulative embarrassments like these have
had a retrospective effect, tainting a great back
catalogue.

Then they went psychedelic, and did it brilliantly. No

'Relax' here but plenty of The Who Sell Out: a
tweaked 'Armenia City In The Sky', the acoustic
'Sunrise', the mystical 'Rael' with a bizarre new
coda, 'Maryanne With The Shaky Hand', the
stinging 'I Can See For Miles'. Cool outtakes from
this period include 'Early Morning Cold Taxi' and
'Girl's Eyes'. Then it was 1968: everybody was
making LPs but The Who kept knocking out singles
that didn't sell: 'Dogs' and 'Magic Bus', 'Dr Jekyll &
Mr Hyde'. Again, a couple of great outtakes: 'Little
Billy' and 'Melancholia'.

Well, this set does the business. There's no way

round it: The Who are an English pop archetype.
Watching new punk band These Animal Men the
other night, in between fits of giggles, I realised that
their moves all those rent boy pouts and psychotic
stares, 'what me guy' expressions and, yes, scissor
kicks were in a line that went back through The
Purple Hearts and The Jam and the Sex Pistols and
David Bowie, right back to The Who. Oh yes, and
don't talk to me about Blur: just revel in 'Dogs', the
1968 single that, according to the authorised
version, is dreadful but which summarises Parklife
into three glorious minutes.

This is where many people will start to fall off, but

not me: I was that teenage consumer, rushing out to
buy Tommy the week it was released. I loved it then
and love it now: for a record often cited as a
benchmark of pretentiousness, Tommy still seems
unassuming and surprisingly coherent, nor do I see
what's wrong with writing a sequence of songs
about leaving adolescence and spiritual growth. If
you've stuck it this far, then you'll stick through
Who's Next and all the singles from 1970 to 1972,
particularly 'The Seeker' a major rediscovery with
its irresistible riff.

Seventy-nine tracks, arranged chronologically over

four CDs, tell a good story. We all know that The
Who first achieved full greatness by making
industrial strength noise out of what went on inside
a Mod's head, but their High Numbers tunes about
what these 'sawdust Caesars' wore on the out-side
sound absolutely fabulous especially 'I'm The
Face': not many songs have entitled a magazine. A
quick outtake, 'Leaving Here' concisely makes the
point that the group were wise to ditch R&B covers,
and then we're off into nearly two hours of nasty
teenage pimply noisy pop music, oh yessss.

Tommy was a massive success, especially in the

US, and The Who went Rock. I can date the
moment when the problems began: it was when
Roger Daltrey started fancying himself as a great
vocalist. He was wonderful on all the early stuff but
nobody felt the need to comment about it. The Who

896

were now treated with high-seriousness and, as

tends to happen, began to get self-conscious and
heavy. Live At Leeds, over-amply represented here,
is a major black spot, as is the awful 'Join Together',
the least of the series of singles meant to organise
a dissipating youth community.

The whole thing about trebly basses is that the

treble allows the note to be heard. If you don't get
the note recorded right in the first place, you can't
compensate for it later. A lot of the early Who stuff
sounds like crap.
I CAN'T EXPLAIN

Quadrophenia, on the other hand, remains an

honourable and fascinating attempt by a major
writer on the subject to come to terms with his own
adolescence which got its own reward when it fed
back into popular culture in 1979, with the release
of the film and the Mod Revival. It's here that the set
should have ended, with 'Love, Reign O'er Me', but
no, there were three more studio LPs: The Who By
Numbers, Face Dances and It's Hard all collected
on CD4 which, apart from a fine 1971 live version of
'Naked Eye', is very hard to listen to.

PETE HAD HEARD 'YOU REALLY GOT Me' by The

Kinks at Keith's mother's house, and he went home
and tried to play it, but what he came up with was
the riff that became 'I Can't Explain'.
Shel Talmy got The Ivy League in to do the vocal
backing. It's a little bit too Beverley Sisters, but it
probably saved money. He tried to replace me. I
know he got Jimmy Page in, reputedly because he
was the only guy in England with a fuzz box and
Talmy wanted that sound.

Maximum R&B is a great tribute to the group who

defined the paradox of English pop foppish
violence and then went on to grapple, more
consistently than anyone else, with the tensions of
growing up as musicians in an industry defined by
adolescence. It is weakened, however, by two
contemporary shibboleths: the apparent need to
follow the story up to the present day (let's vote on
it: wouldn't you prefer Ready Steady Who to It's
Hard?) and the habit of sticking in anachronistic live
versions to spice up the storyline. For a major Who
retrospective not to include the original 'Substitute'
is perverse beyond the call of duty.

We did our first album with Talmy in three days, but

because we signed the piece of paper we're still
paying him. In fact we still pay him producer's
royalties for our first seven albums. We got two and
a half per cent and he got two and a half per cent,
like a 50-50 deal. His engineer Glyn Johns did all
the work. So in the end we asked Glyn to produce
us. He was great at getting sounds, although we
always disagreed about the sound of my bass. I've
yet to find a producer I agree with on that. There's
never any argument about the melodic content of
what I play, it's about the sound, because I use a lot
of top, trebly sounds. I think Pete finally realises
that I'm not a bass player. I'm a bass guitarist. I play
the guitar but lower.

Jon Savage, 1994

John Entwistle

SUBSTITUTE
Johnny Black, Mojo, September 1994
PETE WAS ALWAYS BEING INFLUENCED BY
OTHER ARTISTS. 'Substitute' was an attempt to
play the introduction from 'I Can't Help Myself' by
The Four Tops. He played me the demo and I
thought it sounded great. We didn't want it to sound
too Motown so I played a Gibson SG medium scale
bass with wire-wound strings. When it got to the
solo, because we were recording and mixing it
virtually live, I thought, yeah, this should be a bass
solo, so I turned my volume up and they couldn't
mix me out, so it ended up as a bass solo.

MY GENERATION
A LOT OF THE SOLOS I PLAYED WERE MUCH
FASTER AND MORE interesting than the ones that
finally went on the record.
I'd play a really fast solo, and they'd say it hadn't
recorded properly, so could I play something
simpler. I was using a Danelectro bass with very
thin strings. Whenever I did a gig with it I'd bust a
string and they were impossible to buy, so I'd
have to buy another complete guitar. I went through
three of them at 60 a time recording 'My
Generation'. In the end there literally weren't any
more Danelectros in the country I went out and
bought a Fender Jazz bass and put on the trebliest
strings I could find, tape-wound La Bella strings,
and played the solo on that.

After we'd done 'Substitute', Keith phoned me up in

a raging temper and shouted "How dare you record
without me!" He was convinced he hadn't been at
the session. Actually, he was drunk and just couldn't
remember it. I told him to listen to it, because he
would always scream during difficult drum breaks
and you could hear him on 'Substitute'. So when he
heard that he realised how far gone he was.

897

He really thought we were trying to throw him out of

the band. He was on some weird downer pills that
made him paranoid. He just figured that everything
we said had a hidden meaning. I remember driving
to a gig in Switzerland and I said, "Are we there
yet?" Kit turned round and said, "No, we're not,"
and Keith thought we were talking about throwing
him out of the band.

songs to make a nine minute miniature opera.

Really it was just to fill up a gap.
With Pete all our demos were complete, but that
didn't mean we'd play what he'd written. We were a
band. It was whatever each person felt comfortable
playing.
When Pete did those albums of rarities and
outtakes he went back and changed a lot of his
demos, made them even better so it sounded like
we'd copied what he'd done. You have to realise
that Keith and me, as individuals, were each at the
top of his instrument, so there's no way we'd have
just copied the demo.

He tried to join The Beach Boys once, but they

wouldn't let him. They already had Dennis. He did it
with The Beatles too, just walked up to them at a
table and asked if he could join them. Most of the
time he was quite happy to be in The Who, but he
was forever leaving the band.
I nearly joined The Moody Blues at one point,
before John Lodge and Justin Hayward joined. I
was friendly with Mike Pender and Ray Thomas. I
used to go round their flat when Ray was learning
the flute. I'd had enough of the fights and the
arguments, so I was outta there. Keith and me
decided we'd form a band and get Jimmy Page to
join us. We came up with lots of names. Keith
suggested Lead Balloon, but I thought a Zeppelin
was bigger. We also had the idea of the first album
cover being a black and white shot of the R- 101
going down in flames...

Roger changed bits of melody line and stuff. A lot of

the early songs would end up co-written but the
money would go to Townshend. Maybe if The Who
had taken an equal cut of the publishing the group
might still be together. But hey, some people don't
have to work and some people do.
BORIS THE SPIDER
ACTUALLY THE FIRST SONG I WROTE WAS
'WHISKEY MAN'. THEN 'Boris', which was the
fastest song I've ever written. One night I'd been
sitting with Bill and Charlie of the Stones, getting
drunk at The Scotch Of St James, and we started
talking about names for animals, Barry The Badger
and so on. I came up with Boris The Spider, after
Boris Karloff, and it made us all laugh.

Our chauffeur, Richard Cole, had three speeding

offences and couldn't drive for three months, so we
fired him and he went to work for Jimmy Page and
that's how those ideas got transferred.
A QUICK ONE WHILE HE'S AWAY

So a couple of days later, after we'd rehearsed

'Whiskey Man' in the White Hart hotel, at the end of
Laxton Road where I lived, Pete asked to hear my
second song. I didn't want to seem lazy, not having
written one. So I said it was about a spider called
Boris. Of course then Pete asks me to play it, so I
just made it up as I went along...

AROUND THAT TIME WE WERE VERY SHORT

OF MONEY. WE couldn't earn it on our concerts
because we were smashing up so much equipment
and buying clothes, so the costs were ridiculous. So
the idea came up that if we each wrote two songs
for the Quick One album, it would put some money
in our pockets because we'd get publishing
advances of 500. That was more than we'd seen
in the whole year. We were on 20 a week, which
just about paid for the booze.

SEE MY WAY
ROGER WANTED THE DRUMS TO SOUND LIKE
CARDBOARD boxes, but Keith's drums always
sounded like biscuit tins being hit. We couldn't
make them sound like cardboard boxes. So Keith
went out the back of the studio for a while, and
when he came back he started playing and Roger
said, "That sounds perfect! How are you doing
that?" It was two cardboard boxes Keith had found
outside.

Myself and Pete wanted cellos on the mini-opera,

but Kit Lambert said we couldn't afford cellos. So on
the backing vocals we sang "Cello, cello, cello". You
could say we got our way in the end.
A lot of Lambert's input was with Pete before the
song was actually presented to us. Especially in the
mini-opera. We had between nine and 12 minutes
left to complete the album. It meant writing three
more songs, so Kit suggested writing lots of little

PICTURES OF LILY

898

THAT BASSLINE WAS PRETTY MUCH

COMPLETELY RE-WRITTEN. I joined the whole
thing together, made it more complicated. The thing
I hate about 'Pictures Of Lily' is that bloody elephant
call on the French horn. I also hated the backing
vocals, the mermaid voices, where we'd sing all the
"oooooohs". I hated "oooooohs". I'd much rather
sing "aaaaaah". But it was always "ooooooh".
Maybe because we were The Ooo.

lines on its face. Pete Townshend has finally felt

safe to come out as the therapy-seeking, gurufollowing, social-commentating, serious grown-up
that he really always was (even back then, the
much-quoted hope I die before I get old line aside)
and reclaim The Who for himself.
It must have driven him to distraction his band,
his brainchild, the workings of his sensitive,
screwed-up genius, purloined by a crazed-puppy
drummer and a beautiful, goldenhaired frontman
who couldnt string two intelligent thoughts together,
becoming the lifestyle soundtrack to a bunch of
British, beer-fuelled, street-fighting louts. Hardly
surprising the camera close-ups show an old angstfilled face Earls Court, where The Who are
performing Quadrophenia, is packed not with the
cream of English intelligentsia, but with beer-bellied,
punch-drunk, forty-something minicab drivers
whove left their wives at home to gather for a post
(Mods & Rockers)war tribal celebration. The
drummer (Zakk Starkey, son of Ringo) is still the
most watchable person onstage, and next to Roger
Daltrey Townshends longtime rival and reluctant
mouthpiece who remains muscular, slim, totally
self-confident Townshend looks like the picture of
Dorian Grey, all its demons on display.

MAGIC BUS
YEAH, I PLAYED THAT ON A VOX VIOLIN BASS.
ABSOLUTELY revolting thing that looked like a mint
humbug. Vox gave us two guitars each. Onstage
'Magic Bus' was always a complete bore for me. I'd
be playing the same note, A, for six minutes. It
wasn't so bad when we recorded it, because it was
only three minutes. Roger and Pete have a great
time, but I'm playing humpty dumpty all the way
through on A.
CALL ME LIGHTNING
THE WORST THING I EVER DID, THAT BASS
SOLO. It's a bunch of shit. They'd decided that they
wanted to repeat the bass solo idea from 'My
Generation', but 'Call Me Lightning' wasn't the right
tempo for a bass solo, so it had to be simplified. I
thought it was crap. I just could not think of anything
to play.

The first indications that Townshend planned to

reclaim The Who came with the staging of the
musical Tommy. On album, in concert and in the
Ken Russell film, Tommy was golden sex-god
Daltrey; in the musical hes a skinny, dark-haired,
big-nosed kid whose country is desperate and
whose parents have fucked him up. In the same
way, Quadrophenia has been transformed into
tortured social history, and the Ace Face has been
taken away from Daltrey and given to a dark-haired,
mixed-up 60s mod who narrates the show (very
irritatingly) from a movie screen above the stage.
Meanwhile, the album is performed in its entirety
like a classical suite with horn-section,
synthesisers, backing vocalists, crammed onto
platforms, protected with glass screens from
Daltreys ever-flying microphone a big production
with dry ice, lasers and guest appearances from PJ
Proby (looking like Dennis Hopper playing Meat
Loaf as Elvis) and (hysterical!) Billy Idol on a
scooter on a rising platform, lip-curled, fist held in
triumph. As musical theatre, its not good. As music,
its sometimes wonderful (5.15 gives you
goosepimples) but theres an awful lot of filler.

THE REAL ME
THAT'S PROBABLY MY BEST PIECE OF WORK.
I'D been stuck In a rut before that, and had decided
to change my style and my equipment. I started
using a much more bass-like sound which was
easier to record. A lot of Quadrophenia was
changed drastically once I put the bass on, because
it was a lot more complicated than the bass on the
demo. 'The Real Me' ended up as a bass solo.
That's quite a big change. That was the first take. I
was sitting there messin' around and they said
"That's great". I hadn't even known they were
recording it.
Johnny Black, 1994
The Who: Earls Court, London
Sylvie Simmons, Rolling Stone (Germany),
November 1995

The evening is rounded off with the ultimate badge

of grown-up rock, an unplugged set. Its this, not the
tribulations-of-a-young-mod film, that brings on the
waves of nostalgia. Your eyes see Townshend with
the acoustic guitar hes worn most of the evening,
then your ears hear pick up my guitar and play, just

ROCK MUSIC wed never have believed it if

theyd told us back then has grown up. What was
once dicks and fists has brains and neuroses and

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like yesterday and your heart begs for no more

reunions, no more rewritten history.

charity concert, held in London's Hyde Park in June

and subsequently broadcast on HBO, unveiled the
revived Quadrophenia.]

Sylvie Simmons, 1995

That's basically what happened. I haven't been
sitting thinking about it particularly, it's just
something that happened partly because of timing.
Piaggio being 50 kind of got the whole thing going.

Pete Townshend
Ira Robbins, Cleveland Live, November 1996

Did the Rome show take place?

SHORTLY BEFORE THE reunited Who began its

month-plus Quadrophenia tour of North America in
Portland, Oregon on October 13th, guitarist, singer
and composer Pete Townshend rang from London
to talk about the project that is currently occupying
his attention.

No. We missed it. We missed the actual

anniversary because we didn't want to work in
August. It was too soon after the extended
workshop that we did in New York. [Following the
London event, the company played a week at New
York's Madison Square Garden in July.] So we're
doing it next year, I think it's in May.

Always one of rock's most articulate and eloquent

figures, he filled an evening hour with his thoughts
about taking Quadrophenia out for another spin,
where it might go from here, and the obstacles and
benefits of getting back together with singer Roger
Daltrey and bassist John Entwistle.

What are your plans for Quadrophenia after this

tour?
We'll probably do a few more shows with it in
London and Europe, and after that I really don't
know. I'm already getting interest from theatrical
producers in developing it as a simple sit-down
theatrical production with a band on stage, like
Rent, that kind of thing. I've had a couple of offers
already, which I'm thinking about.

The Return Of Quadrophenia

How long has Quadrophenia been on your mind?
When Tommy hit Broadway in early '93, a couple of
people asked me what I was going to do next.
There were a few projects floating around in my
head, and Quadrophenia was, I suppose, one of
them. But I never really thought about it seriously
until about a year ago, when Bill Curbishley, our
manager, came to me with a proposal to do a
European tour of a rough treatment that I'd done,
which was very, very expensive.

What I think Quadrophenia lends itself to, and what

I might be able to pull off where others have failed
in the long term is to create a rock'n'roll event of
great integrity and authenticity which can sit down
somewhere in an installation. Des McAnuff took me
to see Cirque du Soleil Mystere at Las Vegas in
1994, and I was just blown away by it. I'm a big fan
of Cirque du Soleil, but what blew me away was, in
the rather bizarre and confused ever-changing
scene that Las Vegas now represents in show
business, there was this incredibly powerful I think
spiritually uplifting show doing fantastic business.
They do four shows a day, I think, in a twelve- or
fourteen-thousand seat arena. I've been looking at
a slightly more modest installation, but something
that would provide a setting for this kind of musical
work. This is what interests me for the future, not so
much music theater in the old tradition, but an
aspect of music theater that allows technology to
play an important and vital part without being
subject to the vagaries of Broadway.

It was a very ambitious project, a bit like [U2's] Zoo

TV, with two bands. I was very excited. Then I told
him that I wouldn't appear in it, and he said he didn't
think it would sell out, and therefore the funding
wasn't available in advance.
And then Des McAnuff [director of the Broadway
version of Tommy] came to see me in February or
March of this year with a proposal from Robbie
Robertson to do a celebration for fifty years of the
Vespa motorscooter [a preferred mode of
transportation for the '60s mods who are the cultural
subject of Quadrophenia] from the Piaggio
company in Rome in August.

If Quadrophenia were to wind up in the theater, how

difficult would the creative conversion be?

That's when I started to think about it seriously. I

started to think about the fact that a company like
Piaqqio might be able to put up the money required
to do a fairly simple but elegant staging. And then
the Prince's Trust thing came up. [The outdoor

I don't think it would be particularly difficult. It would

be easy enough to do. What one can't ascertain at
this time is whether it would be worth doing

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because it might be that the audience is a narrow

one. If somebody like Des McAnuff or any young,
hip director with experience in theatrical musicals
would work alongside Roger [Daltrey] and I, we
could make it work. I think we could make it speak.
We could provide "tracks" for actors that make them
feel like real people in a play about life and growing.
It could feel real; if not more real than, at least as
real as, Tommy or Rent or Crazy for fucking You.

the first concert we did at Hyde Park was exactly

that. With Tommy, its first step toward a theatrical
production was undoubtedly the Los Angeles show
in '89 at the Universal Amphitheater. It was there
that I, and a lot of theatrical producers, suddenly
realized that Tommy would fly as a theater piece.
Staging Quadrophenia
What was the process of getting this project
together?

Quadrophenia's Past
When the Who performed Quadrophenia live as
part of regular concert sets in 1973, was that a
failure, a success, or a necessary first step?

Knowing that I was going to put the thing up in the

UK for the first time, and that the audience in the
UK is not as deeply committed to the band and its
complete body of work as our fans are in New York,
I had to have some kind of visible link to the movie
[Quadrophenia, directed by Francis Roddam; 1979;
starring Phil Daniels, Leslie Ash and Sting]. So the
first person I asked was Phil Daniels, and when he
agreed to narrate the show in Hyde Park, I then
asked Roger if he would sing.

We were exhausted from making the record and all

kinds of things by the time we started touring, I got
very wrecked. I was working on the screenplay for
the Tommy movie, doing the Rainbow concert with
Eric Clapton and other things. I suppose it was
courageous. It's a pretty difficult task today. Those
screaming teenagers have grown up to be
screaming adults. I feel I'm being dragged up to
their level.

Did you ask Sting to be involved?

[Laughs.] I didn't ask Sting. I don't want to tell you
who I did ask.

What role did your 1993 Psychoderelict solo tour

and the Who's 1989 reunion performances of
Tommy play in shaping your ideas about staging
Quadrophenia?

Gary Glitter is an inspired bit of casting.

I don't know whether it was inspired, it was just a
natural choice. I wanted somebody who is able to
parody the whole idea of a rock star and a rock
godfather, and he is that. The only thing is that I'm
not sure that he is entirely aware of the success of
his own parody. He feels that he has to work at it a
bit too hard. In a way, what's happening here is that
we're having him be himself but play a role. He
didn't seem to me to be entirely confident in New
York. He was afraid that he wouldn't be as well
known as Billy Idol, and I think in that respect he's
probably right. His role is a lot harder than Billy's is.

They helped. They gave me the certainty that it

would work. Psychoderelict, by the end the Jones
Beach show [Long Island, New York] is the one that
I remember as the most successful amalgam of a
rock concert and a theatrical piece, It was a little bit
circus-ish in a way, a little bit bawdy. It was the last
date on a fourteen-date tour. By the time we got to
the end, the actors were rather parodying
themselves and having fun with the thing. But the
audience was familiar with it, they were comfortable
with it, they knew what was going to happen, they
knew that there were going to be people acting,
they'd heard it from their friends or whatever. By the
end of the tour, people knew what was going to
happen, and it worked. So I'm confident that having
a couple of actors on the stage, or even performers
pretending to be actors, would work.

Zak Starkey, Ringo Starr's son, is a great drummer.

We're really pleased to have him in the band. He's
just stunning. He's very easy to play with. Mind you,
I'm very spoiled with drummers. I don't fuck around
anymore. I only play with people who are really
easy to play with: Simon Phillips is a different kind
of drummer, but he's very easy to play with, he's
very much a listening drummer.

What working on Tommy has done is it's taught me

to collaborate, to let go. When I started to think
about how to get a sense of how Quadrophenia
would work, I suddenly thought that obviously the
path that would be the easiest to go and the most
straightforward to go would be exactly the path that
I went on with Tommy, which would be to do a
bunch of concerts in which we had celebrity
performers, and to see whether it would work. So

But what Zak has is a lot of karmic Keith Moon

about him, which is wonderful. It's easy to make too
much of that he really is his own drummer. He has
his own style. But he's very intelligent. What he did

901

was adapt his own style as an imitator of Keith

Moon he does a garage band imitation of Keith
Moon which is probably unbeatable but he's
modified that, moderated it, in a very intelligent and
musical way so that he won't be directly compared.
He won't evoke uncomfortable memories for the
audience.

The cast is the same. Except we've made some

fundamental changes to the treatment. Roger has
come in with quite profound energy and really made
some very good decisions with me and with Frank
Nealon, the director there's another guy, Aubrey
Powell, who is looking after all the visual material,
the film material which is to have the narrator, the
Jimmy figure, be the same person that we see
onscreen. I think we confused things a bit by having
a boy called Jimmy on the screen, a narrator called
Jimmy on the stage in the shape of Phil Daniels and
then Jimmy's various inner voices strutting about
the stage. It got a bit confusing. We're in the
process of tidying that up a bit. We're shooting a lot
of film, another half-a-million dollars worth of movie.

How did you come to get him in the band?

I've known him for a long time. Keith used to be a
kind of musical godfather to him. He gave him his
first drum kit, which I think is rather strange. Ringo
may have actually given him his first drum kit, but I
think Keith gave him the first drum kit that he really
wanted. It had nude women on it.

Based on a press release that went out from Billy

Idol's camp, has his part been expanded since the
New York shows?

How has it been to work so closely with your

younger brother Simon?
I'm glad he's comfortable doing this, because it's a
chance to spend time together, which we tend only
to do when we're working. We see each other at
Christmas and birthdays and other occasions, but
we both shut ourselves off in our respective studios
and write, write, write, write. He's been doing it
since he was eight, so he's been doing it nearly as
long as I have.

It hasn't been changed at all. We're certainly relying

on those guys to do a lot more. The tableaux of
mods and rockers on the stage were probably
superfluous, and so they're going to have to work a
lot harder to establish their own sense of being and
communicate that.

I had my first demo studio in a flat that is now

Simon's demo studio. The first couple of songs I
wrote in that studio were 'It Was You', a thing called
'Silver Stingray' and a couple of other mock-Jan
and Dean things. A couple of years later, I brought
him and my brother Paul, they both played guitar
he was 8 and Paul was 10 up to my studio where
I was doing the demos for Tommy, in Victoria, in
London and made a couple of tapes with them.

Given your history, what sort of barriers did you

have to get over to reunite with Roger Daltrey and
John Entwistle?

The Reunion

Strange as it may see, the only barrier there's even

been for me is just a feeling on my part that my
emotional frailty would cause anything that we
attempted to do to collapse. To this day, I don't
believe that I have any kind of real creative energy
to support a rock band with a long chain of
anthemic rock songs.

Working Out The Kinks

This [project] is working particularly well for me,

because I asked Roger to help me stage the thing. I
asked him to help me in a number of very
fundamental ways. I made it clear that I couldn't do
what I felt I needed to do without him: which was to
stage the thing as a huge workshop. A work in
progress, a typically out of control rock and roll
experiment, which may work or may fail. But I
couldn't do it on my own. And no one could sing the
stuff like he can sing it.

Besides billing the tour explicitly as the Who and

including a longer Who-unplugged segment at the
end, what changes were made from the New York
shows?
I'm playing a bit of electric guitar. My brother Simon
is still playing most of the work, but I decided I
would actually get myself a rig like the one I used in
'89, which certainly didn't hurt my ears, and play a
few solos, basically because I felt that Geoff
Whitehorn was getting a bad rap. I thought he
played beautifully and elegantly, and people
seemed to think in some way that he shouldn't have
been there. So I just thought that I would bow to
public opinion and play a bit of electric.

In these early days of trying to find out what the

piece is really about, I had to do it with him. And
when he agreed, it became natural to bring John in
partly to capitalize on the feeling that this is a Who
project and to make sure that we sold tickets, but
on the other hand partly to start to get this is the

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word Des McAnuff uses a lot the karma in the

piece right. With Zak Starkey on drums and my
brother on guitar we've managed to spin some
karma into the piece, which makes it feel very
comfortable for me. I've enjoyed the concerts so far.
I'm not sure how I'm going to feel about being on a
long, drawn-out tour again, but I'm sure I'll be okay.
I absolutely loved the New York show.

What about the friction that took place when Roger

did his fiftieth-birthday orchestra-and-guests solo
tour in 1994, playing your songs? How did you
resolve that conflict?
I think we addressed it really by addressing it. Our
counsellors kept telling us that we had to sit and
talk, and it was frightening. In the end, we got the
courage, and we sat down and we talked to one
another about it. And it was hard, but we resolved it.

How has this project affected your relationships

with Daltrey and Entwistle?

Around the time of his tour, he was out there doing

his thing and I was going through probably one of
the worst chapters of my life, having just messed up
in London with Iron Man. Although it was a success
in its way, I was emotionally fucked up by it. I
couldn't work out what had gone on. I knew that
Tommy was hugely successful and I knew that Iron
Man had somehow failed and it didn't have to do
with the disparity in their budgets, it was something
else. When I realized what it was, which I don't
particularly want to talk about at the moment, I went
away to review my life and think about what I was
going to do next. Meanwhile, Roger's tour was
rolling and I was somehow expected to be a happygo-lucky part of it all. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do
any more than I did, which was to run on the stage
and give him a birthday hug, sing a couple of songs
and then go home. I was not a well boy, I don't
think.

I found a way to contribute to the artistic needs of

John and Roger by asking them to do me a favor.
Which was kind of like an upside down Chinese
puzzle for me. It's always felt to me that the burden
was the other way round. I suddenly realized that it
wasn't really like that at all I'm the one with the
problem, not them. They don't have a problem,
what they have is a career which has just stopped. I
have a series of continuing artistic and creative
difficulties and, in this particular case, I luckily
turned to the right people for help. Roger's been
magnificent. Partly, it's purely emotional, because
these are the guys that I grew up with. I've been
playing with them since I was really young and
unformed. I became a man in their company.
There's a dignity they can bring to the work.
When the three of us stand together with a piece
like this you can get more of a sense of it having
genuine authority. When I speak for the mod
movement, or the English working class in the '60s,
I can't speak with complete authority. It's not just
because I wasn't exactly working class, nor
because I didn't emphasize or identify with what my
peers were going through. The three of us are 'from
the neighborhood'; it just somehow feels right.

The problem for me with Roger's tour was that it

was meant as a way of both honoring the work,
celebrating the work and using it in the absence of
the Who. But I felt comfortable with it. Where I
started to feel uncomfortable with it was when
Roger's manager started to suggest that I might
change horses as well, and move away from what I
was doing in my life and turn Roqer's tribute to Pete
Townshend into the new Who. I'm not suggesting
that that was [the manager's] motive, but like a lot of
Who fans, his dream was to find some way to get
the Who back together. That is still probably
Roger's self-confessed dream.

Roger speaks a lot about the magic that happens

when the three of us get together to play. I have to
say I've yet to experience that. [Laughs.] I'm trying
hard not to be cynical. It doesn't feel that magical to
me, but I am enjoying performing for the first time in
a long time. I must give myself some credit: I've
worked very hard learning to do that. The Supper
Club dates that I did recently [a pair of solo shows
that took place in New York in May '96; Townshend,
joined by one accompanist, played mostly acoustic
guitar and piano; the venture also included a couple
of shows at the House of Blues in Los Angeles]
were all part of a program to try and get myself to
ease back into being in the public eye and
accepting the fact that my audience my fans, the
Who's audience and Who fans are people that I
utterly depend on, and I should accept that with
some good grace and enjoy it.

That was a real problem for me, because what I felt

at the time was that I couldn't see a creative route
to that state of affairs. I couldn't see us going into a
studio and coming up with songs that were a credit
to each of us as human beings.
I'm not sure I feel that degree of conviction that it
must fail today. I'm not raising hopes for any kind of
Who reunion or Who album fuck knows when I'd
fit it in if we did but what has made it feel possible
to me is really just the fact that Roger and I are
creatively collaborating on this script for this play.
It's the first thing we've ever creatively collaborated
on in our lives.

Roger And Pete

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In the past, we collaborated by default. I would play

Roger, say, 20 demos and any that he wanted to
change slightly I'd just take away. We'd do
something else. I would present so many songs that
there was no need to modify the material. I never
gave anybody the chance to contribute. I think that
was an immature way of carrying on. I'm better now.
I think I am capable of collaborating as a songwriter.
Whether I can collaborate with Roger I don't know.

Those things go back a long way. This is all relevant

to the kind of emotional stuff that we're drawing on
in Quadrophenia, that period, those early formative
periods in boy relationships all of that stuff is
pretty much as it was. The things that have
changed are actually rather difficult, and if I gave
you my rundown of them, it might jar with your
rundown. I'm sure you've got your own view of it.
I'm sure we have changed quite a lot.

It requires a certain level of intimacy to sit and write

a song with somebody, and intimacy is very hard for
me, it's something I find quite difficult in any
relationship. Roger and I are building up a real
intimacy at the moment and I think there's a
possibility we could do that.

The original notion of Quadrophenia was that the

character's four personalities were meant to
represent the members of the Who. Is that still a
major part of it for you?
No, it's not. The four-personality concept grew out
of a naive understanding of schizophrenia a
misunderstanding of schizophrenia. Jimmy is a kid
who suffers from schizophrenia, and when he takes
pills, his schizophrenia divides up and he suffers
from quadrophrenia. It was a silly gag but it was
something I felt.

Basically, the Who has not existed for about as long

as it existed in the first place. The differences in
your adulthoods, as opposed to the protracted
adolescence that being in a rock band with people
is about, must have changed the dynamic between
the three of you.

I tend towards manic depresssion I don't think I

am a classic manic-depressive, but I tend towards
it; I have, or have had, high highs and low lows in
my life. In the times when I abused drugs, when I
was very young and particularly when I used to
use the amphetamines of the mods I used to feel
that my manic depression became very
complicated. That aspect is still there, it's just we
don't hang it so obviously on the characters in the
band.

The only way I can talk about that is by getting

extremely personal, and I don't want to do that. Let
me just say that there are still tremendous
differences. We have, each of us, changed a lot
since the last album that we made. Although it's
easy to count the times we've got together to make
a buck or celebrate some birthday or whatever,
there's nothing like getting together to make a
record to allow you to see into another person's frail
heart. The last two albums for the Who [1981's
Face Dances and 1982's It's Hard] were incredibly
painful affairs, because we were fucking up and it
was quite clear and there was nothing we could do
to stop the process. We all looked around for
someone to blame but it was quite clear there
wasn't much we could do about it.

I always thought the four personalities were all

yours.
Well, you're entitled to your opinion.
Getting Older

We have changed a lot, each of us, but only in

certain ways. In other ways, each of us has clung
on to something about his personality and their
character which is quintessential. Enough to make
me feel like I'm on familiar ground.

What are your thoughts on playing rock music

these days?
When I play electric guitar, the adrenaline starts to
pump. It takes an hour or two to come down. One
can do some pretty stupid, childish, undignified
things when you're high on adrenaline. You can do
things that can get you into trouble.

Whenever I spend time with John, who now hardly

speaks at least not to me I am full of
tremendous love and affection for him. He's always
been a great leveller for me. He's such a brilliant
man, such a fantastic musician and such a
generous spirit. I suppose he was one of the first
people for me as a child who affirmed me, who
believed in me and felt that I was destined for some
kind of, if not greatness, a steady job in a band. And
Roger was the first guy to hire me.

Musically speaking, one of the things that does

happen is you cease to be a channel for any kind of
spiritual flow that might be in the room. It's
important that you've got energy and that there's
some adrenaline pumping, it's important that you
can move and express yourself, and that your body
language and that your face and the rest of it send
the message that you're glad to be there, but it's

904

also important to be in control enough of what

you're doing that you can actually be some kind of
channel. That's what I've found, anyway. When I
started to respond to the audiences at the Supper
Club in a rock'n'roll tradition, I suddenly thought,
what am I a fucking stand-up comic or
something? I'm in a small place 'cause I want to
play in a small place. Just shut up.

suddenly on your own. And when you're on your

own, you can decide what you're going to do with
your life. It's one of the cornerstones of what I
believe rock music is about. If I call something "rock
music," it means that it has something to do with the
rite of passage from adolescence into maturity, into
adulthood.
Which leaves open the question of what do you do
when you get there?

The adrenaline rush makes you stop channeling? I

would think just the opposite a loss of conscious
control, going strictly on instinct and inspiration
that is the spirit.

Who cares? [laughs] What you do is you live your

life. What I meant was who cares what the
individual does? The collective spirit of rock does
dissipate quite quickly it has anyway, to some
extent, dissipated simply the way modern pop
music has proliferated and run off into strands.

That's not what I said. When I get an adrenaline

rush, I kind of go blind. I stabbed myself on my
tremolo arm all kinds of stupid things happen to
me. For me, at my age as well, it's really important
to find a middle-aged equivalent to the kind of
young man's abandon that took me to play the kind
of solos I played on Live at Leeds, for example.
Let's take that as an example. That happened to be
an evening when I was concentrating very hard, I
don't think I got out of control.

Pete's Future
You seem to be shifting your emphasis from
composing new music to restoring and reshaping
some of your enduring works.
I've never apologized for restoring and reshaping
things I've already done. Partly, that's because
there's a quality of energy in my early work that's
really difficult to emulate. It's not because I can't do
it, I think I can do it sometimes, it's because I don't
want to do it. I suppose the work that I did when I
was young stands on its own two feet, and I don't
want to go down the same road again. I've never
been afraid of going and looking at that stuff and
trying to make it better. I feel like, in a way, what I'm
doing is honoring myself as a writer and making up
for the fact that, in many respects, a lot of the Who's
music was underrated and undervalued.

With more than two decades of Quadrophenia

history to build on, who do you see this as being
for: the old audience or a new one? Who fans or
the non-rock population that made Tommy such a
success on Broadway?
Who fans, I'm confident, if they come, they'll enjoy
this. At this time, we're not trying to attract theater
goers at all. But if there are people other than Who
fans who would enjoy Quadrophenia they are the
type of music fan who wants their adolescent
difficulties to be validated. Fans of younger bands
who have been greatly influenced by Quadrophenia
and that particular aspect of the Who's personal
growth as individuals. These are people who maybe
have had a hard time being young. What they want
is to be told by people who are ostensibly heroic
and artistic that it's okay. I'm not saying that's what I
do these days, but it's certainly what a lot of modern
bands are achieving. They don't just ask questions.
Bands like Nirvana and Pearl Jam and R.E.M. and
a number of others that have, to some extent,
ended up winding up their idea of their own youth
and their difficulties with being young as a way of
validating political ideas, their political frustrations,
their anger or whatever until, in the end, they
become grownups and they realize that they don't
need to validate at all.

What I'm writing today is very different from

anything that I've ever written before. I don't know
that my audience would feel comfortable with it. I
started to demonstrate some of that I suppose it's
the style in which I've been playing for almost the
last ten years in my recent solo concerts. As I
grew in confidence I also grew in pragmatic sense
of self-preservation, where I would have been quite
happy to sit and bang away at the piano all night, or
play John Fahey ragtime all night. That's what I do.
I also do a lot of extended compositions I wouldn't
call them jazz, but they're very modal, they're very
simplistic. It's a style of composition I've been
developing to support dramatic language. I've never
been interested at all in film composition, so
everything I've been doing is about training myself
for another life as somebody who could write for the
stage. While I've been trying to learn to play the
piano a little bit better, trying to learn to score a bit

There's certainly a lot of people that have been

through that process of feeling that what
Quadrophenia did for rock'n'roll was to show that a
very simple thing happens when you suffer, which is
that you escape. And when you escape, you're

905

more elegantly, trying to learn to deal with other

players without being quite so dictatorial, show
business is changing under me. Las Vegas is a
good example. The whole world of theme parks is
an area where specially commissioned music from
somebody like me is welcomed. So I don't quite
know where I'm gonna go.

the new stories that I work on these days are very

different. The kind of stuff I work on today is, I
suppose, much more intimate and much more twoor three- handed. And that's not particularly
because I've abandoned my lust for big-bucks
productions and huge audiences, it's because I've
emotionally passed through that stage of ambition
in my life creatively. But as an entrepreneur and as
a producer, I'm still very keen on doing things which
are commensurate with the size of the world's
population.

The piece I'm working on at the moment is quite a

modest piece called 'Stella'; out of that grew
another piece called 'Trilby's Piano', which was a
thing about something that happened to me when I
was a kid with an aunt of mine a very positive
experience for me. I've started to look at the more
positive experiences I've had in my life, and I find it
very difficult to compose for that stuff because I've
spent most of my time drawing on my negative
experiences, or what I would call my growth
experiences.

How do you feel about the 1970 Who at the Isle of

Wight concert film and soundtrack album that are
now being released?
The album? Oh, I don't care really. I don't have
strong feelings about it. It doesn't seem like a big
item in Who history. But it was a real pleasure
seeing the film materialize. I never expected to see
it. When we found the sound reels in my tape
cupboard down at the bottom of the garden, we
were over the moon. We found everyone else's
sound reels as well. [That allowed a separate film, a
documentary look at the entire 1970 Isle of Wight
festival, with Jimi Hendrix, Miles Davis, Jethro Tull,
the Moody Blues, Joni Mitchell and others to be
finished and shown.]

And what's happening with your autobiography?

I haven't started it yet. If I can get some of the deal
points sorted out it's not so much about money as
about how much the book would cost to produce if I
were to decide to fill it with black and white pictures
of my dear old dad or something I'll probably start
early next year, and it'll take me two years.

I'm slightly embarrassed by myself in that film. It's a

little hard to watch. but everyone seems to love it.
It's getting the most sustained good press we've
ever had in the UK.

The term autobiography is a bit mischievous; what

I'm really doing is writing about my life and my
music. About life and music in general. It's going to
be an artist's view of the last fifty years and what's
been going on with music in that time. I don't
pretend to be an arch academic musicologist, but
my journey is a unique one, and does give me a
very special and acute view of where pop music
came from and what it means. I hope this book will
elucidate a lot of that stuff simply by me telling my
story without any frills. Just talking about my
grandparents and my parents and the music that
they listened to, and what they did when they were
young, and my life and how I grew up and what I
did when I was young and the people that I met and
then suddenly hey ho here we are. I'm looking
forward to it. I've been gathering materials for it,
most of which has been a bit of a waste of time, but
it's all good memory-jogging stuff.

Ira Robbins, 1996

Pete Townshend
Ira Robbins, San Francisco Chronicle, 1997
"Roger [Daltrey] speaks a lot about the magic that
happens when the three of us get together to play,"
says Pete Townshend, who spent two tumultuous
decades and then some inscribing rock'n'roll history
alongside the singer in the mighty Who. "I have to
say I've yet to experience that," he laughs, perhaps
a little sorry that he can't quite share his bandmate's
unabashed enthusiasm.

And Lifehouse?

"It doesn't feel that magical to me, but I am enjoying

performing for the first time in a long time," he says.

Lifehouse is a going concern. The music that's been

written for the various incarnations of that project,
most of which have failed, has always been of the
highest quality. I think if I could get a story together
that really worked that didn't feel dated because
of virtual reality as a subject having become rather
passe then I think Lifehouse would pay off. A lot of

A complex and paradoxical artist whose restless

self-awareness winds back on itself like a lost river,
the guitarist/singer has lately eased his lifelong
discomfort at being a rock star by making the
musical theater his metier. By turning Tommy into a
hit musical on Broadway and elsewhere, he has

906

been able to support his creative efforts without

having to endure the psychic and physical trauma
of getting up night after night and, to borrow a lyric
he once wrote, "pounding stages like a clown."

press all along. If this is Townshend's dotage, it

rocks!
"If I call something rock music it means that it has
something to do with the rite of passage from
adolescence into maturity," he says, implying that
his active days in that game have finally ended.
Nonetheless, he's been lured back to active duty.

In doing so, Townshend three decades after

declaring the sovereignty of youth in 'My
Generation', the song endlessly thrown back at him
in this regard finally seems to have made an
uneasy peace with his adulthood. Once a
disconsolate rebel quick with a cutting remark, the
loquacious and thoughtful auteur is, at 51, a model
of self-effacing conciliation, living proof that age's
lesson is to show us how much we don't know.
Calling from London, where he was born and still
primarily lives, Townshend presents his thoughtful
answers in a subdued voice that doesn't mask his
determination. Only now his conversation is
scattered with remarks about a new-found ability to
accept contributions from artistic collaborators and
his retreat from dictatorial control of creative
associates. Even his famous feuds with Daltrey
have been set aside for the time being.

Fourteen years after the Who's official demise,

Townshend, Roger Daltrey and bassist John
Entwistle are back together, staging an ambitious
rock-plus production of Quadrophenia, the durable
1973 concept album about a troubled '60s mod with
four personalities. Unveiled at an outdoor concert in
London in June and then installed for an
impressively rousing week at New York's Madison
Square Garden in July, Quadrophenia begins a fiveweek cross-country tour tonight in Portland,
Oregon. Although formerly billed as the three
individuals performing the Who's Quadrophenia, the
project whether for commercial reasons or some
other impetus now puts the Who's name right up
on the marquee.

Prone to both epic bouts of self-doubt and

maddening displays of solipsism throughout his
career, Townshend has spent the years since the
Who disbanded in 1982 simultaneously dismantling
the platform on which his fame rests and carefully
nurturing it. For a time, he kept a conspicuously low
profile, working as a book editor at Faber and
Faber, ruing the tinnitus that made his ears ring and
generally adopting the dignified stance of a wealthy
middle-aged Englishman. He produced a book of
fiction (Horse's Neck; 1985), released little new
music and rarely performed. As the theater
beckoned, Woodstock and classic rock albums like
Who's Next and The Who Sell Out receded into
distant memory faster than Townshend's hairline.

The show employs illustrative film projections and

onstage narrator Phil Daniels (reclaiming the role
he played in the 1979 movie) to clarify the album's
loose plot; joining the Who are Billy Idol, as the
proud mod leader who becomes a servile 'Bellboy',
and Gary Glitter, as the faded rock star of 'The Punk
and the Godfather', plus a company of musicians
and backup singers superbly anchored by drummer
Zak Starkey."I've known him for a long time," says
Townshend of Ringo Starr's son, whose dynamic
drumming doesn't so much imitate the late Keith
Moon's as recreate its manic energy in his own
style. It's no coincidence, says Townshend,
explaining that "Keith was a kind of musical
godfather to him."

Still, he remained sympathetic to, and fluent in, the

raucous vulgarity of mass youth culture, which kept
him in good standing with a social club his stodgier
peers in the aristocracy would sooner ban than join.
And soon, his past reasserted itself. Reclaiming a
self he had unceremoniously attempted to shelve,
he took the Who out on a reunion tour to perform
Tommy in 1989, released an ambitious solo album
(1993's PsychoDerelict) and followed that with a
full-scale tour, all while working to bring his "deaf
and dumb and blind boy" to Broadway. Recently,
Townshend has been active in the refurbishment
and augmentation of the Who's back catalogue
(including a four-disc boxed set); he put together his
own greatest-hits album, did a few acoustic solo
shows and is about to begin work on an
autobiography, essentially the culmination of an
ongoing monologue he's been conducting in the

In his new career as an impresario and composer,

Townshend has reopened the case of
Quadrophenia which many take for a classic
rock monument solidly etched into the cultural
landscape as a work in progress. He and Daltrey
have made "some fundamental changes to the
treatment," Townshend says, using the language of
a realm in which a series of arena concerts gets
termed "an extended workshop" and an artist seeks
to "find out what the piece is really about." Now, he
says, "The narrator is the same person we see
onscreen. We confused things a bit by having a boy
called Jimmy on the screen, a narrator called
Jimmy on the stage (Phil Daniels) and then Jimmy's
various inner voices" in the persons of Idol,
Glitter, Townshend, Daltrey and Entwistle
"strutting about the stage." Newly shot film footage
will remedy that.

907

What's more, the hearing-damaged Townshend will

emerge from his acoustic-only safety zone to
shoulder an electric guitar. "I decided to play a few
solos, basically because [lead guitarist] Geoff
Whitehorn was getting a bad rap. I thought he
played beautifully and elegantly, but people seemed
to think he shouldn't have been there. So I just
thought I would bow to public opinion." This is the
man who swatted Abbie Hoffman over the head with
a Gibson SG at Woodstock and kicked a cop in the
midst of a fire at the Fillmore East? Payback, as
they like to say in the movies, is a bitch.

With a plan forming not around the planned August

events in Italy but the June Prince's Trust gala
concert in London, Townshend sought out the allies
he needed to bring Quadrophenia back to life. "I
had to have some kind of visible link to the movie,"
he says. "So the first person I asked was Phil
Daniels. When he agreed to narrate the show in
Hyde Park, I asked Roger if he would sing."
It could not have been so easy an invitation to
tender. The two men always enjoyed a volatile and
sometimes violent relationship in the Who, a clash
of contrasting personalities Townshend's selfconscious theorizing versus Daltrey's burly
emotionalism exacerbated by the concentration
of creative control and the inequity of having one
serve as the mouthpiece for the other's deeply
personal songs. When Townshend finally decided to
retire the band (by his admission, two albums too
late), his freedom cost Entwistle and Daltrey their
jobs and froze the three in their mutual
resentments.

When Townshend took a look back at the style-mad

English mod movement of the early '60s in
Quadrophenia, he made sure the album's lyrics and
artwork featured the teenage subculture's vehicle of
choice. Along with the obligatory mohair suits,
parkas, Tamla/Motown soul singles and John
Anthony haircut, no proper mod was complete
without his Vespa or Lambretta motor scooter.
For all their posturing and popularity in trendy
London circles, the Who never were mods. Daltrey
could pass, but Townshend didn't come from the
working class, and his artistic ambitions were
geared well beyond serving a local constituency
obsessed with appearances. Still, the mods'
beloved scooter more precisely, its manufacturer
provided the kickstart that finally got him to rally
the troops and take Quadrophenia out for another
spin.

This undertaking, he says, allowed him to

"contribute to John and Roger's artistic needs by
asking them to do me a favor. It always felt to me
that the burden was the other way around. I
realized that I'm the one with the problem, not them.
What they have is a career which has just stopped.
I have a series of continuing artistic and creative
difficulties. In this case, I turned to the right people
for help."

"When Tommy hit Broadway in '93," he recalls,

"people asked me what I was going to do next.
There were a few projects floating around in my
head. Quadrophenia was one of them, but I never
really thought about it seriously until about a year
ago when our manager came to me with a proposal
for a European tour of a rough treatment I'd done. It
was very ambitious and very expensive, with two
bands" neither of which he intended to be in.
When Townshend announced he wouldn't appear in
the production, there went the likelihood of
adequate funding.

Daltrey has long pushed for the Who to reunite; his

success as an actor and solo artist notwithstanding,
he remains for all time the band's singer. Though
billed as a tribute to his colleague, the 1994 tour in
which Daltrey sang Townshend's songs
accompanied by an orchestra, a band (many of
whom, including Zak Starkey and Townshend's
guitar-playing kid brother, Simon, were reenlisted
for this current enterprise) and a parade of guest
stars clearly had another agenda.
"Roger's tour was meant to honor the work,
celebrate the work and use it in the absence of the
Who," notes Townshend evenly. "But I felt
comfortable with it. Where I started to feel
uncomfortable was when Roger's manager started
to suggest that I might turn it into the new Who.
That was a real problem for me, because I couldn't
see us going into a studio and coming up with
songs that were a credit to each of us as human
beings." Though it's conceivable that Daltrey and
Entwistle may not have shared his lofty criteria for
such a potentially lucrative eventuality, Townshend
doesn't bring it up.

Enter Des McAnuff, director of Tommy: The

Musical. "He came to see me [early] this year with a
proposal to do a celebration for fifty years of the
Vespa in Rome," recalls Townshend, whose
forthright discussion of the role financing plays in
plotting his creative path no longer a simple
matter of sweet-talking a record company or signing
up a brewery as sponsor makes him sound like
rock's answer to Christo. As sugardaddy dreams of
the Piaggio motor company danced in his head, he
began to think seriously about reviving
Quadrophenia.

908

Surprisingly, he says, "I'm not sure I feel that degree

of conviction that it must fail today. I'm not raising
hopes for any kind of Who reunion or Who album
fuck knows when I'd fit it in if we did but what has
made it feel possible to me is the fact that Roger
and I are creatively collaborating on the script for
Quadrophenia. It's the first thing we've ever
creatively collaborated on in our lives.

it's a style of composition I've been developing

particularly to support dramatic language.
"I've been training myself for another life, to write for
the stage. I've been learning to play the piano
better, to score more elegantly, to deal with other
players without being quite so dictatorial.
"I've started to look at the more positive
experiences I've had in my life. I find it difficult,
because I've spent most of my time drawing on
negative experiences." That turnabout extends to
his sense of stardom as well. "I'm accepting the fact
that my fans, and the Who's fans, are people I
depend on. I should accept that with some good
grace and enjoy it."

"I asked Roger to help me stage the thing. I couldn't

do it on my own. And no one could sing the stuff like
he can. When he agreed, it became natural to bring
John [Entwistle] in, partly to capitalize on the feeling
that this is a Who project and to make sure that we
sold tickets, but partly to get the karma in. With Zak
Starkey and my brother, we've managed to spin
some karma into the piece, which makes it
comfortable for me."

Ira Robbins, 1997

Townshend can't predict Quadrophenia's future

beyond some English and European shows,
including a belated tribute to the Vespa in May. "I'm
already getting interest from theatrical producers in
developing it as a simple theatrical production with
a band on stage, like Rent." Having already
followed in Tommy's wake as a concept album, a
film and a reunion tour, will Quadrophenia also wind
up a musical? "It would be easy enough to do. What
one can't ascertain at this time is whether it would
be worth doing, because it might be that the
audience is a narrow one."

Moon Over America

Tony Fletcher, Omnibus Books, 1998
An extract from Dear Boy: The Life Of Keith
Moon, by Tony Fletcher, first published by
Omnibus Press in 1998. (616pp, currently
available in the UK in softback at 14.99 and in
the US, published by Harper Collins, at $16)
To check out Tony Fletcher's ultra-groovy
ijamming site click here

Whether this project remains his priority or not,

Townshend has seemingly reoriented his musical
approach for good.
Dear Boy: The Life Of Keith Moon is regularly cited
as one of the all time great rock biographies. During
two years of research Tony Fletcher interviewed
over 130 people who had come into contact with
the Whos free spirited drummer and, unusually for
a rock biography, these included all the important
women in his life. Their testimony lifted the book
beyond the strictures under which rock biographies
regularly suffer. Since its publication on the
twentieth anniversary of Moons death it has
reached out beyond Who fans and beyond even
rock fans, selling now to those who, quite simply,
enjoy a cracking tale told well.

"What I'm writing today is very different from

anything I've ever written before." Mindful of the
intransigence rock fans often bring to the music of
their youth and the new designs of its creators,
Townshend knows that his audience, raised on a
radio diet of 'My Generation', 'We're Not Gonna
Take It' and 'Won't Get Fooled Again', may not go
along with him. This past May, he played a pair of
low-key solo shows at the Supper Club in New
York, offering well-known songs like 'Let My Love
Open the Door' and 'Rough Boys' while testing the
tolerance of balding, beer-bellied fans with a
catalogue of his not-quite-rock obsessions, from
arcane Meher Baba spirituals ('O Parvadigar') to an
unfortunately jazzified piano rendition of Screamin'
Jay Hawkins' 'I Put a Spell on You'.

In this extract we pick up Keith and the Who in

early 1968, midway through a US tour that followed
their disastrous trip to Australia. This was a critical
year for the Who, as they finally crossed over from
being a pop group to a rock band, a leap that many
of their peers were unable to make. Thanks to their
extraordinary live concerts they were becoming a
force to be reckoned with in America, but the ritual
of equipment destruction was sinking them deeper

"I would have been quite happy to sit and bang

away at the piano all night, or play John Fahey
ragtime," he avers. "That's what I do. I also do a lot
of extended compositions I wouldn't call them
jazz, but they're very modal, they're very simplistic

909

and deeper into debt, and talk of disintegration was

rife within the group, specifically the departure of
John Entwistle and Keith to form a new band,
possibly with Jimmy Page. Keith, secretly married
and with a baby daughter, didnt seem to care.
Then again, he never really did, not until it was too
late...

he was up on the sofa. "Kit Lambert, fucking Kit

Lambert... If I had him here, I'd smash his face in."
He was spilling his wine all over the floor as he
ranted, but that was only the half of it. Keith had
gone through a "complete transformation", as
Barsalona recalls it. It was as though a different
person had suddenly emerged from inside him, and
a frightening one at that. He literally had to be
shaken to his senses. When he came to, he looked
around him at everyones expressions and the
mess he had made and he was immediately
contrite.

*
IN FEBRUARY, THE WHO returned to America for
a six-week tour, at the beginning of which they
recorded a new American single Call Me Lightning,
a heavy R&B-influenced number that hearkened
back to the Who of 1966, and as such sounded
positively old-fashioned after the advancements
made on I Can See For Miles. It was backed by
John Entwistles Dr Jekyll And Mr Hyde, a typically
wry song about a schizophrenic personality, whose
character changed upon drinking his 'potion'. The
single was immediately released to an American
audience all of a sudden fanatical for new Who
material. By the time the Who made it to New York
in early April having traversed the rest of the
country, including parts of the Deep South, Call Me
Lightning was already on its way up the charts.

The conversation resumed gingerly, deliberately

steered in a different direction. "But then something
triggered in his mind and he went back to the
Australia thing," recalls Barsalona, "and he went
back to this whole thing about how they were
arrested in Australia on a plane and thrown out of
the country." And again, as soon as he sparked,
Keith changed character. Not in a way that
threatened violence on any of those around him,
but certainly in a manner that suggested a real
problem.
"Moon, forget about it," Barsalona implored as he
grabbed hold of the drummer. The others too tried
to convince Keith that what was done was done,
that they were never going to go back to Australia,
that there was no reason to ruin the night. But as he
again snapped back out of it as suddenly as he had
lost it, Keith realized the night was already ruined
at least from his own point of view.

On April 4 the Who arrived in New York, where their

agent Frank Barsalona had invited the band to
dinner at his midtown Manhattan apartment.
Townshend stayed away: he and Barsalona had
spent much time together over the past year and
agreed it would be best for the other members of
the band to get to know the agent equally well.
Barsalona and his wife June were teetotal, but they
didnt stop Keith drinking copious amounts of wine
with dinner; that was to be expected from him.
Afterwards, they moved into the living room, where
Barsalona appeared so confident in his opinion that
the Who were about to break huge in America that
he turned the conversation to investment. The idea
of the Who having money for anything other than
paying off their debts had never crossed their
minds, so one of them asked Barsalona what he
would recommend.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so upset right now that I'm

making a fool of myself. If you don't mind I'm going
to go."
Keith left for the Gorham hotel nearby and John and
Roger stayed behind. Immediately Moon was out of
the apartment, Entwistle turned to Frank and June
Barsalona.
"You know my song Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde?" he
asked. "Now you see what my inspiration was. This
is the first time you've seen it, but we see it all the
time."

"Well," said Frank who, as the Whos American

agent only, was blissfully unaware of what troubles
the group might have experienced in other
countries, "the one last area in the world which is
open for investment that's closest to what America
used to be is Australia. If I had the disposable
money to invest, I'd consider looking into Australia."

*
AN HOUR OR SO later Daltrey and Entwistle
themselves returned to the Gorham. Word had
come in that Martin Luther King had been
assassinated in Memphis and half of black America
was taking to the streets in anger. The Who had
important headlining shows at Bill Grahams newlyopened Fillmore East venue over the next two

Moon instantly jumped to his feet. "Fucking

Australia!" he cried. "I hate that fucking place." Then

910

nights, and they could easily be jeopardized by any

urban unrest. Tomorrow was obviously going to be
a difficult and extremely busy day. Barsalona was
just heading to bed to get an early start on it when
the phone rang. It was Pete Townshend, phoning
from the lobby of the Gorham. The Who were being
thrown out of the hotel.

captain as well and surprisingly they didn't arrest

him. They let him off."
Keiths quick thinking, even in his inebriated,
aggravated, half-crazed state, had once again got
him out of trouble lesser people would have been
imprisoned for, but it didnt alter the fact that there
were damages to be paid, and that the Gorham, the
hotel at which most rock bands were welcomed,
demanded the Who leave immediately and never
come back. In a move befitting the groups logic,
they promptly checked into the Waldorf Astoria,
arguably the most prestigious hotel in the city.

Barsalona immediately got dressed again, and ran

over to 55th Street. A phalanx of police were
outside the Gorham, looking decidedly uneasy.
Barsalona wondered initially if it had anything to do
with reactions to Martin Luther Kings death but then
figured it couldnt do, not at a midtown hotel. He
went into the lobby to find three of the Who looking
abject and annoyed. That one member was not with
them Keith Moon made it all too clear what, or
rather who, the trouble was about.

The following morning, the Who had a photo

session. It had been arranged by Nancy Lewis (who
was now working for publicity firm Rogers and
Cowan, representing the Who and other acts), and
it was to form part of a spread for Life magazine
about The New Rock, featuring seven groups who
represented the most promising talent in the world
(including the Doors, Cream and Jefferson
Airplane). In other words, it was arguably the Who's
most important American photo shoot to date.

"Roger takes me outside," recalls Barsalona, "and

I'm looking at the policemen looking up, they're
looking up at this ledge, and on this ledge is this
crazy fucking Moon, and he's doing this crazy
laugh, and he's throwing cherry bombs down on the
police! I said, 'Oh my god! and this police captain
says, Do you know that fucking nut up there? I
said, Yeah, you want me to speak to him? And he
said, 'You'd better, cos his ass is going to jail.'"

But when Lewis finally tracked the band down, they

werent speaking to each other. Or rather, they
werent speaking to Keith. Pete, citing his lack of
sleep, made it quite clear that he "wasnt going to
go for any fucking picture for any fucking Life
magazine". That Townshend had his fiance Karen
Astley with him, and that she too had suffered
because of this extreme example of Moons
behavioural swings only added to the guitarists
aggravation. John Entwistle too would call it the
most frustrating and unamusing episode he ever
experienced of Keiths character changes and
potential for devastation. Finally, sharing their
frustration but with the additional burden of her own
responsibilities, Nancy Lewis burst into tears. Only
then did Townshend agree to the photo shoot. The
photographs, by Art Kane, were taken at the foot of
Grants Tomb, with the group draped in a giant
Union Jack flag, apparently feigning sleep. Except
that they werent: all of them were exhausted from
Keiths activities the previous night and the
changing of hotels in the middle of it, and had to be
woken at the end of the shoot. (The photo made it
across a double page spread in Life at the end of
June and was later used as the sleeve for the
soundtrack to the movie The Kids Are Alright, and
more recently, on the BBC sessions CD released in
2000.)

That was one problem they could all do without.

Any serious breach of the peace and it would be
difficult to get Moon back into the country again in
which case you could forget about the Who making
enough money to invest in a new kitchen, let alone
in Australia.
Barsalona quickly found the hotel manager, who
was every bit as agitated as the police captain. With
good reason. Prior to throwing cherry bombs from
his ninth-floor window onto the street and police
below, Keith had blown up his toilet, and with it the
entire floors plumbing.
The hotel manager, the police captain and the
agent got to Moons room. Keith was still out on the
ledge; in his state, it was remarkable he hadn't
fallen to his death. Barsalona leaned out the
window to talk to him. "I said, 'Come on, you've
ruined a real lovely night. Why?' He started
swearing: 'Fucking everything.' He'd gone back to
the hotel and got drunk. Eventually I got him back
in, and once he came in he was alright. It was only
while he was outside he was crazy. I said, 'You've
got to tell them you had a bad reaction to a drug or
something.' So when the captain starts asking him,
he comes up with this amazing excuse that I would
never have thought of about what was wrong with
him and what he had been taking. I talked to the

In the meantime, although New York City did not

follow Washington DC, Detroit or Chicago by rioting
and looting in the aftermath of Dr. Kings
assassination, many of the citys nightclubs
shuttered their doors, and the Fillmore consolidated

911

the Whos two shows into one. The band performed

a stellar set that further enhanced their live
reputation, but still their troubles with Keith and
hotels were not over. The Waldorf Astoria, clearly
unnerved at the prospect of letting the Who stay in
their esteemed premises, had demanded cash up
front, which proved to be less than immediately
forthcoming. Now the hotel refused the group
admission to their rooms where stood their
luggage until the issue was resolved. Though it
was through Keiths own doing that they found
themselves in this predicament, he cared only
about extricating himself from it. As always, he had
some cherry bombs in his possession. As he later,
proudly and succinctly, recalled, "I blew the door off
the hinges and got my luggage," following which,
the Who were promptly kicked out of, and banned
from, New Yorks illustrious Waldorf Astoria.

London, he generally acted the part of the loyal

loving husband with his beautiful model wife. And
she was so taken by the passion of his letters from
abroad that she simultaneously believed his tales of
loneliness and restraint therein.
But then Kim had never been on tour with the Who:
she wasnt remotely interested in the circus it
entailed and the more difficult that Keith became at
home, the more she relished the time she and
Mandy could be left on their own. As such, she had
never seen how readily available the girls made
themselves on the road particularly abroad,
especially in America.
Alison Entwistle had, and she came back from an
eye-opening trip to the States feeling a greater
loyalty to her own friend Kim who was more like a
sister-in-law given the family status of the group
than to her husbands friend Keith. She sat Kim
down and said, as gently as she could, "Theres
something you ought to know..."

The next night at the Fillmore, Pete Townshend

apologised to the audience for being down,
explaining that the band had been kicked out of
three hotels in one day. With word rapidly spreading
on the hotel grapevine that there was a group in
town with a drummer called Keith Moon who should
not be allowed to check in under any
circumstances, the Who were suddenly unwelcome
at all the best hotels in one of their most frequently
visited cities. Townshend found sleeping space with
friends in the city that night, and the others ended
up staying on their tour bus. The next time they
came to town, in August, they would be reduced to
staying at, of all ironies, the Holiday Inn.

So Kim was not completely shocked when she

finally had proof. But to say she was "extremely
upset" at the circumstances, as she puts it, is to
touch at the merest brink of her feelings. Its one
thing finding out your rock star husband has been
unfaithful; its another entirely for him to give you a
dose of the clap.
Yet for all that Keith had been cheating on his wife,
he was never disloyal for the sake of it. Certainly
not yet, at any rate. There were plenty of pop stars
about at the time who kept score cards, who
considered no show complete without a pull
afterwards. Keith Moon was too much of a lad for
that. The after-show for him was all about going
back to the hotel bar or on to a club, getting drunk,
having a laugh, playing a few practical jokes,
hanging out with the boys, telling stories, being
stupid... but if, at the end of it all, an attractive
young girl who had lasted the distance was eager to
make it with him, then sometimes he found it hard
to resist. It was unfortunate, but most musicians,
even the married ones, agreed that the occasional
one-night stand was part of the trade-off for being
away from home months at a time. And in Keiths
case, you could hardly blame the girls: it wasnt as if
there was a wedding ring on his hand to prod their
conscience.

*
WHILE IN MELBOURNE, Australia, Keith had sent
[his wife] Kim a letter with the following poignant
line: Although I can laugh on the outside, it's much
harder to laugh when you're not with me, inside. Its
tempting to assert this as being one of the rare
occasions on which he confessed to the insecurities
that festered so painfully on the internal side of his
clowns face, and there will always exist the
possibility that this was his intention. But its
unlikely. The odds are that it was another attempt
by Keith to cover up his misdemeanours by
pretending to his loneliness. He returned from one
of the tours around this period with a hefty dose of
VD.
Up until just about this moment, Kim believed Keith
to have been faithful. She was under no illusions as
to his popularity with women. And she knew how
promiscuous the musicians world could be; she
wasnt stupid. But for all their marital problems, she
had never really expected it of Keith. When he was
with her, he never so much as looked at another
girl. At the few shows that she went to, mainly in

The admission of adultery could have killed Kim

and Keiths marriage off for good it had certainly
been an uphill struggle so far but it appears to
have had the opposite effect, at least in the short
term.

912

In May 1968 the Moons went public with the

marriage, in a story "broken" by Penny Valentine of
the Moon-obsessed Disc and Music Echo. By this
late point in the Sixties, the idea of an already
successful musicians career being helped or
hindered by his marital status was ludicrous, and
Keith admitted as much. "Its stupid really keeping it
a secret any longer," he explained. "We once
thought that if it leaked out it would spoil the groups
image. Now I think our fans are grown-up enough to
accept that things like this happen. It was hard on
Kim coming out with me and not being introduced
as my wife. People in the business knew about the
situation but I managed to evade the issue by
pretending I was an idiot every time I was asked
about it." Keith and Kim were pictured in their
Highgate flat with Mandy on Kims lap, the impish
grin on the girls face bearing an unmistakable
resemblance to her father.

as Track Records went from strength to strength: in

the summer of 1968 it even had its first number one
single with Fire, by the Crazy World of Arthur
Brown, and a correspondingly successful album to
match. Track expanded commensurately with its
success, Stamp and Lambert appointing new staff
from all walks of life. Peter Rudge came straight out
of Cambridge University, having made himself
known to the management after the band cancelled
a May Ball show a year earlier, asserting Keiths ill
health when they were in fact making a promo film;
Rudge got straight on a train to London to
remonstrate and made a forceful enough
impression to win himself a job when he graduated.
(It's worth noting that Keiths reputation for health
and punctuality was already so tarnished that it was
considered the easiest way to get out of
commitments.) John Field was an accountant who
left the suit and tie behind to become the
companies moneyman. Jack and Jim McCulloch,
the Glaswegian brothers who had befriended the
Who in their High Numbers days and who had
recently come to London to make it as musicians,
joined as menial staff after bumping into Pete
Townshend on Denmark Street one day.

They then took a holiday to Mombassa, where Kim

used to go with her parents when living in East
Africa, and it went like a dream. That Mandy stayed
behind helped enormously. It wasnt that Keith didnt
love his daughter, for he undoubtedly adored her.
But he had no idea how to be a father. As Kim says,
"He was too much of a child himself."

With their businesses booming, Kit Lambert and

Chris Stamp moved operations for both the label
and the management from Chesterfield Gardens in
Mayfair to 70 Old Compton Street, a four-storey
sliver of a building in Soho opposite the old 2Is
coffee bar. It made sense to locate themselves
there in the pulsating heart of central London and
to nobody more so than Keith Moon. Shaftesbury
Avenue, where he had wandered the music stores
as a child, Denmark Street, where he had hung
around the coffee bars hoping to spot famous
faces, the Flamingo, where he had played with the
Beachcombers opening for the great Georgie
Fame, the Scene, where the Who had cemented
their mod following, and then the Marquee, which
they had helped turn into a world-famous rock
venue, De Hems and the Ship, where the musicians
still hung out, the nightclubs where Swinging
London had celebrated itself, and now La Chasse
and the Speakeasy, musicians members clubs of
the moment, all were a mere drumsticks throw from
the new offices, and it became almost a daily
routine for Keith, when there were no other
commitments, to make a mid-afternoon appearance
at the office, frequently just after the banks had
closed so as to borrow some cash, then whittle
away the early evening hours in the Ship or La
Chasse, meet up with other musicians and ravers
there, and move on after closing time to the Speak,
until they were all kicked out in the early hours.

They were both children, and there were times

when Kim could be as game for juvenile behaviour
as her husband. One day they noticed an advert in
the window of a bookshop on Highgate High Street
for foxes and wild hedgehogs rescued from the
country, and couldnt resist acquiring a pet fox. "It
was a disaster," says Kim. "It shouldn't have been in
town in the first place, let alone in a flat. It was
hiding the whole time a very sensible fox.
Eventually we gave it back to the shop, but we had
it long enough for him to get some good publicity
pictures."
Keith and his publicity pictures... One of the most
enduring and famous of all from this period shows
him proudly seated next to a gilt picture frame
which surrounds a champagne bottle embedded in
the wall of the Highgate flat. Keith clearly seems to
be suggesting that his destruction is an art form.
Often it was. But what went unsaid in this instance
was that the bottle was only in the wall in the first
place because Keith had thrown it at Kim during a
fight. Extreme violence and high comedy continued
to be uneasy marital bedfellows.
Habitually, Keith would spend his evenings out on
the town, and frequently his daytimes too, making
the most of the social life that passed for work in the
music business. Though the Who were
experiencing commercial setbacks in the UK, they
were at the core of a growing independent empire

Keith so loved his nights out he didnt want them to

end: frequently he would invite half a club back to

913

the flat at Highgate to ensure as much. Convoys

would pull up outside Pearl Garages and Kim would
be raised from her sleep to reluctantly put on the
kettle and start making sandwiches because it was
easier to do that and keep the noise down than
have a fight for refusing and wake Mandy in the
process.

especially given the negative experiences of the

Beatles and the Stones in their well-publicised
dalliance with the Maharishi Yogi. But then Meher
Baba was not a cult of personality, as were many of
the other gurus who had been adopted, almost like
fashion accessories, by various members of the
musical elite during 1966 and 67. Baba made no
demands for property or money, and insisted on no
wholesale change in lifestyle other than the
abandonment of hallucinatory drugs a call which
necessitated Townshend giving up pot, reluctantly
so until he found he was more creative without it.
Though he had not spoken a word since 1925,
Babas simple message of compassion, love and
introspection found a willing convert in a Pete
Townshend who wanted to correct the less pleasant
aspects of his capricious personality without having
to abandon the on-stage aggression which provided
him and his band-mates with so much emotional
release. As his love for Meher Baba grew,
Townshend even took to wearing a button badge
with the gurus face on it.

It could come as no surprise then to anyone but

Keith Moon that there were times when Kim
wouldnt be there at all, but back with her own
parents in Bournemouth, Mandy in tow. On those
occasions, Keith would be morose, and he didnt
care if it showed. Chris Welch, a Melody Maker
journalist who had been writing favourably about
the Who since 1965, found himself with Keith one
night "talking in the bar at the Speak and he was
quite miserable and sad, I thought, and he
genuinely wanted some company". It was unusual
for Keith to let anyone see him in less than
exuberant form, and Welch correctly assumed
something was seriously wrong.

"Who's that?" Keith Moon inquired of Pete when he

first saw the Indians smiling visage emblazoned on
his band-mates chest.

"He had just split with his wife and he couldn't face
going back to the place on his own. So I came back
with him to his flat. We arrived there in the early
hours of the morning when it was dark. It was like
the average musician's digs. Clothes lying about.
There was no family around. He seemed very down
and unhappy. He just wanted to keep drinking.

"Meher Baba," replied Pete.

"Is it?" He peered closer. "Well, you wont see me
walking round with a picture of Vidal Sassoon!"

"We sat down and talked about classical music

because there was a big thing for classical music at
the time, mostly instigated by Kit Lambert. We were
all listening to Debussy a lot, La Traviata was the
big thing. But he was still stomping and pacing
round the flat, he couldn't relax at all. In the end I
had to go to sleep. I went to sleep and woke up
hours later and he was still awake he hadn't been
to bed at all."

Pete Townshends new-found spirituality was

certainly not evident on the single the Who released
in the UK in June 68. In fact, Dogs was the
weakest and most juvenile record of their career. A
cockney ode to the greyhound track, and an
apparent attempt to emulate the exuberance of the
Small Faces recent hit Lazy Sunday, Dogs fell
short of its target by several laps. It instead sniffed
around the lower twenties of the British charts
before limping off into obscurity, by far and away the
worst ever showing for a self-penned official Who
release.

*
WITH KEITHS MARRIAGE now public, John
Entwistle wedded to Alison and Pete Townshend
about to tie the knot with Karen Astley, only Roger
Daltrey remained single, and even he would be
married (again) within a couple of years. The notion
that the Who were all growing up gained further
credence when Pete Townshend was turned on to
the Indian guru Meher Baba (by Ronnie Lane of the
Small Faces during the tour of Australia, among
others) and became a passionate devotee of an
Avatar believed to be the living reincarnation of
Buddha, Christ and Mohammed among other great
religious leaders. In many ways the renowned cynic
Townshend seemed the least likely of rocks
figureheads to choose such spiritual enlightenment,

Still, there was always America. The Who returned

to the States yet again at the end of June and
though they initially had only three weeks of dates
to fulfill Keith and Kim had a holiday planned for
the second half of July they ended up spending
more than two months out there, at the vanguard of
a second British Invasion alongside Jimi Hendrix
and Cream. Their set growing in length as well as
volume, the Who reverted to including some of the
rock'n'roll/rhythm and blues classics with which they
had first cut their teeth: Summertime Blues,
Shakin All Over, Daddy Rolling Stone, Fortune
Teller and Mose Allisons Young Man Blues. But
these numbers were being prolonged now on stage,

914

Townshend, Moon and Entwistle having enough

instinct for each others playing to be able to strip
them right down to their core (for all their blistering
noise on stage, the Who were equally adept at
casting giant swathes of near silence), and take
them in a new direction, for several minutes if need
be, before reining them back in again and building
up to a furious finale.

simply not resonating with the British public the way

they once had.)
So successful was the summer American tour that
Keith was able to start counting his savings again
and unlike the previous year, when he came home
empty handed, this time it seemed that the longer
the group stayed out there, the more money he
would bring back. From Springfield in Illinois, with
three weeks still to go, he wrote to Kim: At the last
count I had 8,000 dollars, which is around 3,200,
more than enough to get the house, and by the end
of the tour (HURRAY) the figure should be 5,500
at least. From the New York Holiday Inn in August,
he thanked Kim for what appeared to have been the
first letter from her in a month. You look absolutely
FANTASTIC in the photos and Mandy looks like the
little rascal she is... I'll post this now so you'll be
able to know how happy you've made me.

The equipment was no longer being destroyed by

rote every night; having established themselves
with shock tactics, the Who were keen to be taken
as serious musicians. Moon continued to pour his
heart and soul into every song, throwing sticks so
high in the air between beats that he amazed the
audience whenever he caught them, pointing them
almost vertically down to the skins as he played,
offering a comical running commentary as the other
members introduced the songs, all the time pulling
these fabulous faces that assured he got as much
of a TV cameras attention as anyone else.
Townshend had long perfected the windmill right
arm that was now virtually his trademark, but he
had taken to engaging in graceful athletic on-stage
leaps as well, timed to land him back on terra firma
right on the down beat of the power chord he was
thrusting through. Significantly, Daltrey too was
finally beginning to discover an on-stage personality
of his own, letting his hair grow out naturally curly,
sporting fringed jackets unbuttoned almost to the
waist. The Americans loved it; more than a few
began comparing him to a Greek God.

It was while in New York that Keith and John came

across their former driver Richard Cole, who had
been working with the Yardbirds for the last couple
of years. But that revered London rhythm and blues
band was grinding to a final halt now, its various
members having separate musical aspirations, and
with Jimmy Page looking for new band-mates, there
was some bar-room talk with Cole about Moon and
Entwistle splitting from the Who to create a new
super-group with the guitarist. Significantly, Page
himself was not in on the conversation, but either
Entwistle or Moon (they both subsequently laid
claim to it) went so far as to suggest a name for the
prospective band: Lead Zeppelin, from the days
when people would ask how a show had gone, and
they would reply, "We went down like a lead
balloon."

Half-way through the tour, the American record

company rush-released a new single, Magic Bus,
a significant change of direction for the Who, with
Keith Moon banging out the classic syncopated Bo
Diddley riff on woodblocks, Pete Townshend
throwing down a bluesy riff on the acoustic guitar,
John Entwistle staying anchored mostly on one
note, and Roger Daltrey singing a call-andresponse lyric with Pete that owed just a little bit to
the Motown song Leaving Here that they used to
cover. It was a musical jam, a song both
representative of the Whos roots in the blues and
of their current live show, and as such it would
always be more popular in concert than on record,
where its good-natured energy was tempered
somewhat by its old-fashioned sound (the Rolling
Stones had popularised the Bo Diddley riff five
years back) and lack of musical progression. Still, it
quickly cruised to number 25 in America in the late
summer, the groups second biggest hit there to
date.

After the Yardbirds split that summer, Page formed

a new group with John Paul Jones and two
comparative unknowns, including a 19-year-old
drummer called John Bonham who over time would
come closer than anyone to rivaling Keith Moons
reputation for on-stage musical aggression and offstage personal debauchery. Following a few
contractual obligations as the New Yardbirds, they
adopted the name suggested by Keith and John,
with a spelling change to avoid mispronunciation.
John Entwistle always maintained he was serious
about leaving the Who at this point; as such its
frequently been suggested that Keith was equally
unhappy. Its true that the Whos status in the UK
was waning, and as they watched other bands they
had grown up with begin to fall apart, there must
have appeared the distinct possibility that the Whos
time as a commercially viable recording act was up.
Entwistle had the greater reason to feel frustrated:
his songwriting was flourishing but his outlets

(Upon release in the UK in September, it ground to

a halt at number 26, one place lower even than
Dogs. Who singles, both bad and good, were

915

werent, his darkly humorous compositions

constantly being relegated to B-sides even as they
were consistently being praised.

November 19, towards the tours conclusion, Keith,

John Entwistle and John Wolff set off in the Bentley
from Newcastle to Glasgow. As always, the Who
preferred taking separate cars around the country
than traveling together by bus, and as always when
leaving Newcastle, the Bentley made a stop at a
favourite joke shop in Newcastle.

(Entwistle ended up with three compositions on the

next American Who album, though it was hardly a
group decision. Decca Records in the States, aware
that no new Who record was forthcoming, talked
the group into a photo shoot on a psychedelic
Magic Bus (for which Keith was mysteriously
absent) and then without permission cobbled
together an album under that name, released in
September 1968. To add insult to injury, they then
suggested it represented The Who On Tour though
there were no live tracks and little that coincided
with the groups current set. The episode
represented the absolute nadir of record company
interference, all the more frustrating for the fact that
there was a whole wealth of excellent Who material
that had never made it onto an album in the States
before while Magic Bus threw together various
singles, album and EP tracks with no rhyme or
reason. It says something for the ruthless power of
American labels that while Kit Lambert and Chris
Stamp were by now captains of the British music
industry, they were powerless to stop such a move
across the seas.)

Keith bought a pair of blow-up legs and before

setting off again, put stockings on them, women's
knickers and cheap high-heeled shoes. As the
Bentley then drove through the outskirts of
Newcastle, Keith laid down on the floor of the car
and waved the legs out the window, screaming
protestations in a high-pitched female voice through
the car speakers. To all intents and purposes, it
sounded as though a woman was getting raped.
The stunned reactions of pedestrians only
confirmed that it looked as realistic as it sounded.
Several hours later the Who were on stage at
Paisley ice rink when two policemen came
backstage and after some initial inquiries made a
bee-line for John Wolff. They wanted to know if he
was the driver of a certain two-tone Bentley, and
when he confirmed that he was, they immediately
hauled him into the promoters office for
questioning. He was informed that a policewoman
in Newcastle had seen a lady in evident distress in
a Bentley being driven, against her will, through that
city and that all forces across the country had
subsequently been alerted to be on the look-out for
the offending car. It had finally been tracked down
outside the Paisley ice rink.

But for his part Keith Moon was no longer an

aspiring songwriter; he was enjoying the groups
overdue success in America, loving the reputation
he was creating for himself, and besides, his
growing friendship with Townshend gave him an
extra reason to stay put. While Entwistle remained
Moons straight man, the extent to which the
drummer and the guitarist could provide their own
double act was becoming increasingly noted.

Relieved that it was nothing serious, amazed that

the prank should prove so effective, John Wolff
started giggling.

In October, for example, the Who travelled to

Bremen in Germany for a routine television
appearance on the show Beat Club, and while
getting drunk on brandy during rehearsals, Moon
and Townshend went into a Nazi routine. For Moon
to indulge in black comedy about the war in the
exact location likely to cause most offence was to
be expected, but for the teenagers in Love Affair, a
new pop band that were also on the show, it was
almost unbelievable. "We were just wetting
ourselves," says the bands then 17-year-old singer
Steve Ellis. "It was this Laurel and Hardy humour,
the funniest thing we had ever seen."

"Its not a laughing matter," one of the police officers

informed him sternly.
"Oh but it is," said Wolff between guffaws, and he
attempted to put the dour-faced Scottish policemen
at ease by telling them the story of the joke shop
and the legs and the high heels and the Tannoy in
the car and the speakers behind the radiator grille...
The more he went on the more he realized how
preposterous it sounded.
"Well, when the group come off stage, well go back
to the hotel and I can prove it," Wolff volunteered.

Moons creative humour excelled itself on a UK

package tour that had been arranged months
earlier when it was assumed the Who would have a
new album ready for the Christmas market. (They
were nowhere close.) Travelling with them, and
receiving near-equal billing, were the Crazy World
of Arthur Brown and the Small Faces. On

"Wed prefer it if you get the band off stage and

prove it immediately, sir."
"No, you don't want to do that, there'll be a riot."

916

The policemen looked through from the side of the

stage, saw the band playing live and the reaction
they were commanding, and weighed up their
options the possibility of a kidnapped woman in a
hotel against a potential riot in an ice rink. They
agreed to wait.

Tony Fletcher, 1998

How To Buy The Who
Fred Dellar, Mojo, January 1998
Every month we navigate the high-water marks,
rapids and stagnant ponds of a prolific artists
output, so you dont have to. We continue with...

When the show finished Keith and John came off

stage to find their driver waiting for them with the
two policemen either side of him. They looked at
him quizzically.

HARDLY PROLIFIC as an entity, The Whos entire

recorded output has been gradually reissued in a
manner befitting West Londons finest. Of their true
albums, as opposed to such collections as Meaty,
Beaty, Big And Bouncy, only their 1965 debut My
Generation is currently unavailable in Europe (due,
reportedly, to a dispute with producer Shel Talmy)
though an import version, titled The Who Sing My
Generation, is readily available on US MCA
(12.99). Confusingly, theres also My Generation
The Very Best Of (Polydor, 16.99), a 20-track
affair that links most of the bands hits in remixed
and remastered form, using what compiler Chris
Charlesworth claims are "the longest and best
versions of key tracks". Charlesworth set the
standard with the impressive 4-CD, 79-track 30
Years Of Maximum R&B (Polydor, 44.99), pieced
together at Pete Townshends request. The box-set
includes 14 previously unreleased studio tracks and
14 live cuts from gigs in Swansea, the Young Vic,
Fillmore West, Radio City Music Hall and Shea
Stadium, and comes with a 72-page book.

"The legs," said Wolff, and the rhythm section

immediately burst into laughter. Still the police
insisted on going back to the hotel to see Wolffs
explanation for themselves. There they headed
straight to Moon and Entwistles room, where the
chaos of the touring musicians surroundings did
nothing to alleviate their fears. Clothes and bottles
were strewn everywhere. Who knows what
debauchery could have taken place there earlier
that day?
Suddenly one of the policemen spotted something
in the bathroom. He could see two legs sticking out
either side of the taps; as he got closer, he then
saw that the bath was full of water and that a sheet
had been draped over it.
"Oh my God," he exclaimed. "They've drowned
her!'"
Keith was particularly proud of that one. It ended as
many like incidents tended to, the police recovering
from shock, calming down from anger, agreeing
even to a drink as they recognized the creativity of
the mind they were dealing with (Keith had weighed
down the legs underwater with two pillows, hoping
to shock the cleaners) and readied themselves to
repeat the whole story back at the station house. It
was going on all over the world now, the police, the
public, government officials, concert and hotel staff
all swapping stories of the mad drummer who
braved to do things others would never have
thought of in the first place. As the stories got
repeated, they were exaggerated until Keith was
hearing of himself doing things that even he hadnt
yet thought of like rolling a toy hand grenade
down an aeroplane aisle but once such actions
were mooted, you could be sure he would want to
try them out. He felt as though he had found a role
for himself in life beyond being a mere drummer:
he had been appointed the court jester of the rock
industry, always prepared with a punch line, its
practical joker readily embarking on lavish
escapades when the imagination of others dried up.
He had even acquired a new nickname, Moon the
Loon, and he liked it just fine.

Virtually all the bands Polydor releases, including A

Quick One, The Who Sell Out, Live At Leeds,
Whos Next, Face Dances and Its Hard, have
been updated soundwise and boast bonus tracks
(all 9.99).
To these can be added Tommy (15.99), the 2-CD
Quadrophenia (15.99), The Who By Numbers
(15.99) and Who Are You (15.99). The Kids Are
Alright (9.99), initially a double album, is now
available as a single CD, though it omits the 'Join
Together'/ 'Roadrunner'/ 'My Generation' blues
medley.
Those with fat wallets may care to learn that
Quadrophenia is also around in gold-plated,
original master format courtesy of Mobile Fidelity
for a hefty 45.99. Better maybe to look for
Quadrophenia Songs From The Film which at
9.99 leaves change for Tommy The Original
Soundtrack (15.99) a release that also featured
Elton John, Tina Turner and a few others who
fancied their thespian chances back in 75.

917

The Odds And Sods anthology (9.99) has not yet

undergone remastering, though a new version is
promised. Says Chris Charlesworth: "The
remastered version will be available in early 98 and
will be a vast improvement over the existing
release. Itll run for nearly 78 minutes and will
contain nine previously unreleased tracks, the most
important finds being The Whos versions of two
Holland-Dozier-Holland songs, 'Leaving Her' and
'Baby Dont You Do It', originally made as an
audition tape for Pye. These were made in late
1964, some time after the High Numbers session
and prior to The Whos first official release."

Because it concerns the financial embarrassment of

rock immortals.
Last year, singer Roger Daltrey told Townshend
that, candidly, he and bassist John Entwistle could
both do with the kind of cash infusion that only a
new Who enterprise would generate for them. "I
wasnt particularly sympathetic," he admits, adding
harumphy observations about his colleagues living
in "mansions about 40 times the size of my house"
though, more respectfully, he also referrs to
Entwistles costly determination to stay out on the
road with his own hobby group, giving "magnificent
bass player performances" on the American club
circuit.

Of the non-Polydor wares theres Whos Last

(MCA, 9.99), a dismal reminder of the bands 1982
farewell tour, and Castles more inviting Live At
The Isle Of Wight in slip-box 2-CD form (18.99).
And for completists there are interview items
Talkin Bout My Generation (Baktabak, 9.99)
and Shaped (Sonoteo, 12.99); the latter is a
shaped CD which plays on most machines though
not on car decks apparently.

Even so, Townshend studied the angles of mutual

benefit. He was already committed to play two
benefits for an orphanage in Chicago last
November. If The Who took it on, he would consider
where else the reunion might take them. Daltrey
and Entwistle agreed and, as Townshend puts it,
the gods smiled.

Pete Townshend is best represented as far as

individual reissues go, with 11 albums to his name
ranging from Who Came First (Rykodisc, 9.99) to
such ambitious projects as White City (Atlantic,
9.99) and Psychoderelict (Atlantic, 15.99).
Roger Daltrey has a mere two US CDs the
compilation Martyrs And Madmen (Rhino, 15.99)
and Rocks In The Head (Atlantic, 17.49). Keith
Moon is represented by Both Sides Of Moon and
Two Sides Of The Moon (both Repertoire, 11.99).
And Sundazed have just reissued John Enwistles
highly recommended album Smash Your Head
Against The Wall and the less-impressive Whistle
Rhymes both on Repertoire (12.99) as are Mad
Dog (11.99) and Too Late The Hero (11.99).
Rhino being responsible for Thunderfingers,
another Best Of compilation (15.99), while from
King Biscuit theres a live King Biscuit Flower
Hour (17.49).

Set to raise $2 million in Chicago, and more for Neil

Youngs Bridge school in San Francisco, they got
an offer of $2 million on their own account to add a
live-on-line concert in Las Vegas. Whats more they
played brilliantly and revelled in one anothers
company like the best of old times.
"I enjoyed the shows," says Townshend. "I enjoyed
the fact that Roger and I have a more honest
relationship now, although theres always been a lot
of love between us and hes a great ally. But it's
been very... the psychological word is codependent, I suppose. Ive needed to have him at
arms length in order to feel that Ive had any control
over my life and hes needed to feel frustrated that I
wont do what he wants me to do. Another thing is
The Who are so loud I worry about going deaf
John uses hearing aids in both ears now but Im
really looking forward to being with my muckers
again this summer."

All-in-all, an impressive tally for a band who, while

rated as one of the most important acts to stem
from the 60s, only made four albums for British
release during that era.

He thinks the tour could even lead to that album of

new Who songs they have been pussyfooting
around since they officially, though not quite finally,
broke up in 1982. "Roger sat in a press conference
recently and said, Ive written a couple of songs
and Im going to throw them in the pot," says
Townshend with practised abrasiveness. "But I
immediately found myself going into deep cynicism
thinking, Couple of songs, yeah. I used to submit
30 for an album and hed reject fucking half of
them."

Fred Dellar, 1998

Pete Townshend: on The Who and Lifehouse
Phil Sutcliffe, Los Angeles Times, 1999
The Who on the road in America again, just 18
years after their farewell tour? "Its a long story and
not a particularly nice one," says Pete Townshend.

918

The 20 dates, double-heading with the Jimmy

Page/Black Crowes alliance, include Irvine
Meadows, Los Angeles, 16 August. Meanwhile, The
Who are doing an internet-only release of a live
album from last falls gigs, The Blues To The Bush,
available from Musicmaker.com as a download or
customised CD.

yelling "Capitalist bastards!" until Townshend

punched him out)..
What Townshend didnt know was that The Whos
co-manager Kit Lambert, based in New York, was
telling interested parties that Lifehouse was a nonstarter and the next serious Who project would be a
Tommy movie. But, trusting and relying on Lambert,
Townshend flew to New York to seek his help.

Townshend says he still likes to be "cutting edge".

Which is fair enough, because the other, solo
project he will synergetically publicise on tour is
sometimes portrayed as having conceived the
internet a quarter of a century before it became
reality.

Vivid as yesterday, Townshend recalls the scene: "I

thought, Kits going to save me, now its going to
happen. Then as I walked up to his office door I
heard him say to Angie Butler, his secretary, If
Townshend thinks hes going to walk all over my
Tommy project... I was so naive, but it was hearing
him call me Townshend that did it. I got a panic
attack. I sat in there thinking, Hes calling me
Townshend. Theres nobody calling me Pete any
more. Im Townshend. I cant live like this. I looked
round and Kit and the other people in the room
became frogs. I stood up and walked towards an
open window until Angie grabbed me. She said it
was obvious I was going to jump out of the window."

At a discreet hotel near his home in Richmond,

London, Townshend settles into an armchair. He
looks trim as ever in T-shirt and slacks. When it
comes to Lifehouse, the project he has just
completed after 29 years in the making, he is ready
to talk an Olympic marathon.
It began in 1970 with The Who in their pomp:
legends of Woodstock, peerless creators of the first
credible "rock opera" Tommy, members of big-time
stadium rocks first generation.

Triggered by Townshends experience of

powerlessness to combat commercial demands,
Lifehouse was scuppered by the bands own
business arm. QED, perhaps.

But thats exactly what was eating at the purist in

Townshend. "Lifehouse started with my feeling that
stadium rock was going to kill us all. Because I
knew as an artist that I was completely powerless. I
couldnt stop The Who performing in football
stadiums and I absolutely hated it."

Mercifully, The Whos collective momentum soon

dragged Townshend back from his breakdown.
Later that year, they recorded their most enduring
and successful studio album, Whos Next, featuring
great Lifehouse songs 'Wont Get Fooled Again',
'Lets See Action' and 'Behind Blue Eyes'.

He imagined the Lifehouse a kind of super-venue

cunningly adapted to warp minds as a metaphor
for corporate government attempting to control
every aspect of peoples lives by feeding them food,
information and soothing sounds through the
"experience suits" they had to wear. But, ever the
idealist, he proposed rocknroll as the answer, that
music which was "good and true and ambitious and
risky" could free souls to overthrow the oppressive
regime.

But Townshend never gave up on the project. Key

Lifehouse track 'Pure And Easy' appeared on Who
Came First in 1972, a couple of years later he took
another abortive shot at the movie with director Nic
Roeg and science fiction novelist Ray Bradbury,
and 'Who Are You', from Lifehouse, was the title
song on their 1978 album. It lay dormant, though,
for many years after The Who broke up, while
Townshend busied himself with solo albums, book
publishing activities with top British poetry house
Faber & Faber, and the Who "comebacks" for their
25th anniversary (in 1989) and the first ever live
performances of Quadrophenia (1996).

Looking back, he gives a sly smile of selfdeprecation: "Pretentious is just not a big enough
word."
With his screenplay optioned by Universal for $2
million, at first all seemed well. But he hit a wall. He
couldnt seem to make anything actually happen,
especially after an attempt to develop the project
through daily live performance and "audience
interaction" at the prestigious Young Vic Theatre fell
apart when the theatre board took against them and
chucked them out (possibly triggered by an incident
in which a White Panther type stormed the stage

Reflecting on the latter event, Townshend recalls

with some bemusement that the premiere was
scheduled for a major outdoor event in Hyde Park
with Eric Clapton and Bob Dylan also on the bill:
"And Id decided to do it solo; me, an acoustic guitar
and a movie screen. Then the promoter, Harvey
Goldsmith, told me half a million people were

919

coming and I said, Im scared, I dont think I can do

it."

How The Whos My Generation LP Finally Came

Out On CD in the UK

Hence, another Who reunion. Meanwhile,

Lifehouse was never far from his thoughts.
Significantly, his 1993 solo album, PsychoDerelict,
was about an old star revisiting a failed project from
his youth.

Chris Charlesworth, Record Collector, 2002

STRANGE THOUGH it might seem, it took an ad on
eBay offering the master tapes for sale to anyone
with half a million dollars to spare that kick started
the recent release of the first upgraded edition of
My Generation, the Whos explosive debut album.
Shel Talmy, the records producer, placed the ad
after years of frustrated deadlock that had for
decades seen this classic album all but deleted in
the UK and unavailable on CD anywhere in the
world outside of the US.

Whats more, he was resolving most of the

problems which had perhaps hamstrung his
attempts to complete his most difficult project. Like
many a middle-aged man of the therapy generation,
he worked on sorting out confusion about his
relationship with his late father (Cliff, a big-band sax
player often absent during his childhood).

But to understand this strange tale we need to go

back almost 37 years, to the closing weeks of 1964,
when it seemed that no record company in the
world was interested in this stroppy little quartet
from Shepherds Bush. There was no money in the
kitty, and their lately elected managers, Kit Lambert
and Chris Stamp, were at their wits end. If it wasnt
for the friendship between their secretary, Anya
Wilson, and the wife of an American ex-pat record
producer presently domiciled in London, well, who
knows whether the Whos recording career might
ever have got off the ground in the first place.

"I think the creative process requires that you

should be, not bad in a rocknroll clich way, but
disturbed in a way and doing something out there to
find out who you are," he says. "Whats happened
to me recently is not that Ive had any revelations or
discovered who I am, Ive just had a long period of
acceptance which is partly to do with giving up
booze and finally realising that I use to drink
because it fixed something that was wrong with
me... which was a feeling of being unable to fit in,
unable to value myself.
"So now, instead of avoiding specifics you know,
lets keep it fucking abstract! I tend to be writing
songs about whether I love life, or whether I love
God, or whether I love my girlfriend, or whether I
love me or whether I love anybody at all."

So Shel Talmy took his wifes advice and went to

see the Who at a rehearsal hall in Shepherds Bush
and liked what he saw. "You just listened to them for
five minutes and you knew these guys had
something," he later told Ben Edmunds. "Their
energy, their attack which groups (in Britain) did
not have then." He promptly signed a decidedly
ungenerous one-off production deal with the Whos
managers to record the group, then took the tapes
to American Decca, with whom he had good
contacts, who would release the Who's records in
the UK on their Brunswick label. The small print on
that contract with Talmys Orbit Music incorporated
a crucial four year option, however, and its no
exaggeration to suggest that the catastrophic
economic consequences of this little clause would
effectively govern the way the Who's entire career
developed, even to this day.

However it may fit his self-analysis, this new state

of mind enabled him, at last, to return to Lifehouse.
"It inspired me and continues to inspire me," is his
simple explanation, confirmed this year by the
appearance of the six-CD Lifehouse Chronicles
(1971 demos, new recordings, orchestral versions,
BBC radio play). While the magnum opus can be
ordered only via the web, a single CD edition,
Lifehouse Elements, is released in America through
record stores on 23 May just four days after his
55th birthday.
So at last he has translated his one great failure
into achievement. He can afford to bask a little, sit
back and reflect on the constant, paradoxical gift he
has exercised on behalf of The Whos and his own
audience. As he writes in the booklet accompanying
Lifehouse Chronicles: "What I was best at putting
into words for them was the frustration that they
could not put anything into words"

Blissfully unaware of the problems that lay head,

the Who sailed into Pye Studios, adjacent to the
Londons Marble Arch where, with Talmy calling the
shots, they recorded I Cant Explain, their first
single, in November 1964. "When I heard it I loved
it," he says. "It was about one minute 20 seconds
long, I re-did the arrangement and then brought in
The Ivy League, as the Who couldnt do backing
singing at this stage to save their lives... It was
Townshend on his Rickenbacker 12-string. It was a
wonderful sound."

Phil Sutcliffe, 1999

920

Indeed, it was. I Cant Explain, with lyrics about

teenage frustration wedded to scattershot
drumming such as had never been heard before,
effectively launched the Whos career. Coupled with
a Talmy composition, Bald Headed Woman (a
shrewd move, royalty-wise), on which Jimmy Page
played fuzz guitar, Explain was released on 15
January, 1965. It entered the UK chart at number 47
and peaked at 28 before dropping out. After a tour
de force appearance on Ready Steady Go! on 29
January and a fortuitous spot on Top Of The Pops'
'Tip For The Top' slot, 'Explain' re-entered the charts
and climbed to number eight in April.
Simultaneously the Who could be seen playing their
now legendary Tuesday night residency at London's
Marquee Club.

Home). Like Leaving Heres, these recordings

remained unreleased until the MCA Missing
albums.
For the remainder of these sessions, The Who
recorded mostly cover versions: Daddy Rolling
Stone (chosen as the UK B-side for Anyway...),
Garnet Mimms Anytime You Want Me (the US Bside), a healthy dose of James Brown (I Don't
Mind, Please Please Please, and Shout &
Shimmy), and a Townshend original, You're Going
To Know Me (aka Out In The Street).
It was the practice in those days to record an album
quickly to cash in on a hit single, and these debut
albums invariably comprised those songs from a
bands live repertoire with which they were most
confident. Thats what happened with the Beatles
and the Rolling Stones and it almost happened with
the Who. In the event, Pete Townshends rapid
progress as a songwriter forestalled such plans, so
much so that many of these tracks remained in the
can for years and the Whos debut album,
postponed until later in the year, ended up including
nine Townshend originals.

Shel was anxious to record a follow-up but in 1965

(and for some time to come) the Who were a
working band in the strict sense of the word. Not
having received an advance against future royalties
(heaven forbid!), the group were obliged to perform
regularly in order to support themselves, and the
pace was hotting up. They played 11 shows in
February, 23 in March, and 25 in April; maybe more
since no-one kept any records and these are only
the ones that subsequent researchers have been
able to confirm.

Its possible that a premature review of this

proposed Who debut in Beat Instrumental
magazine also had something to do with the
decision to abandon many of the tracks recorded at
these sessions. John Emery, writing in the July
issue, had evidently been invited to listen to the
tapes by Talmy, but his opinions were far from
encouraging. "... before I even heard them, one
thing hit me slap in the face the lack of originality
in choice of material," he wrote, before going on to
deliver a distinctly iffy verdict on most of the eight
songs he reviewed.

Nevertheless, the Who managed to record several

cover versions (accompanied by session pianist
Nicky Hopkins) from their stage act at IBC Studios
in Portland Place on 19 March, including Leaving
Here, a Holland-Dozier-Holland song, which
remained unreleased until 1985 when it appeared in
the US on MCAs rarities compilation Whos
Missing, and subsequently on the 30 Years Of
Maximum R&B box set. Bo Diddleys Im A Man,
however, would find its way on to My Generation in
the fullness of time.

The Whos spirits were partially buoyed by the

relative success of Anyway. Released as a single
May 21, 1965, it reached number 10 in the chart
and, more importantly, was chosen as the theme
tune for Ready, Steady, Go! , the groundbreaking
weekly rock TV show on which The Who were now
regular guests. Musically, Anyway... introduced a
great Who innovation: the chiming, bell-like, openstringed power chord, cross cut against pounding
drums and bass; allowed to feedback on itself and
drone into a wall of electronic discord. Anyone with
ears could see that this band was different from the
norm.

For their next recording session The Who managed

three whole days (12-14 April) and 11 completed
songs, including their second single Anyway
Anyhow Anywhere which was probably recorded on
the 13th. The group rehearsed the song during an
afternoon soundcheck at the Marquee that day,
headed off to IBC to lay it down, then returned to
the Wardour Street club for an evening show. Over
the three days surrounding this busy afternoon the
Who also recorded various soul and US numbers
that they were incorporating into their stage act,
including two Martha & the Vandellas tracks,
Heatwave and Motoring; and Paul Revere & the
Raiders Louie Go Home, (previously recorded by
Davie Jones & the King Bees as the B-side to their
1964 Vocalion single Liza Jane. Davie Jones, of
course, became David Bowie), which, for some
unknown reason was revised to Lubie (Come Back

And so the summer dragged on. The Who played

26 shows in May, 26 in June, 12 in July, 17 in
August, 10 in September (pretty slack going lads)
and 17 in October. It wasnt until October 12 and 13
that the band saw the inside of IBC again, and this
time they recorded a slew of Townshend originals,

921

again with Talmy producing: Its Not True, A Legal

Matter (with vocals by Pete and he cant
remember why), Much Too Much, La La La Lies,
The Goods Gone, The Ox, The Kids Are Alright
and My Generation, the latter two cut during a
midnight session on the 13th. All of these
recordings made the final cut, together with Out In
The Street, I Don't Mind, Please Please Please
and I'm A Man from the earlier sessions.

Within the Whos immediate circle there was

another whose temper was by now reaching boiling
point: Kit Lambert. "I suppose Kit wanted to play a
part in the creative process," says Pete with some
degree of understatement. "He was full of ideas,
Glyn [Johns Talmys engineer] didnt take to Kits
presence in the control room either. I know Kit was
really worried that not enough time was being given
to help Roger develop his own voice. He was
copying Howlin Wolf and James Brown brilliantly
but Kit and I knew he had his own voice. It never
emerged on this record. Later the rift became legal
in nature. We were too busy touring to know what
the hell was going on."

My Generation was released as a single on 29

October and would make number two in the UK
singles chart, the highest the group would ever
reach in their long career. The album was released
in early December, and made number five in the LP
charts. For the iconic picture of the Who gazing
skywards that was used for the UK album sleeve,
Decca staff photographer David Wedgbury took the
band to Surrey Docks, near the site of what is now
Surrey Quays Tube Station. Wedgbury was
dangling from a crane when he took the pose that
Blondie copied in an almost (there were five of
them) perfect pastiche 12 years later.

The rift was between the band, abetted by Lambert,

and Talmy. They wanted out and after considering
the alternatives took the risky decision to break their
contract. Between the recording and the planned
release date of their forth single, two new
Townshend originals Circles/Instant Party Mixture,
the situation reached crisis point, resulting in its
release scheduled for 11 February being
cancelled.

So what memories does Pete Townshend have of

this period? "They're all bad Im afraid," the Whos
mainman told me in mid-June of 2002, taking a
break from rehearsals at his Boathouse studio for
an upcoming US tour with the 21st Century Who. "I
felt rushed and the songs felt unpolished. The
sessions were short. I spent far longer on my home
demos. The atmosphere in the band was not great
at the time either. We were still young but I lived in a
different world to the others. I socialised with the
Small Faces and old art school buddies, and on the
road survived mainly by taking pep pills.

Meanwhile, his muse cresting seriously, Townshend

took the band into Olympic Studios in Barnes and
recorded Substitute, which he nowadays takes
personal credit for producing. On 18 February the
group announced theyd taken their wares to a new
label, the independent Reaction (distributed by
Polydor), founded by their live booking agent
Robert Stigwood.
The Whos decision to walk away from their contract
prompted a predictable reaction from their producer
who on 8 March could be found in the High Court
claiming that he had sole rights over the Whos
recording career. The judge, who initially thought
that WHO stood for World Health Organisation,
agreed, Substitute was withdrawn and the World
Health Organisation were banned from recording
until the case was settled.

"I did not push myself," continued Townshend. "I

made demos because I had nothing else to do
[well, you did play around 200 gigs in 1965 Pete,
more than most bands manage in three years today
CC]. Kit was a driving force in this matter. He
pushed me hard but I didnt realise to what extent
the other members of the band might find my
songwriting difficult to swallow."

To pour salt into the wound Talmy persuaded Decca

to release a spoiler single A Legal Matter (an
appropriate choice), backed by the song at the
centre of the argument, Circles. Like the Whos
own version, to be found on the reverse of
Substitute, this too was misleadingly titled Instant
Party, not to be confused with Instant Party
Mixture, a different song entirely in the doo-wop
mould.

If anyone found Petes songwriting difficult to

swallow it was probably Roger Daltrey who during
the year had seen his leadership of the band ebb
away in favour of the songwriting guitarist. Indeed,
Rogers frustration boiled over in September when,
following a gig in Helsingor, Denmark, the singer
apparently struck Keith Moon, reportedly because
of the drummers wilful drug intake. He was fired
and for ten days ruminated on his position before
fortuitously returning to the fold with promises to
curb his temper.

To get around the legal matter, Reaction re-issued

Substitute with yet another B-side, this time an
instrumental by another of Stigwoods clients, the
Graham Bond Organisation (but credited to The
Who Orchestra), provocatively titled Waltz For A

922

Pig. The court later removed the injunction against

the original Substitute, and Reaction were able to
distribute their remaining stock, thus giving the Who
their fourth consecutive top ten hit.

legendary rock band whose wealth is derived more

from live work than record royalties.)
Back in 1966 the Who found themselves recording
for Reaction, then Track (Lambert and Stamps own
label) in 1967, and then Polydor from 1975. The My
Generation album went out of print in the UK within
12 months of its release and nobody seemed
inclined to reissue it in Britain until, curiously, Virgin
picked it up in 1980. (This issue was pressed on
inferior vinyl and appears to have been copied
directly from the album, not from Shel Talmys
master tapes. It disappeared at the end of its
meagre print run.) It was a different situation in the
US where Decca kept it available domestically
throughout the Sixties and, when MCA bought out
Decca in the early Seventies, The Who Sings My
Generation was issued as a double budget package
with the US-only Magic Bus The Who On Tour.
MCA issued the album on CD in the States in the
early Eighties without altering the track listing.

The Who and Lambert got their own way by getting

rid of Talmy in the short term but ultimately it was
the producer who triumphed. Indeed, Pete and the
band werent to know how much this cost them until
1969. "[It was]... when we started to make money
on Tommy and saw him taking his share even
though he had not contributed directly," says Pete
ruefully.
And therein lies the real reason why weve had to
wait so long for the reissue of My Generation. In a
nutshell, Talmy had given the Who a miserly 2.5%
(soon raised to 4%) royalty and was therefore
ideally placed to play both ends against the middle,
securing for himself a royalty from Decca far in
excess of this. Thus, even before the split, he was
making considerably more than the group, let alone
the individual members who, as it happened, were
also paying 40% of their cut in management
commissions to Lambert & Stamp, who now had to
settle with Talmy for breaking their contract. The
Who and Lambert might have reckoned they could
make better records and more money without him
but in the end Talmy, in an out of court settlement,
was granted a 5% royalty on all The Who's records
and singles for the next six years, up to and
including Who's Next in 1971. He would thus earn
considerably more in royalties from the Who's
record sales than the group ever did... without so
much as lifting a finger. Even today, over 35 years
later, Shel Talmy still collects royalties on every
track The Who recorded up to 1971.

In the meantime the Who became superstars,

playing on stage with breathtaking panache that
continued, by and large, until Keith Moons death in
1978. All of them eventually bought big houses and
fancy cars and had young families and, despite the
penance they still paid to Shel Talmy, by 1970 there
was no longer the financial pressure to tour with the
regularity of times past. Roger created the
prototype classical rock God, replete with bare
chest and golden curls, Pete found a guru and
became a deeply enlightened rock sage, perhaps
the most sought-after interviewee the genre had
thrown up after Lennon and Dylan. John Entwistle
was the archetype bassist, superbly proficient,
much respected in the trade, and Keith was, well,
Moon the Loon, the very model of the carefree rock
star whose appetite for self-destruction eventually
consumed him. They were individuals and they
were a band, for a while the most popular and
respected group in Britain. Never the most prolific of
recording artists they nevertheless released a
further nine albums up until Keiths death, and a
further two with Kenney Jones on drums up to their
first retirement in 1982. Their reputation and
fortunes secure thanks to performing live, after a
shaky Eighties the Who seemed well on the way to
rocknroll beatification by the Nineties.

But no-one cared much about their long term future

in an era when no pop band, not even the Beatles,
had established the concept of a sustained career
in this field. Pop groups were evanescent in 1965
and no-one could have known, or even dreamt, that
the Who would still be going strong in six or 16
years time, let alone become the kind of million
dollar superstar touring rock attraction that they
eventually did. So the Who, like so many others,
signed away a big chunk of what was rightfully
theirs in the adrenaline rush to get into the
recording studio. It doesn't take a great leap of
imagination, therefore, to realise that the Who have
never received a just reward from their best selling
work, and that the only way for them to survive was
to work hard, performing live as often as possible,
perfecting the show and pocketing the fees they
could command. Such survival tactics thus turned
the Who, at their peak, into the greatest live band in
the world. (With the possible exception of the
Grateful Dead, the Who are probably the only

So it was that after a lifetime of being a fan, writing

about them extensively for Melody Maker, and
amassing a sizeable collection of Who records, in
1993 I was asked by Pete and to help put together
a 4-CD box set. It was the hope of those involved
that all the tracks would be remastered from original
masters, and not from secondary sources. Petes
tape store inevitably revealed everything but the
Shel Talmy 3-track masters which Talmy had hung

923

on to for three decades. When access was sought

we were rebuffed, evidently because MCA and
Polydor were unable to reach an agreement re
advances and royalties. We were thus obliged to
use mono-tape copies that we found in Petes
library. In a compilers note included in the booklet
that accompanied the CDs I wrote: "Unfortunately,
owing to a long standing difference of opinion with
Shel Talmy, who produced all of The Whos work in
1965, the master tapes to this music (which
includes 'I Can't Explain', 'Anyway Anyhow
Anywhere' and all of the My Generation LP) were
not available for a thorough re-mix or for conversion
into proper stereo. That's the reason why the High
Numbers actually sound better than the early Who."

"Its been sad in one way," said Pete when I asked

him how he felt about its reissue after all these
years. "We discovered that some guitars were
added during the mixdown, standard practice at the
time for 3-track. So some of the tracks are
incomplete. I have not been involved at all in the
controversy or haggling. I knew that Shel owned the
tapes and copyright, nothing could be clearer. He
just needed the right deal."

Im happy to say that the box set was well received,

so much so that I then initiated a programme of
wholesale reissues of the Whos back catalogue on
upgraded CDs, complete with bonus tracks and 24page booklets. We didnt do this in chronological
order, opening the series with a new Live At Leeds
(1970) and cherry picking our way through the
catalogue until every album, up to and including Its
Hard (1982), had been upgraded everything, that
is, expect My Generation.

Thunderfingers' Last Stand: Remembering John

Entwistle

Even if, for almost 40 years, the Who have been

saddled with just about the wrongest deal in rock
history.
Chris Charlesworth, 2002

Keith Altham, Rock's Backpages, 5 July 2002

THE NEWS OF John Entwistle's death reached me
by email from LA via Pete Townshend's PA Nicola
Joss in Las Vegas on Thursday night.
At first I thought it was a reply to my request for a
couple of tickets to see the band's farewell concert
in L.A. for my son Bryan, who now resides there.
It took a while for the news to sink in before the
words "Oh" and "No" reached the brain and it
dawned that The Ox was no more. At the age of 57,
after three decades as the bass player with the best
live band in the world, John was gone. My phone
started ringing swiftly with press queries and
messages of consolation pouring in from friends
and fellow artists Sting, Noddy Holder and others
who rang to express their sorrow.

And thats how things seemed likely to stay until

Shel placed the ad on eBay. I heard about it through
the Who grapevine and contacted Pete. He said he
wasnt interested in paying $500,000 for the tapes
and neither were the Who collectively; nor were the
Whos record labels, MCA and Polygram, soon to
merge under the Universal Music banner. The
problem was the price. Terrific though My
Generation is, it wont recoup $500,000 in royalties
as a re-issue at this late date; indeed, itll be lucky
to recoup 10% of that. It was clear that a mediator
was needed, someone without an axe to grind who
would bring both sides together.

The Whos brilliant multi-instrumentalist (French

horn, trumpet, guitar and saxophone et al) upanchored and left the ship on the eve of The Whos
farewell voyage of America, after suffering a heart
attack in his sleep at that Las Vegas mecca of rock
memorabilia, the Hard Rock Hotel.

Enter David Swartz, American Who collector

extraordinaire. At my prompting David visited Shel
Talmy in Los Angeles and explained to him that his
demands were out of the question. He also
explained that the Who tapes in his vault were a
diminishing asset; that in five years time they would
be worth less than they were worth today, since the
Whos fan base was not getting any bigger.

No one would have appreciated the black irony of

his final stopover more than John, who had an
infinite capacity for seizing on taboo subjects and
extracting the maximum about of juice he could
from sacred cows. John believed in staring fear of
the unknown in the face, safe in the knowledge that,
once confronted, it disappears or at least shrinks to
manageable proportions. You only had discover his
choice of titles for solo efforts like Rigor Mortis Sets
In and Smash Your Head Against the Wall or tracks
like 'Heaven and Hell' and his best-known Who
song 'Boris The Spider' to realise that John loved

This did the trick. Talmy reduced his price to

something between $50,000 - $100,000; Pete got in
touch, so did the record labels. The deadlock was
broken, a deal struck. My Generation, remixed by
Shel, found its way into the record racks on pristine
double CD, with bonus tracks, last September.
What is probably the longest running feud in rock
was finally resolved.

924

blowing raspberries in the face of superstition and

ignorance.

which was decorated like a stately home. There

were full-length suits of Korean armour in the hall,
tapestries on the wall, Persian rugs on the floor,
plus an ornamental fountain and two life-size
statues of his Irish wolfhounds in the garden. The
next door neighbour kept chickens. His last massive
home in the Cotswolds boasted an entry hall with a
full-sized effigy of Quasimodo hanging from a 40foot bell rope and a human skeleton reclining
gracefully in a Regency chair, plus innumerable fish
he'd caught and stuffed hung around the walls of
the bar.

The Ox was seemingly indestructible. He was not

much of one in the self-abuse stakes, though he
liked a drink. He always seemed as strong as his
nickname. He found any excuse to get on the road
with his own band or anyone else (e.g. Joe Walsh)
with whom he could guest. He loved recognition
and the excitement of playing live to an audience.
The stresses and strains of the road may have
finally caught up with him, but he wouldn't have
wanted to go out any other way than touring again
with his first and last love - The Who.

John felt that somehow his early media reputation

of being "The Quiet One" had to be confronted and
challenged by turning up his amp to a deafening
level that would have impressed Spinal Tap.
However it would be grossly unfair to simply think of
him in terms of just being "Old Thunderfingers". His
dexterity and imagination on the bass guitar often
considered a basic and pedestrian instrument in
other groups was an integral part of the Whos
classic wall of sound, so much so that that the three
instrumentalists and one vocalist on stage often
sounded like a full orchestra on the charge. Johns
complex rhythms always provided an explosive
cannon at the rear.

Paradoxically there was nothing dark, depressing or

lugubrious about The Ox in real life. He was often
the instigator of pranks mistakenly attributed to his
musical soulmate Keith Moon, who would leap upon
one of John's practical jokes and turn it into a
national disaster area. John was a deceptively quiet
but lethal as I discovered once when provoking him
during a group food fight in the hospitality area of
Wembley arena in the '70s with disastrous
consequences.
Moon, Daltrey, Townshend and "Wiggy" Woolf had
initiated a food fight from the buffet tables in the
hospitality suite backstage. This had developed into
a salad tornado as oranges, apples, celery, lettuce,
rolls, eggs, and cole slaw whirled through the air
like a snow storm. John sat imperviously in an old
armchair in one corner with his arms folded over his
impeccable white buckskin jacket, untouched and
apparently unmoved by the mayhem flying about
him. I wrongly thought he looked a little left out and
so gently lobbed a cherry tomato at him which
bounced off his forehead. He pretended not to
notice. I then made the hideous mistake of turning
my back to view the gastronomic storm in front.
Suddenly a huge silver tray of some fifty fried eggs,
hundreds of rashers of bacon, sausages,
mushrooms and fried bread was emptied over my
head and shoulders so that I disappeared under an
avalanche of brunch, much to the delight of the
band.

Entwistle was probably the only bass player in the

world who could have weaved his way through
Keith Moons brilliant but chaotic drum style, so that
the groups rhythm and tempo never faltered. As
Moon was in danger of going into orbit he would
bring him back on course. His playing was so
dextrous and inventive that he was often
indistinguishable from a second guitar. It is little
surprise to discover that his "first and last hero" was
Duane Eddy, the man who made the bass strings of
his guitar the key to his massive global success for
his own massive instrumental hits of the '50s.
The Oxs superior musical knowledge and adaptive
technique was the rudder to Townshends daring
helmsmanship. John often stopped the entire crew
falling off the edge of the world as the fearless
figurehead of Daltrey dipped and ploughed through
their uncharted musical seas.

Pete stopped in the mid-action of hurling a flan at

Moon and came over consolingly, placing an arm
around my shoulders, inspecting the tomato in my
hair, the bacon around my jacket and the sausages
decorating my shirt front. Raising an eyebrow, he
whispered in my ear, "I shouldnt play with John if I
were you," then gently deposited an entire lemon
meringue on my head to crown the effect. It was not
a good idea to provoke "The Quiet One".

There's absolutely no doubt that John would have

wanted The Whos last American tour to continue in
his name, even if he could not be there. His son
Christopher was consulted closely and confirmed
what everyone knew his father would have
wanted his music and reputation to live on with The
Whos music. John loved his celebrity status dearly
and was the absolute contradiction in terms to Keith
Richardss famous quote: "Everyone wants to be
famous until they are."

John's black humour and bizarre taste extended to

his early semi-detached house in suburban Ealing

925

Keith Altham is proud to have been The Whos

press agent for nearly two decades from the early
'70s until the late '80s.

community's favourite Knightsbridge restaurant,

discussing how Lifehouse might be adapted for the
stage. Yet he understood it only intermittently. "Pete
is a genius," he says. "But it was like a wonderful
storm: flashes of lightning where you understood,
then the dark would descend again."

Keith Altham, 2002

The Who: Lifehouse

And Roger Daltrey, legendarily, put the tin lid on this

pot of puzzlement when he responded to an epic
Townshend rant by observing, "Nah, won't work
you'll never get enough wire".

Phil Sutcliffe, Q, April 2004

TRICKY CUSTOMER, Lifehouse. Pete Townshend
spent the best part of a year from autumn, 1970,
trying to explain it...

Almost 30 years on, when he wrote the introduction

to the Lifehouse Chronicles box set, Townshend
was still raging at such near-unanimous
incomprehension: "I was at my most brilliant and my
most effective and when people say I didn't know
what the fuck I was talking about what they're
actually doing is revealing their own complete
idiocy, because the idea was so fucking simple."

Initially conceived as a film, it's set in a near-future

world where British government has effectively
passed to a conglomerate, Plus Bond, run by a
mogul-dictator called Jumbo. People are controlled
by compulsory connection to a national grid of
pipelines and cables which provides not only power,
but food, medicine, entertainment and drugs, all
supplied via the "experience suits" everyone has to
wear.

But Townshend was never one to back down. And,

considering the wider circumstances, why would
he? In the late Meher Baba, he had found a spiritual
guide he trusted. His musical horizons were
expanding briskly through intense discussions with
Cambridge University electronic-composition guru
Tim Souster, Tommy had just broken America for
The Who and Live At Leeds reasserted their
maximum R&B credentials. Not unnaturally,
Townshend recalls feeling "omnipotent" as he
started work on Lifehouse.

However, dissident Plus Bond employee Bob Snow

instigates a rebellion. It's not a revolution, but a rock
concert where the audience and their music will
come together to produce a "celestial cacophony".
The main plotline tracks ex-hippie Ray's journey
from his remote Scottish farm to this climactic
event.
"An essay by a Sufi musician called Inayat Khan
inspired me," Townshend said when I interviewed
him about Lifehouse in 2000. Inayat believed that,
"Music almost turns matter into spirit... the way in
which we can find our own place is to tune our
instrument to the keynote of the chord to which we
belong". Townshend would elaborate, perhaps
paradoxically, that although the early manifestations
of stadium rock were "hateful" to him, the
"congregation" of fans could be "good and true and
ambitious and risky".

By the new year, on fire, he had written 20 songs

including 'Won't Get Fooled Again' and 'Baba
O'Riley' and the film script. Universal Pictures
offered him $2 million for the rights and he
accepted. Then he immersed himself in the
theatrical experiment. Only to find his fantastic
imagination at loggerheads with knotty reality.
Townshend had conceived of a non-stop six-month
concert later cut to a fortnight during which the
lives and characters of audience members would
be analysed, then he would write a customised
song for each of them and feed it into a computer to
produce the one perfect note which might... well,
save the world really.

Got it?
"I didn't understand a bloody word," admits Keith
Altham, The Who's long-time publicist and friend. "It
was very hard to grasp the concept.

However, even though he had been invited on to

the board of the new, hip Young Vic, he could get
only occasional dates there, starting with a
rehearsal on January 4, 1971, then according to
The Who Concert File by Joe McMichael and Jack
Lyons six more Sundays or Mondays in February
and April/May. So the mystical continuity he
dreamed of was utterly lost. Even the instant video
set-up he wanted presaging modern Star Screens

"I never could get my head around it," says Cliff

Evans, who worked closely with Townshend through
the New Arts Lab's video unit, TVX.
Frank Dunlop, then director of both the National
Theatre and the Young Vic, spent many a convivial
lunchtime with Townshend at AD8, the posh arts

926

by feeding back images of themselves to the

audience proved impractical (though Cliff Evans
recalls that when TVX gave Townshend a 50-quid
invoice for shooting 20 minutes of one show he
handed them a cheque for 500: "For us, it was like
Christmas").

Big band, small venue, the unusual closeness

produced by the "thrust" stage with the audience
seated on three sides: they were great gigs. But,
ultimately, not for Townshend. Gradually, under
pressure from the band and the shoutiest fans, he
allowed the Lifehouse songs to slip away and the
greatest hits took over.

Townshend really started to get paranoid about the

whole venture when a mid-February press
conference at the Young Vic went chaotic. He
believed The Who's co-manager Kit Lambert, whom
he regarded as both friend and mentor, had misled
Frank Dunlop into thinking the event would
announce a Tommy movie (Dunlop says that
Lambert certainly talked to him about both projects,
rather than just Lifehouse). Then, rattled, he
fumbled his chance to elucidate Lifehouse to the
hacks, and felt that, with that failure, he "lost the
support of the band".

Townshend's disillusionment reached a miserable

conclusion at one of the later shows when a freaked
hippie figure hurtled out of the stalls yelling
"Capitalist pigs! Bastards! Get off the fuckin' stage!"
He tried to grab the mic and Townshend flattened
him. So much for that one note of universal
harmony.
Sensing that Lifehouse could become the first
substantial failure of his musical career, Townshend
inevitably looked for scapegoats. First in the queue
was certainly himself: "I blamed the frustration it
caused me on its innate simplicity and my innate
verbosity: one cancelled out the other".

Dunlop reckons, "The group thought, 'What's he on

about?' I think Roger was wondering, 'Where am I
in all this?' I remember the puzzled look in his eyes.
In a sense, with Lifehouse Petewastaking a solo
flight."

But then there was Kit Lambert, normally, says

Keith Altham, "the only person who could keep up
with Pete's thinking". For much of the Lifehouse
period, though, Lambert was in New York and, says
Townshend, wheeler-dealing to undermine the
project: "I realised later that his ambition was to
make a film of Tommy and, after my Lifehouse
negotiation with Universal, he had gone back in and
said we wanted to do Tommy first."

The gigs went ahead and the theatre people

involved fondly remember them as electrifying
rock'n'roll events. When a flying wedge of fans
smashed down the door between the cafe bar and
the dressing-rooms, the staff took it as excitement
rather than scandal.
"It was wonderful," says Dunlop. "We built the
Young Vic to get teenagers into the theatre. The
Who shows were free and the audience was
hanging from the rafters up to a thousand people
in when the capacity was supposed to be 450. Pete
was great, he talked to the crowd a lot, telling them
about the new songs."

One way or another, Townshend heard no more

from Universal after that tantalising $2-million offer.
A couple of months on, as the first batch of Young
Vic gigs concluded on March 1, not a dollar had
been delivered.
"A wall rose up between me and my Lifehouse film,"
says Townshend. "I could not work out what to do."

Lighting engineer Derek Brown enjoyed the highrolling extravagance of it when Townshend
discovered a sudden urgent need for the latest
Copycat echo pedal and, learning that none was
available in the UK, had roadie John "Wiggy" Wolf
fly to New York and back in a day to pick one up.

So it came as a great relief when Lambert rang

from New York saying, "I feel bad about not
supporting you, why don't you come over and do
some recording?"
But Townshend's emotions were so fragile that a
perhaps trivial moment was to turn his optimism to
such devastation that he almost killed himself. He
told me: "I thought, 'Kit Lambert's going to save me,
I love him, he's wonderful, now Lifehouse is going
to happen'. Then as I walked up to his hotel room
door I heard him say to Angie Butler, his secretary,
'Well, if Townshend thinks he's going to walk all
over my Tommy project... '

Production manager Richard Mangan admits he

sidestepped the shows because he couldn't stand
the noise which drew protests from residents of
the adjacent Peabody estate. But he says the band
were a pleasure to work with and he still chortles
over Moon's aftershow invitation to join him and a
platoon of groupies in his Winnebago parked
outside the stage door (he politely refused, of
course).

927

"I didn't know there was any intrigue at all, I was so

naive and up my own bum. But it was hearing him
call me 'Townshend' that did it. I couldn't believe it.
When I walked in he said 'Hello Pete!', but I sat
there thinking, 'He's calling me Townshend. This
must be what Keith and John and Roger call me
when I'm out of the room. Townshend. I can't live
like this.'

Fell To Earth's director Nicolas Roeg though, again,

nothing came of it.
Then it all went quiet while the arrival of the
internet made some of Townshend's 1971 fantasies
look rather prescient (if you leave out all that wire)
until he released Psychoderelict (1993), a solo
narrative album. In it his hero, ageing rocker Ray,
revisited an abandoned project called Gridlife which
bore a striking resemblance to Lifehouse.
Townshend says this oblique approach to his old
bte noire made him realise, "I had been more
deeply wounded by the failure of Lifehouse than I
had been previously able to admit... I had been in a
sense humiliated and broken by its non-appearance
as a drama".

"I started to have an anxiety attack. Kit and Angie

and the other people in the room became frogs or
some strange creature like that. I walked towards
an open window and Angie grabbed me and held
me afterwards she said it was obvious I was
going to jump out of the window."
He hadn't taken any hallucinogenics. Essentially, it
was the start of a long, sporadic breakdown.

He got back on the horse. In late 1999, BBC Radio

3 broadcast it as a drama with music and the
following year Lifehouse Chronicles emerged: six
CDs including demos, orchestral variations and the
radio play.

Over the next few days, The Who even recorded

first drafts of a few tracks at The Record Plant.
"Then I discovered that Kit was using heroin and
that Keith had tried it," says Townshend. "So I said
we should all go back to London."

But the venerable idealist may not be done with it

yet. He's still pondering the possibility of that "one
note" which may be "God".

They played a couple more Young Vic gigs, but by

then even Townshend couldn't see the point. In fact,
the most remarkable feature of the following months
was that, in the studio, producer Glyn Johns
managed to lift the band's collective spirit and
refocus their attention to such a degree that Who's
Next proposed as a double-vinyl assemblage of
Lifehouse debris became one of the band's most
pithy and potent albums (it featured Lifehouse
songs 'Baba O'Riley', 'Bargain', 'The Song Is Over',
'Going Mobile', 'Getting In Tune', 'Behind Blue Eyes'
and 'Won't Get Fooled Again').

Combining quotes from my interview and his

Chronicles notes, he has said: "To a musician like
me, music is what is inside us all. It represents
experience, emotion and spiritual potential... In
1971, I didn't think we would just have an internet, I
thought I would be able to plug into you and you
would be able to plug into me. I did. I still do.
"The story of Lifehouse tries to make us think about
the value of what we had with rock, pop, in the
beginning: it offers a brief moment of perfect
reflection which allows us to see ourselves."

Moodswinging Townshend realised it was "a great

album which was obviously meant to be". But
Dunlop, who met him regularly in his Young Vic
trustee role, saw how low he was and felt guilty
about not being able to make a theatrical Lifehouse
happen for him: "Over the next year, Pete was in a
maudlin state. I remember him bursting into tears
for no apparent reason on more than one occasion.
My regret is that with the job I had I couldn't help
him as a freelance director would have. I couldn't
just go off and get it done. Lifehouse was a gigantic
effort. I always felt I wasn't useful enough to him."

***
Lifehouse the radio play
"WE GOT BEATEN up in the press," chortles Jeff
Young, Pete Townshend's co-writer on the
Lifehouse radio play, first broadcast on December
5, 1999. "The radio critics were all, 'Who does this
rock singer think he is to start writing plays?'"
Young, a Liverpudlian, now 46, an experienced
radio playwright, was contacted in 1998 by
Townshend, who was already talking to Radio 3
producer Kate Rowland. Townshend handed him an
archive of old scripts and asked him to see what he
could make of it.

Townshend recovered, of course. But he didn't

forget. Couldn't. More Lifehouse compositions
began to filter out: 'Pure And Easy' and 'Let's See
Action' on his first solo album Who Came First
(1972), others on later Who albums. The film script
got another airing in discussions with The Man Who

928

"Pete felt a sense of loss about never finishing

Lifehouse and, more generally, about the failures of
the '60s generation," Young reckons.

Im in The Whos dressing room backstage at

Madison Square Garden, post concert, June 10,
1974, and Ive been privy to a frank and noisy
exchange of views between the band and their
immediate entourage concerning the shortcomings
of tonights show. Unjustly, Bob Pridden, their everloyal soundman, is the focus of this anger.

Many a lengthy three-way debate at Townshend's

Richmond home thrashed out how to step around
the original's "retro sci-fi" elements and weave the
music around the action. Eventually, the new story
concentrated on Townshend's old protagonist, Ray.
In a grey world dominated not by some fat-cat
entrepreneurial dictator but by the couch-potato
tyranny of TV, he searches for his lost daughter. On
his journey, via some unexplained time slippage, he
encounters himself as young boy.

Kit Lambert, their co-manager, albeit in name only

by this time and who wasn't often seen at Who
concerts by 1974, has turned up unexpectedly,
drunk as a lord, demanding to mix the on-stage PA
in future, a ludicrous suggestion. Pridden doesnt
know whether to laugh or cry. The band stare at Kit
in disbelief.

"I think everybody has some kind of conversation

with the child they used to be, even if it's only,
'Where the fuck did you go wrong?'" says Young.
"Pete talks about it as 'looking back to a time when
you were able to look ahead'."

As the screaming grows to a crescendo, its clear

that Lamberts presence is exacerbating an already
explosive situation, hence tour manager Pete
Rudges request to me.

This time, the leader of the rebellion and Lifehouse

concert instigator is a pirate radio boffin called The
Hacker. But there's no '60s-nostalgic crescendo of
mass harmony and celestial redemption. Instead,
the whole edifice vaporises, taking the audience
with it.

"Please take him back to the hotel," he pleads.

*
OF ALL THE schemers and dreamers, duckers and
divers, and predatory queens drawn to the pop
industry in the wake of The Beatles, the maddest,
baddest, most dangerous to know was Christopher
Sebastian Lambert, born May 11, 1935, in
Knightsbridge; public school and Oxford educated,
cultured in the Arts, multi-lingual, sophisticated
epicurean, former Army officer and jungle explorer,
unrepentant gay libertine, wilfully disregardful of
conventional behaviour and virtues, and the most
financially irresponsible rock entrepreneur ever to
sign a contract.

"It's an apocalyptic outcome," Young allows. "A lot

darker than the original. I think Pete and me were
going through pre-millennial anxiety."
Young says "batting ideas around" with Townshend
was "epic" for him and he caught the Lifehouse
bug. He'd like to see it reworked for DVD now as
"some kind of interactive, virtual journey in your
computer".
Thanks for interviews and information: Keith
Altham, Derek Brown, Frank Dunlop, Cliff Evans,
John "Hoppy" Hopkins, Richard Mangan, Jeff
Young.

Family genes contributed to his extraordinary

character. His Russian grandfather George became
Australias foremost war artist while father Constant
was a classical composer and acclaimed music
critic. Constant and his model wife Florence split up
when Kit was two, and thereafter their son, an only
child, was raised almost entirely by women. He
passed somewhat precociously through Lancing
College and spent most of his time up at Oxford,
drinking and experimenting with his troubled
sexuality. National Service, much of it spent in Hong
Kong, was followed by an episode as unsettling as
any in his short life when, during an expedition to
trace the source of the River Iriri in Brazil, his
closest friend was hacked to death - and scalped by a tribe of Indians. Lambert, scared out of his
wits, ravaged by tropical insects and dangerously ill,
managed to survive.

Phil Sutcliffe, 2004

Kit Lambert: A Profile
Chris Charlesworth, Q, Spring 2004
"GET HIM OUT of here." "What?" "Get him out.
Hes making things worse." "But Pete, hes... hes
Kit, their manager."
"I dont care whether hes the fucking President, just
get him the fuck out of here."

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On his return he opted for a career in film, which led

to a friendship with skirt-chasing Chris Stamp,
brother of actor Terence, whose background as the
son of an East End tugboat man was about as far
removed from Kits upper-class Bohemian
upbringing as could be imagined. That he and
Stamp should engage with The Who themselves
a combination of extreme personalities on a par
with their own seems in hindsight to be one of the
most perfect acts of symbiosis in the history of pop.
At the time, though, it precipitated chaos of the
grandest order, out of which emerged an alliance
that forever altered the course of popular music.

While Stamp busied himself promoting The Who in

America, Lambert produced all The Whos post1965 hit singles and albums, A Quick One (which,
at Kits suggestion, included Townshends first
extended work), the highly original The Who Sell
Out and the ground-breaking Tommy. As the
creative foil for Townshend, Lambert was a key
element in Tommy, mapping out an early rough
narrative for the project and encouraging Pete all
the way. Kit revelled in its success and took pride in
presenting The Who at opera houses in Europe and
America.
"He educated me by encouraging me," Townshend
told Lambert biographer Andrew Motion. "Its what
made him a great mentor. He could see that I was
at my best when I was dealing with my conscience."

"As solemn management, its always been farcical,"

wrote Nik Cohn in Awopbopaloobopalopbamboom,
his seminal primer of English rock. "Almost
everyone involved is a maniac, almost everyone is
extremely bright and hardly a week goes by without
some kind of major trauma."

"Kits greatest contribution to The Who... was his

unrelenting expansion and projection of
Townshends fantasies and ideas," wrote Who
biographer Dave Marsh.

The traumas began one night in July 1964 when Kit

was scouring London seeking an up-and-coming
band to star in a film he and Stamp intended to
make. So taken was he with The High Numbers that
the film idea was dropped and they became their
managers instead. That they knew absolutely
nothing about the music business probably acted in
their favour since everything they did broke all
previous rules.

He was also a man for the grand gesture. "Kit often

used to fantasize about doing things on a grand
scale," Townshend told Marsh. "It was him pushing
us to do things in a grander way... [he] was telling
me I was a great writer. And I believed him because
I wanted to believe him."
Lambert influenced the group in other, less
professional, ways too. "[He] was largely
responsible for setting the example of
preposterously high standards of living Keith
demanded for himself throughout his life," wrote
Tony Fletcher in Dear Boy, his Moon biography. "Kit
thought that he would sophisticate these workingclass boys," Who associate Richard Barnes told
Fletcher. "He would introduce them to the world of
restaurants and other things that in those days you
didnt go to. He only tried it with Pete and Keith.
Pete was obviously intelligent, at art school, looking
for the deeper meaning, and Moon was just way
alive and full of energy."

Brimming with ideas born of his headstrong genius,

Lamberts influence on The Who was incalculable.
He encouraged their violent stage act and earsplitting volume; he introduced the concept of stage
lighting and making short promotional films (videos
in todays parlance); and he encouraged them to
behave as if they were far more successful than
they actually were, thus hastening their descent into
chronic debt. Perhaps most importantly, Kit
encouraged Pete Townshends songwriting by
buying him two Revox tape recorders, thus
ensuring the guitarists eternal loyalty. Having first
signed with and then breaking their recording
contract with producer Shel Talmy in circumstances
that proved financially catastrophic, Lambert
became the Whos record producer himself and, in
time, a very good one. He begged, stole and
borrowed to stay solvent, while at the same time he
and Stamp creamed off 40% of The Whos earnings
between them. When it became clear that record
companies made far more money than artists, the
pair formed their own label, Track Records, signing
Jimi Hendrix among others. Track was among the
first independent rock labels in the UK a blueprint
for dozens that would follow and an immense
cash cow.

"Kit taught Keith about wine, about fancy

restaurants," Chris Stamp told Tony Fletcher. "But
Keith turned Kit on to pills. They always had an
incredible strange affinity."
Whatever closeness Lambert enjoyed socially with
The Who, Townshend and Moon in particular,
Tommy proved to be his last gasp with the group. In
1971, after a series of disastrous, drug and alcoholfuelled recording sessions in New York, the band
opted to use Glyn Johns as their producer for what
became Whos Next, and the relationship never
recovered. By this time Kits recklessness had

930

extended towards The Whos financial affairs,

prompting Roger Daltrey to demand his resignation.
A reluctant Townshend had to agree. "Wed been
screwed up the fucking alley," said the singer. After
a struggle Lambert and Stamp gave up control of
the group in 1975, handing over the reins to their
subordinate, the far more prudent Bill Curbishley,
who looks after their affairs to this day.

limousine ride back to the Navarro Hotel on Central

Park South, I asked him to request the driver to
stop so I could buy a packet of cigarettes. We
stopped and Kit himself rushed into a liquor store.
He came back with two cartons 20 packets.
"I only wanted one pack," I said.
"Bah... never do things by halves, old boy."

By this time Kit was dividing his time between

increasingly squalid West London flats and a
crumbling Venetian palace hed bought with his
share of the Tommy royalties. With creditors baying
at his heels, in 1976 he was made a Ward of Court
to prevent them forcing bankruptcy proceedings, a
procedure that resulted in Lambert receiving a small
weekly stipend on which to live. It was never
enough.

Chris Charlesworth, 2004

Roger Daltrey: One of the Boys
Ira Robbins, Crawdaddy!, 1977
DALTREY'S FOUR-YEAR solo career, apart from
his personal excess/success as a matinee film idol,
has certainly left much to be desired by anyone with
more than a passing affection for the Who.
Longtime devotees have felt that wrapping a
premier rock voice around nebbish ballads is a
pathetic waste at best.

There followed five years of idle misery

exacerbated by alcoholism and a decade long
addiction to heroin. Kits last encounter with The
Who was at Frejus, France in May 1979, during the
groups first tour with Kenney Jones. "The band
seemed very happy to see him," says designer
Richard Evans, who was backstage that night. "He
had a touch of the Brian Wilsons about him, sort of
not all there... a bit scruffy too, but he was always
that way."

The lack of focus and musical non-perception that

mired both Daltrey and Ride a Rock Horse seemed
to suggest that Roger ought not try his hand at
recording without the guidance of a Townshend
figure overseeing his choice of material, musicians,
and stylistic direction. The influence of the Leo
Sayer/Adam Faith axis (although tempered by the
talented Dave Courtney) provided the first lp with
lightweight songs and the bland Russ Ballard-led
backup added little to save them. Two years later,
with Sayer safely out of the picture, Ballard became
the controlling factor on the second album, and
buried several good tunes in a tepid production.
Looking back, the problem with both albums was
the controlling influence of someone who stamped
the music more markedly than Daltrey.

Townshend, too, was upbeat about the encounter.

"Kit Lambert has just spent fifteen minutes telling
me whats wrong with The Who - and he was right,"
he told reporters afterwards.
But there was to be no rebirth for Kit. By the time of
this sighting he had squandered everything and
was living back in London, either dossing down at
the homes of long-suffering friends or staying at his
mothers house in Fulham. He would die in April
1981, virtually destitute, in an Acton hospital from a
brain haemorrhage incurred after falling down her
staircase. The previous night hed been beaten up
in the toilets of a gay nightclub in Earls Court,
allegedly over a drug debt. At least one mourner at
his cremation ducked as the coffin slid into the
furnace, convinced that it would explode with all the
alcohol and chemicals inside him.

The work situation has been improved this time

'round by dividing responsibilities up and the result
are better. Using Dave Courtney and arranger Tony
Meehan as co-producers, the musicians and songs
have been chosen with care for depth and variety.
With contributions by Paul McCartney, Philip
Goodhand-Tait, Andy Pratt, Colin Blunstone, Steve
Gibbons, and Murray Head, and three songs cowritten by Daltrey, One of the Boys has more drama
and lyrical interest than the first two lps combined.
Each song has been given individual treatment, and
the assembled musicians provide worthy support.
The star roster includes John Entwistle, Rod Argent,
Jimmy McCulloch, Alvin Lee, Mick Ronson, Andy
Fairweather-Low and Stuart Tosh(Pilot).

In a wonderful piece of understatement, Andrew

Motion wrote of Kit: "His impetuosity and his relish
for living at risk seemed not to include any fully
developed appreciation of the difficulties into which
he might be led."
This was the man I was asked to remove from The
Whos dressing room that June night in New York.
Somehow I accomplished the task and on the

931

Daltrey's wondrous voice is excellent through most

of the album, straying into Who territory as easily as
he handles the soft ballads he revels in. The best
tracks are Say It Ain't So Joe, a hauntingly
beautiful tun of disillusionment; the wild, raucous
tale of Avenging Annie, and a mysterious song of
personal loss by Goodhand-Tait, Leon, which
proves once again what an emotive interpreter
Roger can be.

early Who singles as 'My Generation', 'Substitute'

and 'I Can See For Miles' to name but a few, it
wasn't until the release of the rock opera that
people outside of the hardcore rock audience
began to appreciate the band for their musical
contributions as well as the demolition derby stage
presentation. And the challenge of vocally bringing
to life the numerous Townshend-created characters
made the listening world aware of a fact that had
often been overlooked during the Who's formative
years namely that Daltrey was one of the most
versatile and distinctive vocal stylists to ever grace
a rock and roll stage. With the acclaim for his live
performances of Tommy came the opportunity to
branch out, and Roger parlayed his golden boy
looks and latent acting ability into starring roles in
the film version of Tommy and Lisztomania.

Ira Robbins, 1977

Roger Daltrey: Who's One Of The Boys?
Don Snowden, Rock Around The World,
September 1977
THE FACT that 1977 has witnessed the reformation
of a number of bands that enjoyed their heyday
during the mid-'60's Small Faces, Animals,
Booker T & the MG's and on the jazz front the
VSOP quintet serves as a timely reminder of the
ongoing saga of the Who. The Kinks and Stones
may have survived from the same era with their key
personnel intact, but only the Who have persevered
through 15 odd years in the rock and roll circus with
the same lineup that exploded out of London talkin'
'bout their generation. Even more impressively,
they've done so without losing their street level
credibility or degenerating into an aging parody of
themselves.

In characteristic fashion, Daltrey steered away from

prevailing trends when the time came for him to
establish his musical turf as a solo artist in 1972.
Rather than indulging in the solo-album-withfamous-friends-playing-favorite-songs-of-yesteryear
or the I-am-a-serious-songwriter-in-my-own-right
syndromes so common in the early '70's, he
gambled on performing an entire album of
compositions by an unproven songwriting team.
The then unknown tandem was Leo Sayer and
Dave Courtney and Roger's debut solo album,
Daltrey, was one of those rare ventures that proved
to be of equal benefit to both parties. Sayer
received a considerable career boost through
association with the Who singer, and in turn Daltrey
immediately established an identity as a vocal
stylist distinct from the electric strum und drang
assault of the Who. The skeletal arrangements of
the pre-Richard Perry Sayer style gave Roger the
opportunity to display his interpretive skills on such
classic fare as 'One Man Band' and the 'Hard
Life/Givin' It All Away' medley.

Over the years, the four individual elements in the

band have meshed into an organic whole that
apparently thrives on equal parts personality conflict
and powerhouse music. The images are firmly
locked in the minds of any one who has caught the
Who in concert Townshend the windmillchording
mastermind, Moon the maniacally flailing drummer,
Entwistle the musical and visual anchor and Roger
Daltrey wielding his mike like an electronic lariat
and restlessly circling the stage.

When Daltrey returned to the studio three years

later for his second solo effort, he continued his
tradition of working with less know figures by
recruiting former Argent guitarist Russ Ballard to
oversee the album. A blend of ballads and upbeat
material with a funky sound that in some ways
anticipated the current renaissance of blue-eyed
sound, Ride A Rock Horse was released shortly
after the film version of Tommy and the consequent
enshrinement of the deaf, dumb and blind kid as a
cultural monument.

Ironically, the very cohesion that makes the Who

such a potent musical force has made it
exceedingly difficult for the group members to
establish much of an individual identity outside the
band. Each has taken his stab at the solo route
Townshend with his homage to Meher Baba, 'Who
Came First', Moon's lighthearted oldies romp and
Entwistle's black humor-tinted albums and tour but
only Daltrey has managed to transcend the
limitations imposed by being identified with the Who
and use the band's popularity as a stepping stone
to bigger things.

Predictably, the LP rode into the top ten on both

sides of the Atlantic on the strength of the
identification of Daltrey with Tommy and the AM
success of 'Come And Get Your Love'. But the
album as a whole was flawed by uneven material
and some questionable production effects. The

The catalyst, both for Daltrey and the Who itself,

was Tommy. Despite the power of such classic

932

most curious selection was a version of 'Milk Train'

performed with a broad Cockney accent that made
Daltrey sound like a dead ringer for Ian Hunter
lamenting about life as a rock star during his Mott
the Hoople days.

John McVicar. "I just wanted to do one song in

music to encapsulate that kind of total desperation
feeling and I think it does it."
The album's most basic rocker is the title track,
penned by long time Who protg Steve Gibbons
and delivered by Daltrey with a blustering tone
more than a little reminiscent of Alex Harvey, "It's a
1977 'My Generation'," Roger explains. "It could
have been written by Pete Townshend." With the
short film Roger did to promote the album where
he adopts the sartorial stances of Rockers, Teds,
Mods and punks in addition to his somewhat
sarcastic vocal delivery, some have speculated that
'One Of The Boys' is an attack on the punk rock
brigade.

Two years later comes One Of The Boys, easily his

best solo effort to date, and it's immediately
apparent that Daltrey has spent some time
evaluating his earlier works and decided to effect
some changes in his standard operating procedure.
For the first time, he breaks away from using lesser
known musicians in favor of recording with some of
his famous friends. One Of The Boys boasts a
basic band of Who-mate John Entwistle and Brian
Odgers (bass), current 10cc drummer Stuart Tosh,
Jimmy McCulloch of Wings and Paul Keogh (guitar)
and Rod Argent (keyboards) plus guest shots by
Alvin Lee and the legendary Shadows' guitarist
Hank B. Marvin. The result is the most slickly
produced, polished sound to grace a Daltrey album
yet.

"It's not a send-up. The truth is we don't speak for

the kids today, but we never pretended to speak for
anyone else but our generation. Our generation
hasn't gone away. It's just that another generation
has joined the ball game. The Who By Numbers,
obvious from a lot of people's point of view,
especially from young fans, must have seemed like
a disaster, but I count that album as being one of
the most important albums the group's ever made.
The album does cover a period in your life. When
you're 30, you really do go through a lot of change.
You reevaluate your life and it's probably the first
time in your life that you realize that you're not
immortal.

More importantly, One Of The Boys is the first

album that truly bears the creative stamp of Roger
Daltrey. Both Daltrey and Ride A Rock Horse gave
the impression of being projects where Roger
merely provided the focus and vocal chords and
more or less allowed Courtney and Ballard to
dictate the direction of the record. Courtney has
returned to produce Boys with Tony Meehan but the
LP's strong song orientation suggests that Daltrey
was pretty much in full control here.

Daltrey seems to have weathered the discovery of

his own mortality well from all indications. Despite
the lure of lucrative offers, he's refrained from doing
any solo gigs in order to avoid jeopardizing the
delicate internal balance of the Who. And thank
God for that not that I'd mind seeing Roger
perform on his own but the Who concert I caught
last year was simply one of the finest shows of
recent years, one of those magic nights where the
feedback is melodic and the firecrackers explode in
perfect time to the music. It's more than a little ironic
to find out with One Of The Boys ranking as the
strongest, most consistent albums of his solo
career, that Daltrey is planning to phase out his solo
work.

"I was ruthless with the material," Daltrey told Anne

Nightingale in London recently. "I listened to about
500 songs, and it's very difficult to find good songs.
I'm not a natural songwriter. I can't sit down and
come up with ten great songs like Pete or some of
the other songwriters can do but also I don't really
like doing old material that's been popular."
That reluctance to go the oldies but goodies route
has left the LP well stocked with strong
compositions by a number of the most underrated
songwriters on the current scene. And their songs
are treated to some of the most assured,
commanding singing Daltrey has ever put on vinyl.
One Of The Boys finds him working in a wide
variety of musical settings ranging from the tonguein-Cockney-cheek country of Colin Blunstone's
'Single Man's Dilemma' to two haunting Philip
Goodhand-Tait songs and superb supercharged
versions of Andy Pratt's 'Avenging Annie' and
Murray Head's 'Say It Ain't So, Joe'. Daltrey also
makes his debut as a songwriter on his solo albums
here, collaborating with Courtney on 'Satin and
Lace', 'Doing It All Again' and 'The Prisoner', a tune
inspired by the autobiography of convicted robber

"I only want to do one more album on my own. I

never ever did it to get a kind of separate big
career. My main thing is the Who, I've only done the
albums for experience outside of the things that the
Who do. I've tried to do material that the Who would
never ever go and so far I think I've been
successful. I've done three albums, each one
different from each other and every one different
from the Who and I'm really pleased with that."
Don Snowden, 1977

933

Roger Daltrey: Who Am I?

from record producer Alan Shacklock, one-time

guitarist with Babe Ruth and now producing the
Alarm. Said Alan: "Why don't you make a record
and sing like you used to in the Who?" Simple
advice which pushed Daltrey back on the right
track. The result after months of work, is a new
album, Under A Raging Moon on Atlantic Records.
The songs are well-crafted and businesslike, and
the whole album has drive, pace and sense of
purpose. Roger sings his heart out, with no
contrived attempts to alter his style.

Chris Welch, Creem, March 1986

TWO YEARS AFTER the final agonizing bust-up of
the Who Roger Daltrey can no longer stand
premature rock burial. Daltrey never wanted the
group to break up, but bowed to Pete Townshend's
wishes, after his old sparring partner went through
mind-wrecking personal crises.
It was the end of a sizeable chunk of rock history.
Pete launched his solo career, putting booze and
drugs behind him. (He's even formed a new band,
Deep End, to play some charity shows in London in
aid of drug victims...with ex-Pink Floyd man Dave
Gilmour on guitar.) It's an impressive comeback: a
film and record called While City from the man who
only a few years ago was seen rolling around
London discos, drunk out of his mind.

The album has already yielded the successful

single 'After The Fire', written by Townshend, which
is just the prelude to further collaborations between
the old sparring pair next year. Other album
highlights include a seven drummer rave-up in
tribute to Keith Moon, while 'The Pride You Hide'
and 'Don't Talk To Strangers' are both excellent
songs for Roger to wrap his tonsils around.
Under A Raging Moon has already been well
received in America, but Roger has noted a certain
coolness towards him in England. He suspects,
rightly or wrongly, that unless you have entrenched
political views expressed through music, there isn't
much chance of it getting noticed. He laughs about
it, but he's still annoyed, especially at the way 'After
The Fire' was edited for radio play. "There is a full
length version of 'After The Fire', but they cut the
bloody thing," he complains. "It should run as long
as on the album, but on radio they cut out all the
guitar solos so it doesn't make sense. The whole
point of the song is that it builds and builds. The
age of the musician is over, mate! When I go for
interviews now I don't know which part of me to
send because they don't want to hear the whole
story. It's the same with videos; I spend a lot of time
making a video and they only showed 20 seconds
of it on TV. That's your lot!

But where does this leave the Who's one-time lead

singer, the man who formed the group when they
were the Detours, the star of Tommy and the barechested Adonis (well, sort of) who stomped through
a million gigs?
Daltrey cherished an acting career when the Who
were at a peak. He starred in Tommy (the movie),
Lisztomania and McVicar. He made solo albums,
too, like Ride A Rock Horse and One Of The Boys.
But after Pete's announcement that the Who would
no longer tour which came after a series of
onstage punch-ups with his singer Daltrey
languished.
He produced one solo album (that he said would be
his last) and vanished into his country retreat,
emerging only to make the odd American Express
TV commercial.

"I did a record show on radio with Phil Collins, Paul

Weller and Noddy Holder. I thought Weller was a
wonderful example of where this country is now.
The music is the last thing that is important. It's
down to what your politics are, and if you are
straight or gay. We were discussing a record by one
of the guys from Bronski Beat... three of us hated it,
but laugh-a-minute Weller said he thought it was
great because he liked the guy's stance and what
he stands for. I suddenly realized people like Weller
don't judge the music, they judge everything else.
It's very confusing for me, and it makes it difficult
when you are trying to present yourself to the
public."

Roger was haunted by memories of the Who...the

good times as well as the tears and tragedies. It
had been his whole life since he left school. During
their 20 years he saw not only the hit records and
massive world tours, but the death of friends like
Keith Moon and early Who managers Kit Lambert
and Peter Meaden. With Kenney Jones on drums it
had seemed like the Who had a good few years left
to make music. But when Pete finally pulled the
plug it seemed to Roger at least like it was time
to pack it in.
In the months after the Who split (following their last
American tour in 1982), Roger moped and let his
memories run riot, like a tape on fast rewind. He
was suffering from an acute attack of nerves and
post-group depression. Then came encouragement

Daltrey began work on his album last Christmas.

"Basically, after the break up of the Who I didn't
want to do anything again. It was the end of 1983

934

and I thought: 'I don't want to do anything again.

That's it.' But in the middle of last year Meatloaf
asked me to do a duet with him on his Bad Attitude
album. While I was doing that I realized 'God, I miss
this.'

fly/Would it leap from its tank/And hit the cat in the

eye/Out through the window and into the sky/I'm so
glad that sharks can't fly." "When I'm feeling sad/I
remember that you were the worst lay I ever
had/And I feel better." But his words are welded to
relentlessly plodding music, with every track having
the same tuneless tune, that pretty well smothers
any impulse to chuckle. There are other personnel
involved, but the tepid results might as easily have
been achieved by a virtuoso flight on 16-track and
synthesizer.

"The producer on the date was Alan Shacklock and

he suggested I make my own record." Daltrey's first
reaction was "Oh no...well, I'll have to think about
it." Gradually his resolve to give up making music
began to crack. "I said 'All right, let's do it,' because
I always miss the old band more than ever at that
time of year. It wasn't a case of just missing my
mates. It was because we always used to finish our
tours at Christmas and it was strange not to be
involved in that anymore. It was a traumatic period
for me. So I decided to have a go at it once again. I
worked for two months on getting material together.

The Who remain the most satisfactory interpreters

of Entwistle's songs. Why, because two heads are
better than one? Because they have a better
producer? Or because his former infrequency as a
composer created the kick of serendipity?
Consider Ringo, who is content to wait one or two
years between shuffles into a spotlight with a selfpenned tune. That sort of temperance or reticence
can be an artistic virtue, affording delightful
surprises and the opportunity to retain one more of
our vanishing illusions.

Daltrey's last solo album three years ago was

Parting Should Be Painless. "It was a transition
period...it was gonna be my last album!" Roger
laughs. "The new one is doing fabulously well in the
States and I can't wait to get over to play. I'm gonna
put the same band together I had on the album,
with Russ Ballard doing backing vocals. I'm really
excited about it; it will be my first time ever on my
own. I never did 'live' shows for my other solo
albums. I always regarded it as a hobby. Now I'm
taking it seriously, at last!"

Tom Nolan, 1972

John Entwhistle and The Bloody English
Chris Salewicz, Let It Rock, March 1973

Chris Welch, 1986

JOHN ENTWHISTLE has always been an enigma.

On the other members of the Who we can pin an
identity. Townshend creator and, at the same
time, the Mad Axeman; Moon super looner of all
time; Daltrey buckskinned mike-spinner
extraordinaire. But Entwistle, what do you say about
him? Obviously the easiest description is that he's
the anchor-man, a description made more apposite
if you remember the first Observer feature on the
Who in the mid-sixties. "Without him, they'd fly, fly
away."

John Entwhistle: Whistle Rymes

Tom Nolan, Rolling Stone, 21 December 1972
"Thank you Mother Nature/ For the way you got
things planned/ Don't ever change a thing/ I'm
happy as I am."
And yet, as we are occasionally reminded, Red
Skelton yearns to play tragedy and Benny
Goodman actually tackles the classics. John
Entwistle releases his second solo album.

We all knew that he was the only member of the

band with classical training, on French horn, but
let's own up, Townshend's the 'mild intellectual', or
so he claims, and we were never really-sure where
Entwistle stood in the Who's l.Q. ratings.

Smash Your Head Against the Wall had compelling

energy, but its urgency wore a little thin for some.
Whistle Rymes hasn't the authoritative drive of the
earlier record; no cool-whoop french horns calling
us to the chase. Gone too is the studied menace of
Smash, and in its place are more of Entwistle's
lowkey musings on life's little cruelties. What bite
there is here is blunted by a studied mediocrity.

As a writer his efforts were minimal. For Tommy he

contributed 'Cousin Kevin' and 'Fiddle About'; on
The Who Sell Out he wrote most of the jingles and
'Silas Stingy' a song commemorating his, at that
time, legendary financial tightness; and on A Quick
One he had 'Whiskey Man' and the sang that was
until recently his best known composition, 'Boris the
Spider'.

Some of the lyrics have an amusing defensive

cynicism and a surreal whimsy which read well. "I
wonder what would happen if my fish could

935

And then came Who's Next with what is, in my

mind, indubitably his best song with the band, 'My
Wife', the story of a man persecuted by his wife for
spending too much time down the boozer. The only
problem with this number is that Entwistle's voice is
mixed so far back that the track has to be played
perhaps twenty times before the words can be
made out. This led the Rolling Stone reviewer to
ponder on the possibilities of Townshend becoming
jealous of his bass-player's writing abilities.

Winchesters, Colt 45s, a Tommy gun. Gun freak,

eh? Lodge that away in your memory bank.
We end up in the bar. Another colour telly. That
makes four so far. And a video cassette machine.
We watch a brief segment of Carry On, Camel, and
a drop or two of Napoleon brandy is poured out.
"As you're in here, you might as well hear the new
album." Ah yes, this was another of the reasons I'd
come. The new Entwistle band and album. Rigor
Mortis play Rigor Mortis Sets In. And it's very, very
different to Whistle Rymes. It's rock'n'roll, isn't it,
with Tony Ashton (whither Family if and when this
gets on the road?), Alan Ross on guitar and
Graham Deakin on drums, with a little help from
Howey Casey on sax and Brian Williams on
trombone.

A couple of years ago Entwistle put out a solo

album, Smash Your Head Against the Wall. The
result? Nothing in this country, although it notched
up 100,000 sales in the States. And towards the
end of last year Whistle Rymes, his second solo
album, was released to critical acclaim.
Almost without exception Entwistle's songs have
made it through their lyrical content rather than the
strength of their melodies. Whistle Rymes
epitomises this. But the problem with his songs has
been their subject matter. Macabre, even tasteless
are the adjectives commonly hurled at them. What,
for example, are you meant to make of the first
verse of 'I Feel Better':

It's your archetypal party album, with tracks like

'Hound Dog', 'Made In Japan':
There ain't nothing made in this country anymore
It's either Japan, Hong Kong or Singapore.
My knees turned to jelly
When I saw what she had
Tattoed underneath her belly.
It said Made in Japan.

When I'm feeling blue

I stick a pin in the pictures of you
Beside my bed
And I feel better.
When I'm feeling sad
I remember that you were the worst lay I ever had
And I feel better.

There's 'Roller Skate Kate', who's "gone to that

great skating rink in the sky", a quad-tracked
Entwistle on 'Lucille' and a version of 'My Wife' on
which you can hear the lyrics.

Only one way to find out.

None of your intellectual stuff here. Spit'n'sawdust

and Newcastle Brown or Napoleon Brandy,
depending on your taste all the way. And so it
should be. "Cost 1,500 quid in booze to make."

A juggernaut-sized black Cadillac poking out of a

drive-way warns you that chez Entwistle lies but a
step away. A jovial welcome from John's
gentleman's gentleman of the new faded denim
breed and I'm in the oak-panelled hallway. A suit
of armour stands in one corner. Note that down.
Look for clues to his psyche.

Rigor Mortis is the band Entwistle says he's going

out on the road with next year "even if it breaks the
Who up". But no doubt you remember, as well as I
do, that the Who have always been about to split
up. Anyway, hearing the new album has done no
harm. It's another side of Entwistle and that's what
I'm here for.

Entwistle appears.

We begin to discuss his emergence as a songwriter.

Another drop of Napoleon? Thank you. But why is
his writing so, dare I say it, sick?

The words of a piss-taking looner? Or...?

"Hello. Just got up." It's lunch-time. "Bloody baby

crying again all night. Come and have a cuppa tea."

"My whole idea of the world is sick. What do you

expect from ten years with the Who." And then "I
write macabre songs because no-one else does
although I'm going to get away from that image. But
to take the piss out of a death song you've got to
write a death song, which is what 'Roller-skate Kate'
is all about.

The kitchen. Colour telly flickering with the sound

switched low.
Eventually I'm shown all over the house. I'm shown
John's collection of reproduction guns. Magnums,

936

"In 'Window Shopper' I'm trying to think' how a

peeping Tom would feel, and in 'Thinkin' It Over' (a
suicide song), I'm just expressing what everyone's
felt at some time. In the lyrics I'm trying to think how
those who try it feel.

of sympathy they have shown him. In the States,

Whistle Rymes, at the time of writing, was heading
for 175,000. By contrast English sales have been
negligible.
"I don't expect the English public to like my work.
They like the norm. Look at the way they allowed
the Osmonds and the Jackson Five to be pushed at
them by the media. Americans can look at an album
and throw themselves into it and milk it for
everything there."

"I'm starved for subjects to write about. I can't write

a nonsense song. I wrote 'My Wife' while I took the
dogs for a walk. I'd had a row with her and
exaggerated it like hell."
The four televisions are apparently essential to
Entwistle's writing. He may have suits of armour,
medieval weapons and a gun collection, but when it
comes to finding subject-matter he is very definitely
a child of the Twentieth Century.

As the last drops of the third bottle of brandy were

squeezed out, the Who's emergent songwriter
summed it up, "I've just set myself an exercise to
write songs to dance to and the bloody public will
have to put up with it."

"I get very bored very easily and I watch a helluva

lot of TV. So I find a lot of my songs have been
originally influenced by something like Cathy, Come
Home. I like to be able to watch TV right into the
night. That's why I've just bought all this," pointing
at the video-cassette machine.

Cathy, Come Home, no 'moon in Junes' and an

unexpected mental sensitivity. While the others in
the Who may take hyper-energetic leaps across the
stage, and John Entwistle remains almost
motionless against the speakers, it is apparent that
he has been ready and waiting to let numbers like
Thinkin' It Over' leap out of his head.

Perhaps then, John Entwistle is not the Great Pissartist. In fact, he's even confused about his identity
as a solo artist. "I don't know what people expect
from me as a solo artist. I'm trying to do two things
at the same time. Finding out what will come out of
me and what people will accept. The lyrics on
Whistle Rymes aren't just important. They present
the whole picture of what the songs are about."

It ain't worth the worry

Starting over to make a new life
Thinking it over, I decided not to bother
I decided to take my own life.
Yet how do the generally disturbed (or disturbing)
numbers on Whistle Rymes fit in with Entwistle's
new rock'n'roll on Rigor Mortis Sets In? The two
albums, heard one after the other, lead one to see
him as a man of many moods the introvert
pouring out his neuroses one minute, and the next
he is transformed into the boozing raver. A sort of
cross between Leonard Cohen and Rod Stewart, if
anyone could imagine such a creature.

Two bottles of Napoleon down. What about the

difference between Whistle Rymes and Rigor
Mortis Sets In?
"I've been writing two different types of numbers
the Whistle Rymes type and also the Rigor Mortis
type. John Alcock (on Whistle Rymes the credits
read 'Produced by John Entwistle versus John
Alcock') "encouraged me to write rock'n'roll
numbers the Rigor Mortis type. I'm basically trying
to write new rock'n'roll."

So John Entwistle when Whistling his Rymes

becomes the homespun psychologist, and even
with Rigor Mortis he isn't content to write nothing
lyrics for his rock'n'roll melodies, 'Made In Japan'
being the perfect example. But there are things that
are still not clear about him. Why is the band called
Rigor Mortis if he's trying to get away from the
macabre image? Why the fascination with modes of
death and naughty cocktail shakers? Why did a
gentleman dressed as an undertaker deliver a
wreath to me inviting me to the Rigor Mortis
reception?

But why not integrate your numbers into the Who's

act? "I've always been dissatisfied with the Who's
treatment of my numbers. It's far too restricted. Now
I don't want the Who to record my numbers
because I've got different outlets for them. I can't
possibly foresee a time when a Who album would
be 50% my work and 50% Townshend's. I'm trying
to get a 'live' feel onto my solo albums. I think if you
listen to Whistle Rymes you can hear that we
literally revelled in making it."

John Entwistle is an enigma.

Entwistle hasn't much sympathy with the English

record-buying public, perhaps because of the lack

Chris Salewicz, 1973

937

John Entwhistle: Mad Dog

(vocally), is the best girl-group mutation of the 70's.

It's an all-out production extraganza, Spector-style,
with great sax work (from Howie Casey, an original
Liverpool rocker) and sterling vocals. Lyrically it's a
grisly extension of the My Boyfriend's Back
revenge theme lots of laughs all the way and a
real triumph.

Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, March 1975

Mad Dog is everything you'd expect from a John
Entwhistle album and more. It catches Entwhistle
in rabid transit, combining his obsession with
50's/early 80's parody/tributes (as on his
disappointing Rigor Mortis (and the mordant humor
which has characterized his work from Whiskey
Man on.

Entwhistle's sardonic skills carry the 50's send-up

style to hitherto unexplored heights. And having
reached these heights, maybe everyone (including
Entwhistle from now on) ought to leave it there and
move on to something else. But in any case, almost
like rock & roll itself, Mad Dog will stand, with a
permanent niche in the annals of rock depravity.

Never before have themes of teenage lovelorn

desperation been carried to such ridiculous
extremes, yet Entwhistle doesn't telegraph his
punches like your average lame rock parodists his
music has integrity (obvious cliches employed
deliberately with deft original touches) and the
outrageous lyrics slip up on you before you're
ready, dealing your sensibilities a lethal blow.

Ken Barnes, 1975

Too Late The Hero: John Entwistle's Rigor
Mortis Sets In

The album isn't a total knockout although the overall

effect is rather stunning, like a blow from a blunt
instrument (in this case a bass). I Fall to Pieces,
You Can Be So Mean, Lady Killer and I'm So
Scared all share a more-or-less common theme
impressionable boys rendered helpless and
quivering before girls' collective, awesome power to
confuse and abuse. Lyrically they're all superb, but
their 50's rock stylings are pretty ordinary and
sometimes unwieldy in the way of overbearing
horns, Who's in the World, a teenage rebellion
song with a catchy update of Sam Cooke's
Wonderful World ("Don't wanna know about
geography/I'd rather have pornography," etc.), is
given a lackluster C&W treatment that palls quickly.
And who else but Entwhistle would throw in a 4minute hunk of Philly-soul funk and call it Jungle
Bunny? Top disco prospect, to be sure, but rather
dispensable withal.

Gary Pig Gold, Earcandy, June 2002

"WHAT I FEEL inside I can't explain. That John
Entwistle should die in his late fifties is totally
unthinkable. He was the indestructible one. He was
the rock. He was the island. He was the fulcrum on
which it all hinged."
(Mick Farren)
"It's just too much to take. Who's next? (Literally.)"
(Tommy Womack)
"John was the best. He made 'My Generation',
along with the other lads, one of the greatest
records of all time."
(Peter Noone)
"Learned how to play bass playing along with
'Happy Jack'. Gulp...
(Rick Harper)

Three cuts stand out, however, as high water marks

for the parody genre. Cell Number Seven, with a
Chuck Berry backbeat, comes on like a Coastersstyle combination of Framed, Riot in Cell Block #9
and Jailhouse Rock, until midway through you
realize it's about the Who's bust in Montreal. Funny
stuff and first-rate music, too. Drowning features a
bridge bemoaning the difficulty of writing a love
song without cliches, in the midst of a sappy 50's
ballad awash in lyrical (and musical) cliches.
Entwhistle's structured his ballad brilliantly, with a
terrific lush arrangement, and it's ultimately quite
affecting (in spite of itself).

"For all bass players everywhere, it was Big Johnny

Twinkle who opened the gate and let the horses out
of the barn ...for good."
(Mick Hargreaves)
NOW, AS CHRIS BUTLER reminds us, there is a
Zen expression that the way to go through life
successfully is to "move like a cow" & or, in this
case, an ox. Forever surrounded, at least on stage,
by the testosterone-soaked circus which were
Messrs. Townshend, Daltrey and especially Moon, it
could often be too criminally easy to overlook The
Man, The Myth, dare I say The Ox which was, and
forever shall be, John A. Entwistle. In more ways
than one he was the George Harrison of The Who I

Star track, though has to be the title cut. Mad Dog,

sung entirely by the LP's three female background
singers with Entwhistle nowhere to be heard

938

suppose, yet Entwistle never ever took a musical

back seat to his more prolific (or at least pushier)
bandmates, employing his mighty four strings to not
so much play songs as attack them, deftly
bulldozing his basic bottom-heavy end up to an
indisputable place of sheer sonic equality within the
critical Who picking order.

Oh! And did I mention too the limey-poor young

Entwistle was forced to build his very first bass
guitar from scratch? John was probably rock and
roll's very first and probably last French hornist
as well, plus his octave-bounding voice never
feared soar from the operatic heights of (the Rolling
Stones Rock And Roll Circus rendition especially of)
'A Quick One While He's Away' deep down to the
menacing, arachniphobic rumble of the
aforementioned 'Boris'. The guy was also one
skilled artist and particularly caricaturist to boot
(again, check out the utterly underrated Who By
Numbers for starters), and was even reportedly
eight chapters into producing his too-long-awaited
autobiography (like all bassmen, from B. Wyman to
D. D. Ramone it seems, John was his band's
resident archivist/historian) when, alas, Ted End
came knocking on his Vegas hotel-room door
smack dab upon the eve of the latest Who Redux
Tour. Damn!

In that process John became, it's been said, the

Hendrix of the bass guitar. Well, yes, all that I guess
you could say, but so much more as well. For one,
the man's abundant compositional skills remain
nothing to be sneezed over. Sure, we all know and
love 'My Wife', 'Boris The Spider' (which, as Huw
Gower realizes, can shed an entirely different trick
of the light upon the fine art of teaching preschoolers all about creepy creepy crawlers), and
my own personal favorite slice of backyard blueballing, Ox-style: 'Someone's Coming' (given new
life most recently by the Pearlfishers' own David
Scott). These, along with the brace of less
immediately recognizable Entwistle gems, always
served to deflate with a wry, macabre smirk just
as Moon that Loon would off record any and most
every lofty pretention emanating from that
Townshend corner of the band's equation. Prime
example? Without Uncle Ernie or Cousin Kevin,
Tommy would play as just another Jesus Christ:
Pinball Star, now wouldn't he? Suffice to add as
well, any singer/songwriter waging the Rock Star
Wars out there today need never look any further
than Entwistle's Who By Numbers masterpiece
'Success Story' whenever grappling with the beauty,
the splendor, the wonder bread which is R-O-C-K in
the USA: "I am your fairy manager," our anti-hero
devilishly declares therein. "You shall play Carnegie
Hall." Indeed.

Of course Pete and naturally Roger will carry on

without either end of their original rhythm section
now left standing ("John would've wanted it that
way," as the Press Release goes), but The Who
without the Loon, and now The Ox, isn't a matter I'll
care to turn either ear towards anymore I fear. For
wasn't it Moon biographer Tony Fletcher, for one,
who pointed out the gnawing chasms separating a
Good Band from & A TRULY GREAT Band? Or, in
the words of no less an expert on the subject as
Crawdaddy founder/publisher Paul Williams, "Great
rock groups are miracles of human chemistry.
Without the solidity and musical instincts and
unique personality of John Alec, we would not have
had the outrageous creativity and genius and
maximum rock and roll of Keith and Peter and
Roger ...or The Who at all. So we must thank him
for making modern music as we know it possible."

Then again, outside of The Who's stadiumapproved confines, John's grim tales took on even
more devious hues and cries. In fact, I for one
would wager far more people perished within the
verses filling Entwistle's solo albums than
anywheres this side of a vintage Johnny Cash longplayer. To whit, Teddy "Ted End" Greenstreet
(prophetically?) passes in his sleep, the titanic
trysters of 'Love Is A Heart Attack', you guessed it,
succumb to a joint carnal coronary upon "setting
their pacemakers to a boogie beat," and sweet
young dolly-dancers quickly become the death of
the party as they innocently begin to Do The Dangle
(well there's a brand new dance with a brand new
angle; it's the very last waltz and it's called The
Dangle. You tie a rope round your neck and stand
on a chair, and you kick it away and you're dancing
on air!). My, but we can perhaps only imagine just
what these three selections alone could have
become if only they'd first surfaced in the prime of
the MTV age.

"Yes. Thank You, John. And remember: You only die

once in a lifetime."
(Gary Pig Gold)
"In his songs The Ox spent a lot of time playfully
and not so playfully mapping types of hells, but
that's just to say that beyond question his real place
is in Heaven."
(Jeremy Gluck)
"RIP John Entwistle, I hope you are dancing
somewhere with Peg Leg Peggy right now."
(Scott McCaughey)
Gary Pig Gold, 2002
The Bored Side of Keith Moon

939

Penny Valentine, Sounds, 5 May 1973

For those of you who are the smallest bit fashion

conscious I feel I should, at this stage, point out that
this very day Mr. Moon is looking quite resplendent.
He is wearing a three piece suit (yes a suit) topped
off with a very large spotted bow tie and that
cigarette holder.

KEITH MOON, it was rumoured, was bored.

Normally I wouldn't have believed it. I mean Moon
over-zealous, Moon looning, Moon causing riots
across the globe? Yes such rumours I would have
believed. But Moon bored, actually BORED? No
indeedy.
Still, such tales emanated from a good source. Pete
Townshend in fact. There I was standing in Wardour
Street at around 6 p.m. the other day (waiting to get
home I assure you) when Townshend loomed in the
distance, on his way to the station, and we cheerily
shared a cab.

He also now sports a gap in his front teeth. Very

endearing when he grins, which he does a lot, and
an addition which heightens his strange
resemblance to the late Robert Newton (famous,
you may recall, for his rousing TV performances in
Treasure Island and a gentleman whose
impersonation Moon has off to a fine art. Much
"argh Jim M'lad").

On the way we talked of many things shoes,

ships, sealing wax ... and Keith Moon's boredom.
Pete, it transpired, had tried to cheer him up with
tales of only two weeks to go and we start on the
next album. But Moon had stuck firm and said,
somewhat gloomily, that two weeks was a damn
long time to wait for activity or words to that effect.

Keith is also sporting an air of some sobriety a

fact that also comes as a surprise today. The main
reason being, I am informed, that he has promised
to be very upright indeed when he appears later this
very afternoon on Radio giving a talk on 'The Care
of Guns'. Somehow this all adds to the amusement
of the day.

Pete had taken the whole thing with humour a

man obviously well accustomed to such tales of
woe within the Who, a group lets face it who do not
like inactivity at the best of times.

Interviewing Keith Moon can be dangerous. He is

extremely likeable. He is also very very funny. But
unless people know him well they tend to shy away
from his image of archetypal maniac, in fear that
they may never be seen again once having trotted
off to have words with him.

So when, some days later, it was set that I should

parlay to Mr. Moon over a few brandies in a local
pub I put it to him straight. What, I enquired, was it
all about? And indeed was it a fact?

In fear, indeed, of meeting a ghastly end in some far

flung public call box at his wily hands. It is this
image that Moon has carried with him since the
very earliest days of the Who somehow setting
the whole atmosphere of the group at large.

Needless to say when we got to the nitty gritty

things weren't quite as dastardly and dramatic as I
had at first supposed.

They have gained from it just as they have

sometimes suffered from it. Moon is not a man to
be ignored. And yet he can be serious, down to
earth and beguiling. He tries hard today to smother
the obvious temptations to have me curling on the
floor in hysterics, unable to set pen to paper. Indeed
for the first quarter of an hour of our conversation
he is damn near solemn.

"Mmm well," and he stuffed a cigarette into a long

holder with great dash if not aplomb "I suppose I
must have been when I spoke to Pete. But I do
manage to stave off a lot of the boredom I could
suffer when were not working. Like doing the film,
other incidentals.
"I think it's important to have a hobby outside the
band. If all your energies were directed into the
Who it would be very easy for the whole thing to
just take you over. It's important that there are other
things going on that we can all get into so that the
Who doesn't become a chore.

We talk about this image of his and whether he ever

feels the other side of his character is being
swamped by it. His answer is brief and to the point:
"I find it very difficult to be serious put in a ready
laugh there. Would you? (Okay Keith ha ha ha) I
always see things in a very funny way. I can see
any situation at any time and see the funny side to
it.

"It's also important that those things stay simply

hobbies and that the Who is the utmost thing in all
our minds which, I may say, it is.

"Anyway there's bugger all I can do about my

image. I'd have to change my whole lifestyle if I
wanted to do anything about it.

940

We also talk about his extra-curricular Who

activities like That'll Be The Day, and the yet to be
seen film with Harry Nilsson. The part from That'll
Be The Day was especially written in by Ray
Connolly after they'd met on the set. Originally it
didn't have a line of dialogue. Then Connolly met
Moon and ... well words had to be found from
somewhere.

member of the Rainbow cast that accepted the

invite to do a two week run in Australia.
His Aussie version of Uncle Ernie apparently was
something to be seen.
"Because we hadn't worked for so long I needed
the money and also there's a great duty free shop
in Singapore, so I thought it would be a good idea. I
wasn't really looking forward to it because the last
time I'd been in Australia was in '68 and it wasn't a
very happy tour.

Since that film Keith has also started work on a film

script something he wants to get into much more
at a later date: "I met a lot of people during filming
that started me thinking about working on various
other things. The thing is that within the Who I'm not
as into the music side as they are, I've always been
more involved in the visual side of the group.

"I'd never met such a lot of pig headed bastards

and we had all these hassles with the press and the
authorities. They weren't into a lot of long haired
idiots coming over and spearing the bearded clam
it upset them.

"There were several suggestions that with Roger

doing an album and John doing his I should do a
comedy album. But I was a bit dubious about the
idea. So much of what I do is purely visual.

"But this time everyone was great. I did 4 TV chat

shows and the whole place felt different. We were
only supposed to do the show for a week but we
sold out so many times it went into two. In the end I
could see myself spending the rest of my life
shuttling between Melbourne and Sydney.

"I just can't imagine doing 'Eight million ways of

falling over' for instance, on record. I feel that might
get rather lost."
Next week the Who go into the studios and start
work on the grand double album enterprise from
Pete Townshend's brain. Maybe it's the proximity of
getting back to work that's cheered Moon up 18
months is a long time without something other than
an arm to get your teeth into.

"I think my Uncle Ernie over there was even

grubbier than it was here. I really played him as a
dirt-ridden old pervert type casting you may think.
"In the breaks between shows I used to go into the
park in my filthy old mac and straggly beard and
jump out from behind the bushes. It terrified all the
audience that had just come out.

So bored, a little, Moon might have been. But idle?

Never. Aside from the filming there are all kinds of
jollies to impart very tempting sagas they are to.
And by another couple of brandies Moon is telling
them with some relish.

"You know the only instructions I got on how to play

the part for Australian audiences was from the
director who came up one day and said 'Moon if
you go on sober again I'll sack you'.

There is the saga of the Monty Python football

match, for instance. Moon's team, it transpires,
were not doing very well. Python's mob were
tromping them soundly: "I'd say the result was two
goals, a try and two submissions. During the first
half we brought all these little kids into our
goalmouth.

"Apparently he didn't feel I was really getting all the

relish I could into the role because I was behaving
myself. After that I got better."
So Moon, emerged from the "new" Australia a
wiser, and richer man? Well, no, not exactly.
Unfortunately his returning plane to London stopped
over in Singapore for a good, 24 hour period. And
that's where that really good "duty free shop"
lurked. And that's where Moon lurked. And that's
why he didn't return to London laden with wealth.

"They-stood looking winsomely across the pitch and

every time Python roared across we yelled 'Mind
the kids'. Very good, and it worked."
During the second half Moon moved a bar, well
equipped, into the goal mouth instead. This time
cries of "Save the ale!" caused Python to disband in
some confusion. No more goals were scored.

Still he had a good time. And he certainly wasn't

bored.

There is also the saga of Moon "touring" in the

Australian production of Tommy. Aside from
Graham Bell, Moon was the only other original

Penny Valentine, 1973

941

Keith Moon: The White Tornado

festival, and two British jazz men of some stature

were passing the stage, as the Who came on. "Are
you coming?" asked one heading for the beer tent.
"No, wait a minute, I can't keep my eyes off this
drummer." The musician of the old school stood
open-mounted and obviously delighted. A whole
generation more fans all around the world were
eventually to watch Keith at work in the same way.

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 16 September 1978

ON THE RADIO they were playing a tribute to Keith
Moon. They put on 'My Generation' by the Who. We
heard the line that now has a hollow ring. But at the
crucial moment, they faded-out the drums, that
glorious outburst of percussive exhuberance that
epitomised Moon as man and musician.

Right from the beginning people used to worry

about Keith. Another night I recall was spent at the
Manor House in North London, then a regular rock
gig. The Who concluded a deafening, but
exhilarating set in the tiny packed room with a
smash-up finale. Suddenly Keith collapsed and was
carried out feet first through the crowd by two
roadies, unconscious from the combined effects of
heat, beer, pills and his own frantic endeavours.
Already it looked like he was killing himself. But
gradually there grew the belief that Keith was
super-human, indestructible.

It wasn't a "drum solo" in the accepted meaning of

the phrase. Keith never played them. His whole
style was to play as much as possible, wherever
and whenever he could. He knew no barriers and
disciplines in that respect, and yet he produced a
musical style that was uncompromising, natural, at
times devastating, and totally honest. In some ways
his contribution alone was equal to the sum parts of
Pete, John and Roger. The sheer SOUND of the
Who depended on that relentless, unswerving, but
loving committment from the acres of drums and
forests of cymbals that Moon belaboured with
terrifying energy.

Gradually the impish face and huge, staring eyes

became haunted by his own frustrations and
yearnings. People were often surprised to find
Keith, the wild monster of the front pages, so polite,
so charming and well-spoken, when he wanted to
be himself. Whether this was the real Keith Moon,
any more than were his other roles, it would be hard
to tell. The simple answer was that he was all the
roles he played. He was consumed by a passion for
life that nobody else could survive for more than a
matter of weeks, let alone years.

And yet his image as hellraiser and Court Jester of

rock and roll sometimes obscured the fact that he
was a fine musician, who took his playing with the
band as seriously as any symphony percussionist
or jazz drummer. Despite his battered health in
recent years, his playing seemed to grow in stature.
It was one of the key factors in the new album Who
Are You, where he considerably updated his style. It
was while going through a difficult passage during
the making of the album that Keith yelled out to the
producer: "I'm the best Keith Moon-type drummer in
the world!" And he was.

He never much wanted to talk about drums and

hardware and other players, in the manner of most
percussionists. But in retrospect I don't think this
stemmed from uninterest, so much as a genuine
shyness and perhaps even a deep-seated lack of
confidence, although watching Keith attack the
famous Premier showkits, especially built for him,
this might have seemed hard to believe.

For all the grimaces and by-play during a

performance, Keith was equipped with a
combination of stamina, sheer will-power singleminded dedication, and a very valid technique. Tony
Williams, American jazz drummer, idolised by
legions of players, who came to fame at the age of
17 with Miles Davies, once told me, quite
spontaneously, that his favourite drummer was
Keith Moon. "He's beautiful. Totally free."

But he did take playing seriously and a few years

ago turned up to a drummer's convention in the
West End, much to the concern of more sober
players like Pete York of the Spencer Davis Group
and Ian Paice of Deep Purple. I could sense the
mounting tension as Keith gaily took over a kit that
had been set up for a drum battle and proceded to
demolish it with wild, untutored swipes.

THAT freedom was first experienced in the earliest

days of the Who, when the drum passage on 'My
Generation' was conceived as part of a group freakout, an exercise in rule-breaking on what seemed a
devastating scale in those days of cheery
Merseybeat. One of the first times I saw Moon in
action, with the Who was at the Fifth Annual NJF
Festival in 1965 when he seemed like a white
tornado, in sweat soaked tee shirt and jeans. In
those days jazz bands still constituted a part of the

IT may have been a far cry from Joe Morello-style

finger control, but it was great fun, and as Ginger
Baker once said, "you've gotta know how to dance
on a drum kit before you can play one." Keith often
seemed to be dancing with his kit as he pushed the
bass drums and tom-toms flying, and as the
cymbals swung dangerously past the heads of

942

Townshend and Daltrey. Forgive the "I

remembers"...but there was the night at the
Marquee around the time of 'Magic Bus' when I
heard two skinheads almost shriek with delight.
Keith had produced a large silver hammer and was
proceeding to pulverise his valuable cymbals. But it
was all in mime and not even Keith would play
Zildjians with a two pound hammer.

there, driving his mates onwards, never letting them

off the hook.
Chris Welch, 1978
Keith Moon: Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere
Chris Charlesworth, Melody Maker, 16 September
1978

Keith always got a great sound from his kit. His

snare drum crackled with living fire. No muffs and
pads and blankets for him, if he could avoid it. His
drums used to ring and shout and this is well
demonstrated on 'Cobwebs & Strange', one of his
contributions to 'A Quick One While He's Away'
(1966), where he played a series of faster and
faster drum breaks to screams of protest. This was
also the album for which Keith wrote one of his few
songs, the moving 'I Need You', a facet of his career
that he should have developed. If his work here
seemed unsophisticated then by the time Tommy
was recorded in '69, there was a new Moon rising.
His contributions to Tommy were conceived in a
grand, orchestral fashion: his booming tomtoms and
that kind of run-up to an accent that was Keith's
trade mark were ideally suited to Pete's symphonic
construction.

SOMETIME IN 1972, when my admiration for the

Who was at its most passionate peak, I spent an
afternoon at Keith Moon's house in Chertsey. It was
a crazy, angular pyramid-like structure and I had
been there many times before, usually in
circumstances that ended with the haziest
recollections and the thickest of heads.
This particular visit, however, was official. Keith
Moon was to be the subject of the "Melody Maker
Interviews", an in-depth question-and-answer
session to which major rock musicians were
subjected from time to time.
Somewhere in between the rippling belly-laughs,
the tales of reckless abandon and the never-ending
supply of outrage, I drew Keith into an
uncharacteristic seriousness, a peculiar calm
moment amid the ferocious storm of the interview's
general direction.

On Live At Leeds his battering drive throughout

'Young Man Blues' is one of the highlights of this
live testimony to the Who at their on-stage best.
Listen to those bass drums stop and the control
Keith evercises over his cymbals. "Control" is not a
word much used to describe Moon in action, but he
had plenty of that over his beloved drums. When he
wore headphones during the touring years, it was
not for show. He was anxious to get the accents in
the right places during complicated eletronic pieces,
and he wanted to be sure he could hear everything.

"What does it all mean, Keith?" I asked, not really

knowing what to expect for an answer.
He waited a moment or two before answering. The
loopy grin with the missing front tooth disappeared
and the wild eyes became reflective instead of
challenging. He spoke more slowly, choosing words
carefully, as if the pressure of seriousness was,
indeed, a difficult chore.

THE last time I saw Keith Moon & The Who was at
Charlton football ground in 1976. It rained. The
crowd fought a lot. The Who were amazing. From a
seat in the grandstand I was able to watch Keith
close up, and was impressed not, as was usual, by
the show of demonic energy, but by his attention to
the details of the arrangements, by his accuracy
and lightning reactions. Only an hour before, the
Other Keith Moon had been tunnelling his way
through the roof of the dressing room, dropping
down upon unsuspecting party-goers with shouts of
laughter. On stage, the "bloody bell-boy" was just
as entertaining, hurling his sticks into the crowd,
grabbing the mike for some stagey announcements,
his eyes rolling to heaven, a series of wicked
expressions roller-coasting across his face. But if
ever the musical party began to flag, if 'My
Generation' or 'Magic Bus' seemed in danger of
losing their spontaneity, then Moon would be in

"On stage," he replied, his mind travelling to some

gigantic stadium where the Who had triumphed at
some concert or other. "That's what it's all about.
Being up there in front of all those people and
watching them enjoy something that I've helped to
create. Nothing, nothing at all, can replace that
feeling. Everything else is bullshit, really.
"I love playing the drums for the Who. Just to be up
there and hear that roar. That's the biggest, most
exciting feeling that a man can have. Thanks to the
Who, I've known that feeling and I am eternally
grateful to them for giving me that. I never want it to
stop."

943

I CANT pretend to have known Keith Moon very

well. Keith was extraordinarily gregarious, the kind
of man who knew thousands of people, and
thousands more knew him back. Our paths crossed
many times whilst I wrote for Melody Maker,
especially since my admiration for the Who slipped
into print on more than one occasion. Also, I lived in
Engelfield Green, not a stone's throw away from
Chertsey and Tara House where the demon
drummer came home to roost from time to time. He
always welcomed a stray journalist as a drinking
companion.

"Herman" Noone's birthday. Keith, fleeing from a

catastrophe that involved a cake fight and a car in a
hotel pool, tripped at the feet of the law, lost his
tooth and spent a night in jail.
He never changed. More recently, at a Los Angeles
hotel, Keith was reprimanded by the manager for
playing a tape of The Who By Numbers too loudly.
"It's a noise," exclaimed the irate official. One hour
later the door of Moon's suite shattered in an
explosion that sent vibrations echoing throughout
the entire hotel. "That was a noise," explained
Moon, to the astonished manager. "What you heard
before was the Who."

It is my contention that very few people knew Keith

Moon very well. Keith revelled in an enormous
variety of disguises and costumes: the upper-class
twit, the East-End upstart, the drunken oaf, the filthy
pervert, the romantic dreamer and, most of all, the
practical joker. To his audience, and that means offstage as well as on, he was an irresistible fool, an
unsuppressible comic and a very lovable idiot. In
one way or another he was always performing,
always being the Keith Moon of the newspaper
headlines, always living the role he had chosen for
himself and never revealing the true identity.

AS A practical joker, Keith Moon had few peers. Noone who was around at the time will ever forget the
Nazi uniform incident with Vivian Stanshall at the
Speakeasy nor, I suppose will the customers at the
Trafalgar Square Beerkeller. There was the time
when he wrapped himself from head to toe in
bandages and stepped out into the streets of
London, first to gain sympathy and then to astonish
the sympathiseri by sprinting off to his waiting RollsRoyce.

From the very beginnings of the Who, from their

earliest days in Shepherds Bush, Moon determined
to become the most outlandish character in pop.
Legend has it that the night he joined the Who,
standing in for Doug Sandon at the White Hart in
Acton he destroyed a drum kit that had served its
previous owner for 20 years. He was dressed in
orange with orange dyed hair and he was hired on
the spot. The absence of money in those days did
not deter Keith's resolution; while Pete was running
up the bills by poleaxing Rickenbackers, Keith was
matching him pound for pound in the Soho
nightspots. The pattern remained the same for
fifteen years.

There was a time in Windsor, during the filming of

200 Motels, when he dressed as a nun and climbed
from an upstairs window. The last time I saw Keith's
name in print was due to some lunacy on a transAtlantic flight. There were so many times, recalled
over double brandies before captivated listeners,
when the booming laugh would ring out like a
foghorn, madly infectious and totally captivating.
"COME in dear boy," Keith, the host, would say,
welcoming visitors to the chaos that was Tara
House. And, once inside, the visitor was sucked into
the dizzy whirlpool of Moonmania. Music from
record players, tape machines, radios and juke
boxes blared from every room, television sets and
video machines were switched on and off. Friends
shouted above the din and cars, motorcycles and
hovercrafts were revved up.

KEITH MOON stories are legend, and everyone

has their favourite. Many have been told and retold
until the truth is embellished with fiction to the
extent that the yarn becomes a classic of rock
folklore. Simply to have inspired such a legend is no
mean feat, but the fact that the majority of famous
tales have their roots in actuality put Keith Moon in
a class by himself. No performer in rock ever came
close to enjoying the reputation for outrageousness
that Keith earned for himself.

On the bathroom wall was John Lennon's gold

record for 'She Loves You' and in the garden the
genteel host, dressed in a gold smoking jacket,
would be taking pot shots at birds with a highpowered riffle and telling some mystifieid
acquaintance the sad saga of Billy Fury's pet owls
that were left at Tara for safekeeping. The poor owls
would have been safer in the Sinai desert.

Keith had the knack of being utterly charming one

moment and devastatingly delinquent the next.
Some of the worst excesses occurred on the Who's
early American tours when the discomforts suffered
doubtless warranted a protest of some kind. The
infamous front tooth was lost, I believe, in Flint,
Michigan, during a party to celebrate Peter

He was the most generous of men. The distinction

between genuine friends, admirers and
bloodsuckers became blurred when Keith was in a
partying mood. He liked to be surounded at all

944

times, to be the leader of the pack. He even bought

a pub near Oxford where he could play host to both
friends and strangers. The manufacturers of Remy
Martin brandy will be amongst those who mourn
most deeply, even if the same cannot be said for
the Hotel Proprietors Association of America.

couldn't understand why more fans hadn't turned

out to see the Who, who, after all, were the finest
rock band ever to take a stage. That night the Who
put on the show of their life (again!), playing with
the magnificent fury that characterised their early
days, and Moon, putting disappointment aside,
attacked his drums with the spirit of Hercules,
Afterwards I complimented him on the performance.

It must be said that Keith paid dearly for his

excesses; the extravagances were always paid for
in the end, and in hard cash too. I had a passing
acquaintance with an accountant brought in by
Keith to examine his financial affairs, a task of
horrific proportions that he was reluctant to discuss,
as befits a professional with private information.

"It's like Pete said," he replied. "We were playing for

the people that weren't there."
Amidst all the craziness, Keith Moon's talents as a
rock drummer were often overlooked. No other
drummer in rock ever put quite as much energy into
a performance as Moon; while his peers would be
content to fix a solid back-beat, juggling between
their snare and hi-hat, Moon would consistently
extend himself over the entire kit.

He did mention, however, that Keith had one day

driven past a garage that dealt exclusively with
selling Ferrari cars. Our hero ordered three, one
red, one white and one blue. They were never
delivered, mainly because of a conversation
between the accountant and garage owner. Keith
never mentioned the matter again; apparently he
forgot the purchase completely.

AND what a kit it was. Twin kick drums the size of

timpani, four floor toms (one for use as a drinks
tray), as many smaller toms as there was space
and crash, and ride cymbals galore. He was a
comical sight, a tiny bundle of white energy, skating
across so many drums, rolling sticks, pulling faces
and always, but always, catching the end of the roll
in perfect time. He was happiest, I suspect, when
the music reached one of Townshend's crescendos,
when he was called upon to pummel the floor toms
for all he was worth, both arms striking the drums
together and, of course, making as much bloody
noise as he could.

His stable of cars was impressive. There were two

Rollses, one a white Corniche and the other a lilac
Silver Cloud II. The latter was his special favourite,
apart from the AC Cobra, a terrifying machine that
ended up wrapped around a bollard somewhere
between Egham and Staines. There was a
magnificent Mercedes-Benz, too, as well as the
ancient Chrysler, a Caponemobile that boasted
bullet holes in the windows and always carried a
spare machine gun.

His work in the studio could be as controlled as his

live work-outs were flamboyant. The best example
is on Who's Next, when producer Glyn Johns
tightened the Who's sound to produce their most
perfect record. It is interesting to compare this
album with Live At Leeds when Moon's attack is at
its most ferocious; yes, it is the same man on both
records.

IF I have dwelt too long on the outrage, I apologise,

for there were other sides to Keith Moon. He
exhibited a terrifyingly fierce loyalty towards the
Who. What was said behind locked doors was one
thing, but woe betide any man who uttered a
criticism of his three colleagues. More often than
not, John Entwistle was Keith's partner in crime, but
he always spoke of Roger, and especially Pete, in
glowing terms. Keith would and did spend time
with any rock musician on the planet, but he never
allowed his admiration for others to interfere with
allegiance to the Who. Outwardly modest, he was
enormously proud of the Who's achievements,
convinced that he played drums for the finest rock
band ever to take the stage.

Keith Moon never took a drum solo. "They're

boring," he'd say, and there are many who would
agree. Neither did he talk drums much; he admired
Ringo Starr, but I suspect that had more to do with
Ringo's group than Ringo's drumming. He also
spoke highly of Bob Henrit.
It is doubtful whether Keith could have played with
any other group. His awesome technique suited the
Who to a tee, but with any other musicians he
would have overshadowed the lead instruments.
The Who's sound was based on Townshend's
rhythmic flair, carried along by the powerhouse
drums and thunderous bass. Curiosly Keith's
musical influence seemed to be surf music; he was

The last time I saw the Who was in Jacksonville,

Florida, towards the end of 1976. Unlike most other
parts of the US, Florida was not Who territory. This
fact, coupled with a greedy promoter and a weak
supporting cast, resulted in an audience of 20,000
instead of 40,000 a bad blow to the Who's
prestige. Keith, more than anyone, took the matter
to heart. He was hurt and angry because he

945

a fanatical admirer of the Beach Boys and other

surfing bands. At home he would sing along to this
music, invariably off-key, turning the volume up to a
deafening level to camouflage his peculiar pitching.

simply by walking in and announcing at a rehearsal

that he was their new drummer.
When Keith first appeared with the Who, in his
customary white tee shirt and jeans, he seemed like
a tornado of energy. Some have described his
impact as 'like an orchestra playing' as he
dispensed with the normal, accepted role of time
keeper. Most drummers, then and now, stayed with
a solid back beat, allowing themselves the luxury of
the odd 'fill-in', a couple of bars of drum rolls round
the kit. Keith rarely stayed on this restrictive path.
He would play an off-beat (the second and fourth
beat of each bar) on the snare drum for a few
seconds, but swiftly spun off at a tangent, building
up crescendos on his tom toms or playing
paradiddle patterns (left right left left, right left right
right), from the top to the bottom end of the tonal
range of his kit which swiftly grew in size over the
years.

THE first time I met Keith Moon was in 1970, a few

weeks after joining the staff of Melody Maker, at La
Chasse Club, a small drinking den above the
Marquee in London's Wardour Street. I asked to be
introduced and Keith, though surrounded by friends,
was his gracious self. I think he bought me a beer.
Some weeks later I saw the Who perform at
Dunstable Civic Hall and submitted a rave review
which was published in Caught In The Act. It was
the first time I had actually written about the Who in
the pages of MM, although I had been a fan since I
first saw them at Leeds sometime in 1965.
On the Friday of the following week, two days after
that issue of Melody Maker became available, Keith
Moon called me at the MM office to thank me for
the good review. I was astonished that an artist of
Moon's status would do such a thing; it hadn't
happened before and, I might add, it has rarely
happened since. It was the beginning of a
friendship I shall always cherish.

Moon pioneered the use of the big drum kit, and

always stayed loyal to the British manufacturer,
Premier, who began to customize kits for their most
demanding customer.
The astonishing Live At Leeds, one of the best
location-recorded albums in rock, showed Keith at
his most alert, responding to the tortuous twists of
Townshend's flaming guitar and the arrogance of
Roger Daltrey's vocals. In such circumstances,
particularly on 'Young Man Blues', Keith became
part of the front line, leaving John Entwistle to hold
the beat together. John has said he used to watch
Keith's feet 'to know when to come in again', after
one of his wilder outbursts.

Chris Charlesworth, 1978

Keith Moon: An appreciation
Chris Welch, The History of Rock, 1981
LONG BEFORE the myths and legends of Keith
Moon as a rock celebrity began to grip the
imagination of the public and sensation-hungry
newspapers, his unique talent and contribution to
rock drumming had been recognised and
appreciated.

There was, of course, the showmanship aspect of

Keith's playing, but most of the time he was content
to settle down and get on with the job of powering
the Who, which he did with the utmost dedication. I
remember seeing Keith being carried out feet-first
by roadies after a 45-minute set in the sweltering
heat of the manor house, a London rock pub, in the
early Sixties.

If there was one part of his life that Keith took

seriously it was his instinctive flair and feeling for
drums and drumming. It was part of his nature to
give the impression he didn't care, and that
somehow it all happened under the influence of
brandy and cheers. But Moon had a clear vision of
how the drums should be played; there was no
agonizing over stylistic influences or long drawn out
processes of learning and study. He might have
been a better drummer if he had, but he wouldn't
have been Keith Moon with his own instantly
recognizable style that contributed so much to the
overall impact of the Who.

Keith tuned his drum heads tightly, unlike most rock

drummers who prefer a slack sound to suit their
laid-back style. As a result his drums had a
distinctive 'ring' and, as there were a lot of them,
they were the bane of the lives of recording
engineers and roadies.
Sometimes in the studio, at Townshend's behest,
Keith would relinquish his big kit and just play on a
snare and bass drum, if a simple beat was required.
Not so on the road. The stage became awash with

Keith was born on 23 August 1946. It's doubtful if he

ever had much in the way of drum lessons, but his
playing was the ideal way to drain himself of his
demoniac, restless energy. He joined the Who

946

drums, Keith slaving away behind them, and

presenting an unforgettable sight.

When Keith's death was announced I was in new

York reporting on a tour by another band for Melody
Maker. On returning to my desk in London I found a
scribbled note: "Keith Moon called". He had 'phoned
to thank me for a review of his drumming on Who
Are You. It was too late to 'phone back.

On the road, Keith liked his drums to be set up in

the same way each night, at the appropriate angles
and positions. But he has so many drums, several
of them were almost out of reach. "Ridiculous" was
his long-suffering roadie's comment when a new set
of tom-toms was added.

Chris Welch, 1981

Keith Moon: Patent British Exploding Drummer

One particularity was the hi-hat, normally a pedal

which brings two small cymbals together to produce
a characteristic 'click' sound. The hi-hat has
become the corner-stone of all modern funk
drumming. But it had no place in the Moon scheme
of things, beyond a truncated version without a
pedal, and the two cymbals locked together. This
enabled Keith to keep time with his right hand,
leaving his feet free to operate the two bass-drum
pedals.

Rob Chapman, Mojo, September 1998

BOY, HOW WE CHERISH ROCK'S foundation
myths. The idea that merchant seamen brought
back rare R&B records to Liverpool docks and
fuelled the Merseybeat scene is so much more
exotic than the possibility that in Liverpool in the
early '60s, as in any other city, you could go into a
specialist record shop and order them. Real life
gets to be both mundane and exotic. With myth we
only settle for the extraordinary.

He normally used two 22-inch bass drums, and

three 14 x 8-inch tom-toms fitted on top of the
basses. He had an array of single-headed concert
tom-toms, ranging in size from 10, 12, 13 to 14
inches. On his right-hand side lay two floor tomtoms: 16 x 16 and 16 x 18 inches. Beyond those lay
15 and 16-inch diameter single-headed drums, and
a pair of copper timbales were also packed into the
array. Sometimes a 22-inch tympani drum appeared
and there was usually a 38-inch gong behind
Keith's head.

Which brings us to Keith Moon, where myth has

been multi-layered upon myth until it's hard to
discern where the legend ends and the man begins.
"Keith lived his entire life as a fantasy," Roger
Daltrey, The Who's singer, told me. Moon The Loon,
as we all know, is the guy who drove a Lincoln
Continental into a Holiday Inn swimming pool; the
exhibitionist drummer par excellence who turned up
for his Who audition dressed from head to toe in
ginger. Well, according to a forthcoming near-asdammit definitive account of Moon's life by Tony
Fletcher (Dear Boy: The Life Of Keith Moon,
published by Omnibus Press) neither of these
seminal events actually happened.

Keith centred his activities around the snare drum in

conventional manner, usually a 5 1/2-inch Premier
or Ludwig, and glared and grinned out at the world
beyond the forest of Paiste cymbals, stands, boom
arms and microphones.

That's not to say that other equally extraordinary

things didn't happen when Moon was around. It's
just that the myth repertoire has been embellished
so much down the years, not least by those closest
to him, that it's sometimes hard to get a glimpse of
the man behind the actor's mask. As Fletcher also
points out, so determined was Moon about playing
out the role of junior partner in The Who that he
even knocked a year off his age, making him twoand-a-bit years younger than Pete Townshend,
rather than the mere 15 months that he actually
was. All this merely heaps further intrigue upon
Keith Moon's already rich, spellbinding, tragicomic,
myth-making maelstrom of a life. All that we know
for certain is that amid the carnage of a thousand
wild parties in a thousand trashed motel rooms
there emerges, eventually, the wreckage of a man.
He could drum a bit too.

Keith Moon died in September 1978, worn out, not

so much by his dynamic drumming but his life of
excess and extravagance, fuelled by the meteroric
success and riches generated by the group he
helped so much.
Keith rarely talked about drumming but he loved to
sit in with bands, meet other drummers and be a
part of their fraternity. The last time I could closely
observe Moon in action was at Charlton where
Press and guests sat in the grandstand behind the
band. There I could watch and admire the
surprising complexity of his snare-drum work, the
speed of his sticking, and intelligent use of cymbal
accents. This wasn't the 'animal' stereotype of the
muppets, not the clown of the gossip columns. This
was Keith Moon drummer.

947

IN ONE SENSE THIS IS A FAMILIAR TALE retold

from the perspective of the guy who sat at the back
except that in no other sense than the purely
literal did the man sitting behind the kit ever take a
back-seat role. Keith Moon was, indisputably, the
greatest rock'n'roll drummer this country has ever
produced. No-one even runs him close. Other
drummers had their quirks, their charm, their
competence. Moon in his pomp was possessed of
some almost inhuman, turbine energy.

came up and said, 'My mate can play drums better

than your drummer.' We were interested because
we had a session drummer that we'd hired who
worked for Marshall's music store in the drum
department and he was working out extremely
expensive, making half the total that we were
making. Keith comes over, a lovely little
gingerbread man, and we said, 'Do you know
'Roadrunner'?' He said, 'Yeah.' In playing it he
smashed the hi-hat and put a hole in the skin. The
other drummer wasn't very pleased. He got the gig
basically 'cos he could play 'Roadrunner'." Roger
Daltrey: "Although we loved 'Roadrunner' we did
find it a bit repetitive to play. A lot of those old R&B
covers were just different lyrics over the same eight
bars, which led to all the elongated solos and
feedback and free-form stuff we used to do, and it
was just at the period where this was starting to
develop into something. When Moon joined it went
completely onto another planet. It just gelled. He
just instinctively put drum rolls in places that other
people would never have thought of putting them."

With his unorthodox mannerisms sticks held high

above his head, index fingers pointing down, a
corruption of the military-band style he learned in
the Sea Cadets and his face permanently in
frozen postures of speed rapture, he looked like
some Vorticist apparition. The visual effect was akin
to someone playing the drums as he plunged down
a lift-shaft (a stunt that Moon would no doubt have
been willing to attempt). He was also the obvious
inspiration for Animal, The Muppets' demented
house band drummer. And there you have the two
sides of the Moon. Wyndham Lewis could have
dreamed him up just so Jim Henson could clone
him. Pete Townshend polished his auto-destructive
leanings on Kit Lambert's conceptual brilliance and
wielded his guitar like a metaphor. Moon cribbed
Lambert's accent and his dear-boy mannerisms. He
smashed his drum kit like a football hooligan let
loose on the 5.15.

"The most amazing thing at first was that we could

actually hear him," says Entwistle. "Most of the
drummers we'd worked with weren't very loud. I
actually developed my slapping style of playing
because the snare drum was too weak I hit my
bass to make a fake snare drum sound. The first
gig he ever played with us was a wedding, probably
the only wedding we ever played. We had this
gadget called a Swiss Echo. All of our sound
depended on having this echo boosting the sound
through the PA. If the Swiss Echo broke we had no
PA. The tape bust and we called, 'Drum solo!'. Keith
said, 'I'm not playing this ridiculous drum solo.' We'd
wondered why he'd tied this rope around his whole
kit, and tied it all to a pillar. Then he played this solo
and the drums were heaving sideways. I guess
that's when we realised how flamboyant he was.

Moon the boy-child lived a typical North London

1950s life of Goon Shows and grocery rounds.
Hyperactive even then, they'd probably put it down
to a cheese allergy now. In Tony Fletcher's book
everyone in Moon's first two bands, The Escorts
and The Beachcombers, comments both on what a
loveable cheeky little scamp he was and the
explosive nature of his drumming. There was
nothing to compare it with in pop. He was more like
the flamboyant big beat jazz drummers: Louie
Bellson, Gene Krupa, Buddy Rich or Eric Delaney.
In reality, apart from a few elementary lessons in
skin-whacking from Carlo Little, drummer with
Screaming Lord Sutch And The Savages, Moon
took his instruction from Sandy Nelson and surf
music: 'Let There Be Drums' and 'Teen Beat' were
his template. "He made me a fan of The Rip Chords
and Beach Boys and all that stuff," acknowledges
John Entwistle, The Who's bassist. "He hated the
blues," laughs Daltrey "He just used to take the piss
out of it. I think he would have done anything to get
us playing Jan And Dean and surf music."

"He had a very weird style of playing," Entwistle

continues. "He started his drum breaks with his left
hand: most drummers operate with their right. And
he wouldn't play across his kit: he'd play zig-zag.
That's why he had two sets of tom-toms. He'd move
his arms forward like a skier. He fitted in with my
bass style perfectly. I was overjoyed because I
could get my rocks off with him. Keith's style really
developed after he got more drums: once he got a
really big kit with two bass drums, that's when he
really started shining. And that's when he really
helped develop my style as well. I had to find a way
of playing twice as fast to fit in with his double bassdrum patterns. He played triplets so I had to devise
a way of playing triplets with him rather than just
stand there and plonk away."

Contrary to myth, Moon got the Who gig not

because he was dressed from head to foot in ginger
but because he could work his arse off. He was
employed for his musicianship. "He didn't actually
ask for the audition," says Entwistle. "His mate

948

"Pete had developed this kind of rhythmic-lead style

of playing and John was already playing completely
different bass to anybody else," remembers Daltrey.
"He was already playing 25 times as many bass
notes as anybody else played in a bar. But Keith
just moulded into it. He was just right."

FOR ALL HIS EXTROVERT EAGERNESS Moon

was still the new boy, the only former secondary
modern kid in a group of ex-grammar school boys
for starters. "We had a reputation as being a nasty
band on the circuit," says Entwistle, "and he'd come
from a Beach Boys covers band. He'd obviously
been the flamboyant member of that band because
he was the one who would stand on the roof of the
van in a silver lame suit, whereas they looked like
they were dressed for the town dance. But it wasn't
as if he joined and we went, God, this guy's a nutcase. He developed into a nutcase."

Richard Barnes, author of The Who: Maximum R &

B and close friend of Townshend, has seen all this
at close hand over the years. "Bill Harrison, one of
the Who roadies, once told me him and the other
roadies used to watch Moon playing a gig, and he'd
go on one of these huge rolls round the kit in
between the sections of a song, and they'd bet 10
dollars on whether he'd complete it before he had to
get back to the beat. Nineteen out of 20 times he
did."

"I first saw them at The Marquee at one of the

Maximum R & B nights," says Keith Altham, then an
NME journalist. "I walked in and heard this absolute
cacophony that sounded like somebody
chainsawing a dustbin in half. I didn't really like
them at first but I could see even then that the
audience did. I was about to leave and Pete
Meaden (The Who's early manager) came up,
going, 'Great band yeah? Great buzz. Come and
talk to them, baby.' I think he was on all the pills that
Moon was on. The last thing I wanted to do was go
and talk to them. Moon was obviously the
friendliest. He was also the one with the girl appeal
this lovely little button face. His first words were,
'You haven't seen our singer, have you? Only he's
going to kill me.' I said, Why? He said, 'Oh I've just
told him his singing is shit.' I thought, Yeah, that
ought to do it!"

Moon was the original leaper. "No-one was really

into downer drugs at the time. It was all uppers,"
says Bill Curbishley, who worked for The Who's
record label, Track, from 1969, and took over the
group's management in 1974. "We used to go out
dancing all the time. We were Mods and the key to
it was to stay up all weekend, go back to work, just
like Jimmy in Quadrophenia we all lived like that."
Moon's drumming on those early Who records
expressed the speed rush in the same way that
Daltrey's stuttering "don't try to dig what we all s-ss-s-say" interpreted the Mods' blocked inarticulacy.
You want an illustration of how integrally explosive
the Moon sound was? Try tapping out a regular 4/4
rhythm, like your school music teacher used to
make you do. Now sing 'Pictures Of Lily' or 'I'm A
Boy' over the top. Voila! 'Pictures Of Lily' or 'I'm A
Boy' as performed by The Hollies or The Fourmost.

"Reading, 1965, was the first time I realised they

were big," says Richard Barnes as he swaps
memories with Dougal Butler, Moon's long-serving
driver, in his Twickenham local. "But Keith wasn't
flash then. He was quite in awe of the band and
realised he was the new boy and was a bit polite.
He came up to me after the Reading gig and said,
'Have you got anything in the upward direction, dear
boy?' I had about 24 purple hearts to last me the
next three weeks. I expected him to take one or
two, but in this one amazing movement he went...
(mimes entire stash being scooped from hand and
gulped instantaneously). I was pissed off but also
incredibly impressed at the same time."

Shel Talmy, whose tenure as The Who's first

producer was short-lived and fractious says, "I went
to see them at a church hall for an audition and
loved them the first time I heard them. I thought
they were the first kick-ass ballsy rock'n'roll band I'd
heard since I arrived in England. Everything else
was polite rock. All the members had an intensity in
their own way. But it was literally driven by Keith in
conjunction with Pete who, unusually for that time,
used to play his guitar listening to Keith rather than
the bass player, and continued to do that
throughout their career. Because of that there was
an affinity that a lot of other rock bands probably
didn't have: this solid rhythm base." When I ask
critic and Who biographer Dave Marsh if this isn't
putting too much onus on Moon he replies, "Oh no.
On those Shel Talmy-produced records he is the
leader. That's the reason Shel made those records
sound that way."

"Oh he liked his uppers," agrees Dougal. "He used

to get Dr Robert out in the middle of the night for
anything," continues Barnes. "A broken nail,
anything. Dr Robert had to drive out from Harley
Street to Chertsey at three in the morning. Keith
used to put on that Beatles record for him because
he thought it was funny. Keith used to put on such
an act that if he was really hurt we wouldn't have
known." It was an ominous portent of what was to
come.

949

Although he looked up most to Townshend, in those

early days Moon was most pally with Entwistle. The
bass player's deadpan on-stage demeanour
masked an off-stage out-and-out raver. But Roger
Daltrey, significantly, was the only band member not
doing copious amounts of speed. Things came to a
head in the summer of 1965 with a backstage fight
after a pilled-up debacle of a gig in Denmark.
Daltrey would have beaten Moon to a pulp if the
road crew hadn't intervened. Daltrey was duly
kicked out of the band and only welcomed back
after a summit meeting where the group decided,
wisely, not to blow a good thing, and Daltrey
promised to curb the fisticuffs. All this before they
recorded their first LP.

you?" "Yeah, pull up a chair." "No, you

misunderstand me. Can I join you?" implored Moon.
"We both left the band every other week," says
Entwistle, who himself nearly joined The Moody
Blues at one point. "There was one particular bustup when Pete hit Keith with a guitar. We went to find
our manager and told him we were splitting and
were going to form our own band. We sat in
different nightclubs and planned our new career. I
thought of the name Led Zeppelin and Keith came
up with the cover of the Hindenburg going down in
flames. The Who thing had become too much for
us, and we were heading into the sunset. But we
ended up being apologised to and going back to
The Who. I often muse on what would have
happened if we'd gone away and formed Led
Zeppelin."

"We all loved the band so much," recalls Entwistle,

"but we didn't particularly love each other.
Somehow, after the arguments and punch-ups, we
all ended up laughing about it. But it was a little bit
more difficult with Roger in the beginning." Bill
Curbishley: "Keith never really got on great with
Roger, because Roger very much spoke his mind.
He would tell Moon directly where it was at, so they
clashed quite a bit. Roger is a bit of a perfectionist,
so he would get upset when Moon used to turn up
in a bad state. Underneath it all, Roger did care
about Moon's well being." "Roger took a far less
indulgent line with Keith," agrees Dave Marsh.
"Everybody else just thought it was in Keith's nature
to do what he was doing. Roger thought he could
take better care of himself."

Life got marginally more complicated for the

drummer when he got his girlfriend, Kim Kerrigan,
pregnant when she was 16. After much
prevarication, and time-honoured denials to the pop
press, Moon did the decent working-class thing and
got married. Serial unfaithfulness ensued. Around
this time there were also, as Tony Fletcher reports,
the first signs of pill-head paranoia. Moon misread
The Beatles' in-joke humour, believing they were
having coded conversations about him; then he
translated jokey calls of "Kit, are we there yet?" on
the way to gigs as, "Kit, have we found a new
drummer yet?"

"You have to understand that Moon always thought

the drums should be at the front of the stage," says
Daltrey. "I was the poor sod that had to stand in
front of him. That was a headache in itself. He'd
always be doing things behind my back and I never
knew what was going on. I was blissfully ignorant of
the fact that he was taking the piss out of me all
night. We were over-testosteroned young men
barely out of our teens. Of course it created friction.
But Keith had no fear of any authority. I used to
hang around some right villains, even in those days,
but Ronnie and Reggie Kray are the only other
people I've met like that who had no fear of
anything."

*
THE FOREGROUND INFLUENCE OF THE GUY
WHO sat at the back was crystallised in the
moment Townshend shouts "I saw yer!" at the end
of 'Happy Jack'. Moon's aura permeated everything
from the band's internal antagonisms to their lyrical
concerns (drinking, lunacy, etc). Moon's extracurricular activities around this time included
playing drums on the super-session (with Jeff Beck
and Jimmy Page on guitars, John Paul Jones on
bass, and Nicky Hopkins on piano) which yielded
'Beck's Bolero'. Pete Townshend was allegedly less
than complimentary when he heard it, perhaps
realising what his little dynamo was capable of in
others' company. Beck scrapped the group when
Moon wouldn't join full-time, reasoning that there
was no-one else capable of filling the gap. Moon's
most anarchic guest appearance can be heard on
The Merseybeats' 1965 single 'I Stand Accused'.
Halfway through this potentially chart-friendly
rendering, Moon is let loose on a gong. He gives it
the full J. Arthur Rank crescendo all the way to the
outro.

*
ENTWISTLE AND MOON left the band several
times during that early period. Moon, in particular,
courted other bands all the time, never feeling his
tenure in The Who was secure. At various times he
tried to join The Animals and The Nashville Teens.
There is also a story probably apocryphal that
he went up to The Beatles when they were seated
in the Scotch of St James and said, "Can I join

950

Meanwhile, The Who toured the States for the first

time in 1967. Monterey was taken by storm and
Moon discovered cherry bombs; a whole new vista
of hotel rearrangement opened up to him. The band
made their American network TV debut on The
Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, with Moon's
legendary encounter with Tommy Smothers
immortalised at the beginning of the film The Kids
Are Alright. Visibly riled when his host introduces
him as the guy who plays the "sloppy drums", Moon
blows a raspberry at Smothers' over-earnest intro
and then all but detonates the stage (and
Townshend's future hearing) at the end of a mimed
'My Generation'. Keith celebrated his 21st birthday
(officially his 20th) by getting banned from the entire
Holiday Inn chain.

*
AND THEN SMACK BANG IN THE middle of this
halcyon period it all goes terribly wrong. If there can
be one defining moment that pinpoints the start of
Moon's spiralling abuse and decline, it's the tragic
accident of January 4, 1970 when, after an illtempered encounter with some local skins at the
opening of a disco in Hatfield, it all got ugly and the
Moon entourage had to beat a hasty retreat. In the
ensuing panic Moon's driver at the time, Neil
Boland, fell, or was pushed, under the wheels of the
Bentley driven by the unlicensed and over-the-limit
Moon, and died of terrible head injuries. Although
partly exonerated at the inquest, Moon blamed
himself "because he actually did the fucking thing,"
says John Entwistle in Tony Fletcher's book. "He
admitted to doing it." Tony Fletcher also points out
that in darker moments in the years ahead Moon
often poured out remorse to friends and strangers
alike in lonely hotel rooms. But it didn't stop him
driving. If anything Moon threw himself more
headlong into irresponsibility. Cars from his fleet of
pop star's playthings piled up (literally) in the
driveway. "In 18 months we had 148,000 of
insurance claims," remembers Dougal Butler, "and I
always said I was driving."

Moon's thematic contribution to that same year's

pop-art montage album. The Who Sell Out, was to
name-check his favourite clubs during the jingle
interludes. ("Speakeasy, Drink Easy, Pull Easy",
"Loon at The Bag O'Nails", etc.) His sole
songwriting contribution, 'Little Billy' (finally released
on the remastered reissue in 1995), reveals a witty
incisive sense of pop which might have been more
fulfilled if the band had bothered to finish the song.
In December 1968 The Who appeared on The
Rolling Stones' Rock And Roll Circus. After it was
pulled from public viewing, the film acquired
mythical status. The rumour took hold that the
reason the Circus reels lay mouldering in the vaults
was that The Who had not merely upstaged their
hosts but had blown them off the stage. The film's
eventual release in 1995 confirmed this. The Who
unleash the full nine-minute 'A Quick One' with an
intensity which reveals that their time in the USA
had turned them into the best live band in the world.
"That was the period when Brian Jones took six
hours to tune up and they were really having trouble
getting kick-started," remembers John Entwistle.
"We came on and had one run-through and one
take of our mini-opera and blew them away."

Moon further confounded his friends by buying a

share in a pub, The Crown And Cushion, in
Chipping Norton. "He bought it because he enjoyed
being the host," says Entwistle. "It gave him a
chance to be on stage again, walking round with a
tray, going up to guests having dinner and saving,
'Is everything OK?'"
When he went up to London, Moon took to
cavorting around in fancy-dress Nazi uniforms with
Viv Stanshall and 'Legs' Larry Smith of The Bonzo
Dog Doo-Dah Band. This was also the period of
rock's landed gentry buying properties and pouring
new money into the Green Belt. Fittingly, in spring
1971, Moon bought a mansion in Chertsey, Surrey
and renamed it Tara. So began the golden age of
Moon The Loon. Tara's French windows were
routinely left unlocked at night so that the local plod
could help themselves to refreshments. Said
bobbies were alleged to turn a blind eye to all kinds
of malarkey in return. Moon even got the occasional
police escort when he went out clubbing. The odd
photo session and the press launch for the Who's
Next LP aside, the band never went down there at
all. "From 1964, when we turned professional,
through to about 1972 we were living in each
other's suitcases," remembers Daltrey. "Apart from
our wives we shared just about everything else.
When we got home from those tours the last person
we wanted to see was someone else from the
band."

With The Beatles splitting and the Stones busy

fighting their demons, by the turn of the decade The
Who were, by common consent, the band
everybody else had to beat. "I can't articulate it but
there's something about the chemistry of that period
that indelibly stamped itself on our music," says
Daltrey. "Cream and Hendrix were no small change
either, so to be labelled with them is a high
accolade, but I can understand why people felt it. I
think it was more to do with our attitude than our
musicianship." Entwistle: "We were in a hotel and
playing our first copy of Live At Leeds [1970], and
me and Moon were just looking at each other, just
blown away by our playing. I don't think we'd
realised we were that good."

951

During this period, Tony Fletcher reveals, legendry

Coltrane and Miles drummer Philly Joe Jones
witnessed Moon's untutored approach to
percussion. His jaw hit the ground but he was
diplomatically polite when solicited for an opinion.
Another version of this story has Buddy Rich
standing stage-side, saying, "And you make a living
playing like that?" The comment has also been
attributed to Gene Krupa. Once again Moon merges
into myth.

FOR TWO YEARS TARA WAS THE CENTRE OF

Keith Moon's social world. "People would come to
deliver a pizza or do a mural and be there four
weeks, " says Barnes. "It happened to me. We were
at a recording session at Olympic when they were
doing 'Relay' and 'Join Together' and it was
cancelled for some reason. Moonie said, 'Do you
want to come clubbing?' But he didn't mean the
Speak. He meant his locals, Sgt Pepper's in Staines
and the 2000 in Egham. I used to have this running
joke when I was there: Let's dig a tunnel."

So did he have any albums by those jazz drummers

he was supposedly inspired by? "No," says Richard
Barnes, pouring scorn on the link. "Keith was just as
inspired by Johnny Kidd And The Pirates. On the
jukebox at Tara he had the obvious Sha Na Na and
The Beach Boys but he also had The Partridge
Family and a lot of middle-of-the-road sort of stuff."
"And the Bonzos," notes Dougal. "In the later years
he used to sit there listening to the Bonzos saying, 'I
wrote that track.'" "And he used to play
Townshend's Meher Baba album all the time,"
continues Barnes. "Townshend singing his heart out
to his guru and there's Moon out of his box playing
it over and over again. He worshipped Townshend."

"He invited David Puttnam and his wife down there

just before they started shooting That'll Be The
Day," says Dougal. "And he arrives at the house in
his black Mini all suited and booted because he
thinks he's gonna get his dinner, and Moonie took
him down Sgt Pepper's for chicken in a basket."
"The one time I went there," says Maldwyn Thomas,
a Mod friend of Moon's from The High Numbers
days who went on to run Stargrove mobile
recording, "we drove up that long drive and he was
hiding in the undergrowth in his Nazi helmet and
stormtrooper gear." Nice welcoming committee, I
suggest. "To be quite honest," says Thomas, "I don't
even know that he was expecting us. I think he was
just there."

*
THE IMAGE STARTS TO SUBTLY SHIFT FROM
lovable boozer to alehouse bore during this period,
a situation Moon was seemingly not unaware of. In
his famous Rolling Stone magazine confessional
with Jerry Hopkins in 1972 he elevates the limo in
the swimming pool episode into an epic. (This
version has Moon trapped underwater in the car
working out the laws of displacement before he
escapes.) More telling is his response to a question
about his image. "I suppose to most people I'm
probably seen as an amiable idiot... a genial twit,"
he says. "Of course, the biggest danger is
becoming a parody."

"I took a guy from Rolling Stone magazine down

there," remembers Keith Altham, by now the band's
publicist. "Keith mentions playing conkers in the
playground at one point in the interview and the
American journalist says. 'Wow, what are conkers?'
Moon proceeded to fill him in on the rules of
conkers by getting his shotgun and going out into
the gardens, where his builders are working on a
swimming pool. Suddenly there's a cry from one of
these Irish builders: 'Look out, it's him and he's got
a gun!' They all hit the deck of this unfilled
swimming pool. Moon marches up to the horsechestnut trees and blasts away most people
would have just thrown a stick up and this
American gets a warped idea of how the English
game of conkers is played."

"Moon was the perpetual disruptor of order," says

Dave Marsh, "but it's very enigmatic where his limits
lie and where he was egged on. One myth is that
he was living out his exaggerated rock'n'roll
dreams, another is that he was living out what was
expected of him."

Tara attracted genuine friends, acolytes and

parasites alike. "I don't think anyone wished him
harm," says Bill Curbishley, "but a lot of people
viewed him as being indestructible, I suppose. If
they saw him on Wednesday night and they went
out, for example, and had a crazy night until
Thursday, that was fine; they went off and
recuperated. But Keith did it every night. There'd be
another bunch of guys on Thursday and another
bunch on Friday."

"The other side, of course, was that he terrified his

daughter Mandy," says Keith Altham. "Children
loved him because he was like a dangerous child.
But the danger with Moon was that he was the kind
of adult that would toss you into the air and then
forget to catch you." "He was great with us," agrees
Richard Barnes, "but he was turning into a
grotesque monster. We'd be partying 'til four in the
morning but in another room there was this little kid
who had to get up for school in the morning."

952

Turning to Dougal Butler, he says, "And I remember

him on the phone to your parents in the middle of
the night because you'd turned in and I thought, You
can't do this. These are working-class people,
they've got to be up in the morning for work. And
he's on the phone at 3am going, 'This isn't good
enough, Dougal. I demand loyalty.' I'm going, Keith,
leave them alone." Moon sacked Dougal or Dougal
walked out half-a-dozen times over the years but
the drummer was always contrite the next day and
would make up. "I bumped into Viv Stanshall I
hadn't seen him for about four years since the
Bonzos split," remembers Dougal. "He was
completely pissed, and said, 'Keith, are you still
treating him like a piece of piss? Dougal, you need
a fucking medal.'"

*
PART OF THE REASON FOR MOON'S
EXCESSES lay with The Who's periods of inactivity.
They were never the most prolific of LP makers at
the best of times (just three studio albums in five
years before Tommy, for instance) but the
prolonged sabbaticals that followed Who's Next and
Quadrophenia suited Moon less than most. "The
weird thing about Keith was that he didn't know how
he played the drums," says Entwistle. "If we took a
year or two off we'd get into a rehearsal situation
and he'd have to learn how he played again. We'd
have to play something he already knew so he
could re-teach himself how to be Keith Moon."
Again, events in the real world conspired to cut in.
Kim, having packed her bags many times before,
reached the end of her tether and left for good.
Equally devastatingly, Moon's Dad, Alf, died. So
Moon threw himself into pharmaceuticallycushioned denial again, and early in 1974 he and
new girlfriend Annette Walter-Lax moved to LA.
Ugly, decadent mid-'70s LA where the groupies
hunted, and were hunted, in packs. Where coke
dealers were on record company payrolls, where
there existed, in fact, a complete coke economy
buoying up rock'n'roll's increasingly bloated
infrastucture. This was where Lennon spent his lost
weekend, where Bowie almost lost the plot before
fleeing to Berlin, where Harry Nilsson bathed in
Brandy Alexander. This was where Moony teamed
up with Ringo and other ex-pat drinking buddies to
have a ball.

Dougal, like Richard Barnes, saw both the genial

twit and the monster. He remembers with affection
the great comedy double act Moon and Townshend
made when they were on form. "When Pete and
Keith had their Goons periods they were so funny,
but then they'd stop. Keith, in some of his other
scenarios, would never know when to stop."
Some of the hotel room stunts do undoubtedly have
a touch of compulsive genius about them. Moon
once summoned Bill Curbishlev to his room where
he had hired six hookers to stand on plinths in
artistic poses, completely naked but for a covering
of feathers he had emptied from his pillows and
glued on. "He had a certain brilliance about him,"
says Curbishley. "He turned up outside our office
once with his driver in an AC Cobra, which at one
time was one of the fastest cars on Earth. He
couldn't drive and I said to Dougal, If you let him
drive that car I'll fucking kill you. So a week or two
later he arrived outside the office in a milk float. The
back of it he had wall-papered and there was an
armchair there too: that was his mode of transport
for a week or two."

LA didn't cause Moon's excesses. It merely

compounded them. He went there looking for
Beach Boy surfer-girl scenarios. He found BabylonBy-The-Sea. "Los Angeles was a symbol of licence
and hedonism," says Dave Marsh, "and if you're
some kid who grew up in a working-class
neighbourhood in London it's the libertine moment."

Inevitably the pharmaceutical and alcoholic

pounding began to take its toll. In the early '70s the
first OD's started to creep, almost casually, into the
story. Equally alarmingly, Moon began to suffer the
occasional seizure. "He was in hospital and had
had what amounted to his first heart attack," recalls
Keith Altham. "I went to see him and tried to talk to
him seriously everybody did at some stage and
said, For God's sake, Keith, you've got to admit
you're mortal now. Slow down. You're older now.
You can't get away with it. He just turned to me and
said, 'Keith, I never think about mortality.
Immortality, I consider. Mortality never." It had a
touch of the Oscar Wildes about it, undoubtedly.
More disturbingly, perhaps, it revealed a man who
had even begun to talk like a myth.

Having correctly assessed that Moon hadn't moved

to LA to open a tea shop, the overriding issue for
those who managed him was how to anchor the
drummer's own spiralling demands. "I used to
agonise over whether it was a good thing for me to
go out and do deals that generated money for
Moon, because if you generated the money, that
was the fuel for the madness; and if you didn't
generate the money, you're not doing your job,"
says Bill Curbishley. "The worst thing you could do
with the drug addicts and I'm not defining Moon
as a drug addict, but as an example was to give
them the means to get their drugs. I suppose I felt
to some degree that I was an enabler. There were
many instances where he would ring me from Los
Angeles for more money, and I used to lie and tell

953

him he had none. But I remember one instance

when he phoned me and said, I need money', so I
sent him $30,000. Three or four days later he
phones and says he needs a bit more, so I say,
What have you done with the money? He was
ready for that and he had a list, which he went
through, and I said, That leaves $9,000, what did
you do with that? So he said, 'Well, it was Ringo's
birthday so I got a plane and I wrote Happy Birthday
Ringo in the sky.' I told him if he wants more money
to call Ringo and I put the phone down. I left my
answer machine on and all day he left messages
with assumed voices: 'I'm an attorney in Los
Angeles. Contact me urgently and you will learn
something to your advantage."'

production, and then Tommy the Ken Russell film,

which Moon was largely written out of. "Keith did
originally have a big part, but it was changed a day
before shooting," says Richard Barnes." They made
Uncle Ernie [Oliver Reed] a much bigger character,
because I think they thought Keith wouldn't want to
do it."
Unsurprisingly Moon and Reed's carousing while
filming Russell's Tommy has become the stuff of
further legend, not to mention legal recrimination if
half the stories were repeated here. Tellingly,
though, Reed could deal with the rigours of his craft
in a way that Moon could not. Still blotto from an allnight binge? No problem, old chap. A quick splash
of water to the face and Reed could deliver
immaculate lines. Moon would cost a couple of
hours filming. "He was so undisciplined," says
Curbishley. "He got quite a few acting offers, but he
wasn't disciplined enough to actually turn up or
commit to doing the stuff.

As Curbishley relates, movie actor Steve McQueen

found himself drawing the losing ticket in the 'Who
gets Keith Moon as a Malibu neighbour' lottery. "I
kept getting calls when I was in Canada from a
lawyer who kept stressing that he had a woman
client who used to run along the beach every
morning, and she was interested in Moon's house.
So I said to Moon, Keith, do you want to sell this
house? As it is I think you'll make a very good
profit... I don't think it was a woman client at all.
Steve McQueen lived next door and he wanted to
get rid of Moon. I told Moon this so he drove Steve
absolutely fucking crazy. He built a ramp and
bought a motorcycle, which was going to go over
the wall like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape.
He got dressed up as Hitler and knocked on
McQueen's door, and when McQueen opened it he
got down on his hands and knees and bit
McQueen's dog."

"As a stand-up comic, as a mimic, he was a master.

Probably the funniest man I've ever met in my life,"
Daltrey admits. "But film is an incredibly disciplined
art. It's not just a matter of getting up there and
being funny once. You have to get up there and be
funny once, and then remember exactly what you
did and do it another 20 times."
*
BY THIS TIME THE WHO AS A PERFORMING
ENTITY were less active than they had ever been.
As soon as his filming commitments were over
Moon returned to LA where he remained
permanently domiciled until 1978. After a while
Moon's LA story is one of revolving-door detox
punctuated by brief periods of relative sobriety. "At
Tara he'd take Drynamil, a handful of Mandrax... He
had the constitution of an ox," says Dougal of his
formerly indestructible employer. Entwistle confirms
this: "I've seen him fall down 50 stairs, get up, dust
himself off again, say, 'Oh that was exciting', and
walk off. When he was sober he was capable of
walking across the cobbled alleyway by his hotel,
slipping on the ice and breaking his collarbone." But
when Moon collapsed on-stage in Boston in March
1976, causing the abandonment of the show, words
like 'liability' and 'casualty' started to be whispered.
In October of that year Moon played his last gigs
with The Who in front of a paying audience. "He
had no idea what pills he was taking half the time,"
says Entwistle. "He has his chauffeur carry them in
different boxes, and it was, 'Give me the pills for
this, give me the pills for that.' But when he was in
charge of himself I'm not so sure. One time he took
some muscle relaxants before a gig and he couldn't
even hold his sticks."

*
THERE WAS HIS BEST FORGOTTEN SOLO
ALBUM, Two Sides Of The Moon "a way of
keeping him occupied", says Curbishley charitably
and an aborted Film career which had begun
promisingly with his largely ad-libbed role in
Puttnam's That'll Be The Day, but ended with a brief
cameo as a camp fashion designer called Roger in
a Mae West stinker called Sextette. Everything else
can be filed away under 'What Might Have Been':
acting up with Ringo and Miss Pamela in 200
Motels; singing 'Bell Boy' on Quadrophenia, but
losing out to Sting in the film.
On the original Tommy LP Moon's persona is all too
evident. Entwistle wrote 'Cousin Kevin' for him.
Townshend based the whole concept of Tommy's
Holiday Camp around Moon's philosophy.
Paradoxically, though, Tommy grew in inverse
proportion to Moon's own role in it. Tommy, the
excellent and understated English psychedelic
music-hall album, became Tommy the orchestral

954

The accumulation of abuse also began to debilitate

Moon's lugubrious wit. The droll drunk, the Pete &
Dud drunk, was clearly turning into the more
demonic Derek & Clive drunk. "Pete [Townshend]
and Keith played those albums all the time," laughs
Daltrey. "They were always fishing lobsters out of
Jayne Mansfield's bum." Dougal: "You'd get a
finishing line with a spark of wit, but it wouldn't stop
there. It would carry on and become a pain in the
arse. People would walk away, and to regain their
attention Keith would probably have walked through
a pane of glass." "He could walk through his French
windows and leave a perfect silhouette of a man
holding a brandy glass," says Keith Altham. "He
would drain you," agrees Richard Barnes. "The
number of times we'd be in a restaurant about to
get into a nice Indian meal and he'd be on the table
naked. That would be it we'd all have to leave."

to avoid, which is sad because he was incredibly

lovable." Moon evoked such sentiments in everyone
who met him. "Moon the man was capable of really
grandiose acts of generosity, and also really spiteful
acts," says Bill Curbishley. "I guess that the more
the alcohol and the drugs took over, the more he
was prone to swing in all kinds of different
directions. He could mistreat or hurt you, and then
you forgave him instantly when he turned on the
charm. He had that ability."
Moon still sporadically checked himself into
expensive clinics "with airline pilots and thespians",
as Dougal puts it, but to little avail. On an earlier
occasion, Dougal recalls with affection, Moon had
checked into a clinic in Weybridge where Viv
Stanshall used to sneak in cockles and a couple of
bottles of Guinness for the patient, but by 1976,
when the 911 calls were becoming more frequent,
things had begun to take on a more desperate hue.
"He checked into the psychiatric wing of the Cedars
Sinai Hospital because he knew something was
wrong," says Dougal. "They gave you little tasks to
do and he had carpentry lessons. So he built a
drinks tray! Next time I went to see him they said
he's not too good. They'd caught him drinking
aftershave." Inevitably, more seizures followed.
Moon was not so much falling off the wagon now as
blowing it up with cherry bombs.

"Moon came into a room and he wanted to be the

one who was the lightbulb," is Curbishley's
assessment. "He wouldn't just walk into any room
and just sit down and listen. He was an attentionseeker and he had to have it. I could never see
Moon growing old gracefully." Inevitably he didn't.
*
MOON'S BEHAVIOUR DURING HIS LAST DAYS
IN LA was as close to rock'n'roll lunacy as it gets.
"Annette turned I round one day and said, 'Where's
Keith? Keith's missing'," remembers Dougal. "So
we went looking for him. It was 10 miles from his
house to Malibu, two o'clock in the afternoon and
there's Keith in his gold Sha Na Na suit and odd
socks, wearing Annette's sunglasses and a buffalo
coat, directing the traffic on the Pacific Coast
Highway. Out of it. The last thing we needed was
the police. I had to physically put him in the car. Got
him home and, bmmff, he's passed out."

In August 1976 he even checked into a sanatorium,

the Hollywood Memorial Hospital. Keith Altham
remembers him phoning up after he'd been
sectioned, pleading, "Get me out of here. They've
locked me up and the place is full of mad people."
"Mind you," says Altham, "even then he did a One
Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest number on them. I
think he led a protest over the state of the food or
something."
*

Such events were the last straw for Moon's longserving driver. "In the end I had to leave because
there was nothing else I could do for him,"
concedes Butler. "By then I was doing quite a bit of
coke and I stopped, but he just didn't wanna know.
By the time I left he was on a bender every other
day. In the end I thought, Who do I ask for help? But
living out in LA you can't trust any bastard: all
they're after is money and doing a deal."

MEANWHILE BACK IN THE UK A STAGNANT

MUSIC scene was fermenting again. Mick Farren's
seminal NME pieces The Titanic Sails At Dawn and
Is Rock And Roll Ready For 1976? captured a
certain spirit abroad in the mid-'70s that rock stars
were acting like overpaid tossers, and rock'n'roll
itself was a bloated old corpse. "This was the
classic era of Keith Moon driving limousines into
swimming pools and the Rod Stewart album with
the big fold-out poster of Polaroids of groupies,"
Mick reflected in 1995. "Your mega-stadium rock
band was starting to live like something out of the
fall of the Roman Empire." It doesn't make the
premise for Farren's polemical articles or indeed for
the emergence of punk any less vital, but it is
pertinent in retrospect that an essential component
of our collective outrage was built on a myth. It

In the last two years of his life Moon went into

freefall, tiring out party acquaintances and close
friends alike. "You tried to put chocks under the
wheels and stop the racing car running downhill,
and he would get out and kick the chocks away and
carry on," says Keith Altham. "Towards the end of
his life the darker side of Moon got out of control. In
the last two years he was the kind of man I wanted

955

wasn't just a case of Keith Moon driving a car into a

swimming pool but a symbol of all rock'n'roll
excess.

very turbulent dynamic unlike The Beatles, who had

a very synchronised dynamic, but The Beatles were
four people who loved one another and The Who
were the same but did their best to deny it."

The ironic thing was, of course, that, come the

revolution, the punks loved him. "I took him down
the Vortex to see a group called The Worst," says
Keith Altham. "We'd just come from the Marquee
which was only a distance of 200 yards but, being
Keith, he had to have the Rolls. So we get out of
the car and walk along the line and, of course, Keith
takes them on, doesn't he? He goes, 'Call yourself
punks? You're queuing. I never queued for anything
in my life. Even before I was in The Who I never
queued. I'll show you how to walk into a club.' I
thought they'd all start gobbing at us. They
applauded."

"I was driving Keith into town one day," recalls

Dougal, "and we were going along the
Embankment. And he said, 'Dougie, I've had a great
time. I don't give a fuck if I end up on that
embankment with a blanket over my head. I don't
care if I blow all me money, but boy have I had a
good time.'"
Then he went and died.
*
IN THE EARLY HOURS OF SEPTEMBER 7, 1978
KEITH Moon and Annette returned to their Curzon
Place flat after attending the premiere of the movie
The Buddy Holly Story. Moon had left early.
Everyone present had commented on how tired and
subdued he had seemed. The simple facts, as
related to the coroner, are that on returning home
Annette cooked him lamb cutlets. They watched a
movie in bed 'til about 4am. Moon took some
Heminevrin and went to sleep. At 7.30am he awoke
again, insisted that Annette cook him more steak.
He watched some more movie and, unbeknown to
Annette at the time, swallowed some more
Heminevrin. They slept through the day Annette
on the sofa because of Moon's snoring and when
she went in check on him at 3.40pm he had
stopped breathing.

By late 1977 Moon and Annette were back in

England to film sequences for The Who's biopic
The Kids Are Alright. Moon was still ligging but
visibly out of condition. The button-faced little imp of
yore had started to look like Bob Hoskyns. On the
Who Are You album cover his paunch is hidden
behind a chair. On stage and on record he is puffing
and panting (and snorting) his way through routine
drum fills. Tony Fletcher's biography states that an
exasperated Townshend issued a 'clean up your
act' ultimatum that proved futile, a viewpoint that
Roger Daltrey categorically denies. "It's been
reported that we talked about having him kicked out
of the band. That's not true. No-one ever suggested
that Keith Moon should be kicked out of The Who.
Even when he was at his worst it never crossed
anyone's mind." What Daltrey does concede is that
Moon was by now totally out of control.

"At one point he went to a health farm and lost lots

of weight," says Entwistle. "He was getting more
and more bloated but he fought his way out of that.
Even in LA he seemed to fight back from the
deluge. I really thought he was going to do that
again. He seemed determined to make that
transition again but died before it happened."

Moon himself was not unaware of his drastic

physical and artistic decline. "Nobody knew better
than him that he was struggling," maintains
Curbishley. "When he came off-stage after a show
there was a mixture of exhilaration, adrenalin and
the fact that he'd achieved it I should imagine a bit
like a very good boxer going into the ring with a
very good puncher and the boxer boxed his way
around the puncher for 15 rounds and won the title,
and comes out thinking, 'Well, I'm absolutely
drained, emotionally and physically, but I've done it.'
And for Moon the big punch was that he would get
through the show. That's how it became towards the
end."

I remind Entwistle of an appearance Pete

Townshend made on Michael Parkinson's TV show
shortly after Moon's death. Searching for some
rationale to it all, Townshend expressed sentiments
to the effect that Moon had gone way beyond the
limit many times but he hadn't died before. The
words come out all wrong and the studio audience
laugh insensitively. "Yeah, it was the first time he
died. That's how we all felt," agrees Entwistle.

The causes are laid bare in the posthumously

released The Kids Are Alright footage. His verbal
sparring with Ringo Starr is particularly revealing.
"We're getting on now and we need our medicine,"
Ringo says to him, brandy glass in hand. They are
both coked to the gills. "Keith and Ringo were not
that far apart," says Dave Marsh. "The Who had a

"He didn't die a victim," Daltrey insists. "He lost the

struggle but he wasn't just lying back there like Jim
Morrison was portrayed, y'know, 'just another junkie
victim'. He was fighting his addictions right the way
to the end. I think he fucked up because his life

956

never had any structure to it. A day in the life of

Keith Moon was however long he was awake. He
didn't have a 24-hour clock like the rest of us. If he
was awake for five days that would be his day."

Keith Altham confirms this. "During one of those

cry-for-help periods where he was hospitalised
again he said to me, 'I don't want to kill myself. I just
want to kill the pain.'"

"I think he thought that there would always be

someone around to pick him up and put him back
together again," says Bill Curbishley. "But the point
is, we all have to go to sleep sometime, we're all off
duty at some time," "At some stage you're
vulnerable and I think Keith must have felt that. I
don't think he had any real fear that he was going to
die, as such his fears were more grounded in his
future and where he was going. I'm sure it was an
accident. I also feel that maybe his immune system
was shot to fuck."

Daltrey, too, is generally unwilling to talk to

journalists about Moon these days, although he did
grant me a rare interview. His current misgivings
are as much to do with how The Who drummer will
be portrayed in the movies. A film based on Dougal
Butler's involvement with Moon, scripted by Dick
Clement and Ian LeFrenais, has been bought by
Robert De Niro's Tribeca company. Daltrey also has
plans to produce a Moon biopic of his own. "But I'm
still incredibly protective about it. It's like the Kray
film: it could have been magnificent, but they
copped out on the story. And it's the same with
Keith. The people with the money will want to do a
Hollywood-type film and I won' let it go that way. It's
the easy route. Because it's Keith people will say,
'Oh, it's all funny stories and slapstick comedy.' But
Keith was much more than that." I mention the
Clement and LeFrenais project and for a brief
moment he bristles like the Daltrey of old. "I'd
hoped to work with them," he says, "but it's just
going to be comedy and I'd hope no-one in their
right mind would see this as a film worth making. It's
just a travesty of what Keith's life was. So I've had
to distance myself from that. If they ever get that
made, good luck, but it won't be a film about Keith
Moon." Indeed, early indications that Dougal is
going to be played by an American for instance
seem to bear out Daltrey's misgivings. "They like
their heroes to be squeaky clean and Moon wasn't
like that. Moon was a very rounded human being
with the warts and faults that we all have but
magnified a thousand times."

*
THE WHO, COLLECTIVELY AND INDIVIDUALLY,
ARE, 20 years on, still very wary and protective
about the Moon legacy. Pete Townshend's terse
comments about Moon "still living and breathing in
the memories of every pig-shit little rock journalist
looking for someone to crap on who can't sue them"
in the introduction to 1994's Thirty Years Of
Maximum R & B box set illustrates the extent of his
disdain. He is currently writing his autobiography
which one hopes will shed further light on his
complex relationship with Moon.
Bill Curbishley was also reluctant to share his
thoughts for a long time, harbouring a suspicion that
Moon had killed himself purposely. Why? "Because
of the vacuum that was becoming apparent in his
life, and I think that he still loved his ex-wife Kim.
He'd lost his daughter, probably lost some of the
best years of her growing up. Deep inside he was a
sad person. I've actually got a picture of Moon in my
office, of him dressed as a clown. And we all know
that inside a clown there is just someone who's
crying. So I did think it [suicide] was a possibility,
but the contradiction to that was we were all told
that the pills he was on, Heminevrin, had no sideeffects, that they were to combat epilepsy or DTs.
We now know that he did take a huge amount of
them and they did kill him. In the past he had taken
pills that left him absolutely useless, like he took
this monkey tranquilliser or whatever it was in San
Fransisco and couldn't play the drums. Another time
he took another drug which left him helpless for 24
hours. He was just prone to taking stuff that he
never knew the consequences of. The thing I was
wrestling with was maybe not so much that he
thought, 'I wanna kill myself', but 'I just wanna get
some sleep. I just wanna get out of it for a while.'
And I did sense that in the last few weeks he was
trying to pull himself together."

*
WHEN MOON DIED, THE BAND, TO ALL
INTENTS and purposes, died with him. "Townshend
said to me once, 'We should have split after Moony
died,"' says Richard Barnes. "Kenny Jones wasn't a
power drummer. I think we all realised that after a
while," says Bill Curbishley in reference to the two
post-Moon Who LPs, Face Dances and It's Hard.
"But I think the real problem was that Moon was
irreplaceable."
In the fall-out period, Pete Townshend shacked up
with King Heroin but he had Dr Meg Patterson to go
to for his cure. There is an over-whelming feeling
among everyone who contributed to this feature
that in a later era Moon would have had a more
established rehabilitation structure to fall back on.
Arguably the last real casualty of the 1960s, his
misfortune was to die just before the age of the
Betty Ford celebrity detox. "Also, when Townshend

957

had his problems with heroin he had Bill around to

help him," notes Dougal. "I always thought Bill could
have helped Keith more, but we all could have done
more in retrospect." "No-one is to blame and
everyone is to blame," is Dave Marsh's summary.
"Keith was so difficult to approach," acknowledges
Richard Barnes. "He would never admit he needed
help. He was always acting this character of 'Keith
Moon' that he'd created." "That was one of the
biggest psychological problems he had," confirms
Roger Daltrey. "What do you do when you want to
have a day off from being Keith Moon? He hated
those down periods when he would have to drag
himself up to entertain, to be that man on the
stage."

Pete Townshend is a little worried about the

advancement that is being made with musical
equipment and recording studios. "The technology
is beginning to overtake the musician," he says.
"The infinite possibilities presented by technologies
makes me want to capture the present in a far more
simple way."
Perhaps it is this sentiment that has provoked the
return to the simpler, less complicated music
coming from the Taylors, Lennons, Youngs and
Cohens of the recording world. Faced with
numerous combinations that the synthesizer family
can offer it is easy to see why many musicians feel
safer to retreat to the security of becoming
proficient with very little.

Fade to myth...
"I'd always felt rock was capable of doing more than
the three-minute-fifteen-second track approach but
the question now is what we can do with this
extended piece of time? Today the Who's problem
is that piece of time on the album and on stage has
become so predictable. We feel we have to find a
new thread that maybe isn't a standard rock
procedure but that nevertheless has the same
fundamental simplicity. My cause is to liberate the
group from its own shackles."

*
WHEN YOU READ THE ROLL CALL AT THE END
OF TONY Fletcher's biography it amazes you who
passed through Moon's orbit. Larry Hagman, Peter
Sellers, Alice Cooper, Marc Bolan, Linda Blair,
Lionel Blair, Flo & Eddie, Harry Nilsson, Graham
Chapman, and many more. As Fletcher points out,
most of Moon's cast of extras are now either dead
or teetotal. When I look back on it, one of the
reasons I stopped drinking or taking drugs or doing
anything over 10 years ago was really as a direct
result of Moon, Kit Lambert, etc the unfortunate
losses," says Bill Curbishley. "One can only wait
and see what's in Townshend's autobiography, but
most of our hang-ups come from our childhood and
then they gather weight throughout our lives. It may
sound a bit of a clich but most things are rooted in
love or lack of love. I think Moon needed love. We
all need it."

The music of the Who has always been based on

simple structures because Pete considers it to be
the basic quality of rock. "It's an economy of
musical statement," explains Pete by ways of
definition. "It's quite simple music directed at the
young at heart. Rock's essential thread is that the
music is not the primordial thing but it does keep
the balance. I can't think of any other organised
coming together where the fundamentals tied up
are so well defined and where the ethics are so well
defined." Happily, Pete is also able to define what
he considers rock to be as against 'pop'. "Rock
doesn't pretend to relieve the tedium," he says. "In
fact, it reflects their frustrations. It embodies it and
then blows it up. It gets rid of it." Pete's view of 'pop'
is that its purpose is to pacify people, to soothe
them through the day without reminding them of the
real world. In the completely opposite direction rock
music is there to remind, provoke and to magnify
rather than to cover up.

HERE'S A LOVELY moment in a Who Beat Club

performance for German TV from 1969. Half the
show is given over to a lip-synched preview of
Tommy. At one point, with no drumming to do,
Moon stands on the spot executing a neat little hop,
skip, twist and shimmy. You can see that the rest of
the band are avoiding direct eye contact with him in
case he cracks them up. He's the little kid brother
along for the ride, indulged by his older siblings
because he can make them laugh and drum like a
hurricane.

Pete recalls that he spent his early youth in a

generation that didn't have voice. "We didn't have
anyone that we could say spoke for us," he says.
"Sure, we had Cliff and the Shads but no-one who
really voiced her opinions. The needs of the current
generation are not a lot more complex than five
years ago. The generation itself has seemed more
complex because rock has given them a voice, a
status in society. Today for a simple rock song to
express the frustrations, hopes, ambitions and fear

Rob Chapman, 1998

Pete Townshend: Genius of the Simple
Steve Turner, Beat Instrumental, December 1971

958

of a cross-section of the young it'd have to be ten

years long and then it wouldn't be a rock song! I
suppose that's one of the reason why I made
Tommy."

has become a reality and still he is writing those

stories. "I feel frustrated all the time." says Pete. "I
feel a need all the time even though I don't always
necessarily enjoy writing." He says he finds that he
produces the best of his work under a certain
amount of pressure and involved in a particular
project. For this reason the Who recently organised
live shows every week at the Young Vic in front of
audiences who were not always totally familiar with
the group. "We didn't know how to come on," said
Pete, laughing at the experience. "We felt like
diminished little minstrels." The side effect of the
whole operation was a 100 new songs from Pete.
"The Who's Next reflects little bits of the scheme,"
he says. Another side line is the fact that he is very
concerned with the circumstances under which
concerts are arranged. "We had discovered that the
audience react differently if the circumstances are
different." Somehow he wants to experiment with
altering the present structures under which a
concert is presented in the evening, between set
hours from a group on a stage to an audience out
there. He feels that progression in these areas will
affect the music just as much as if the group
experiment with their own sound.

Musicians Laughed More

It was only with the advent of the Beatles that this
generation found a medium through which to
express it's forming opinions and to identify with
those talented enough to be able to formulate these
thoughts into songs. The first songs that the public
were to hear from the Who were such expressions
right from the communal mind of a generation
striving to exert itself.
Looking back on his childhood it is easy to see why
Pete became the musician songwriter he now is.
"My father was a professional musician," he
explains, "and although we were middle class we
weren't caught up in middle class phobias."
Surprisingly enough the Townshend family
possessed neither a piano nor a record player and
it wasn't until Pete was twelve that he ever picked
up a musical instrument to play. "I never got spurred
on to do anything."

Whatever status rock music now assumes, it

certainly owes a lot to Pete Townshend. He is one
of the select few discoverers who forge ahead and
report back to the rest of the musical world who in
turn creep forward into newly claimed areas. '"f I
wasn't in a group I'd be writing about it," says Pete,
"or I'd be a groupie."

Seemingly the strongest factor which encouraged

Townshend to believe that music is the life for him
was the lives of the musicians themselves. "The
blokes in my father's band were always drinking
and laughing. They had women and money. I
always found that the musicians laughed more than
most people... they seemed a lot funnier."

Townshends Rock Lab

Running parallel to his awakening interest in the

lifestyle of musicians was his love of writing stories.
"It was always stories and things never songs,"
recalls Pete. A look at the work of the Who will show
the eventual evolution of these two desires which
were formulated in early childhood. Perhaps serving
to give Pete the needed spurring on was his feeling
of being the weakling and the resulting desire to
prove himself. As a child he was constantly ribbed
about the size of his nose until one day he swore
that he'd eventually stare down with it from every
front page even if he had to commit murder to do it.
"I was different from the average kid in that I wasn't
all that courageous. I couldn't stand in a youth club.
I couldn't dance with a girl. I couldn't fight properly
I got involved with gangs but I was always the
mascot."

Pete Townshend has made demo recordings of

every song the Who have released with the
exception of I Can't Explain and Anyway Anyhow
Anywhere. "I always make a finished demo of
numbers on which I play record producer's drums,
record producer's bass and Pete Townshend guitar.
I'm my own best backing group!" He went on to
explain that there is always a big difference in feel
between these demos and the final product which is
released by the Who, but on some occasions he
actually prefers the demos. "It started out as a
hobby and now it's an obsession," he quipped.
The studio where Pete performs his wizardry is
situated on the first floor of his Twickenham home.
It's obviously been converted from a small bedroom
and the room next to it is used as the control centre.
In one corner stands a Terry Riley type Lowry
organ' above which is an ARP synthesizer which
Pete describes as really very very good. To the side
of the ARP synthesizer is a VCS3 which he keeps
because, "when I'm drunk I can still operate it!"

Familiar Face
Now he has realised his ambition and his face has
become a familiar sight. The drinking, laughing
world of the musician with both money and women

959

Bill Graham Picture

Around 1968, I remember reading about Peter's

forthcoming ultimo Who single, 'Glow Girl', which
was to incorporate reincarnation, handbags and
airplanes. Sort of a modern death-rock single if you
will. Something went wrong somewhere. Very
wrong. Instead of a neat three-minute single, 'Glow
Girl' mutated into a ghastly 2-LP rock opera (the
name eludes me at the moment), about anything
and everything and mostly nothing at all. A few
good rock and roll numbers were interspersed here
and there, but mostly it was a bunch of pretentious
drivel. The boy had gotten cosmic.

Also standing around the room are a set of Ludwig

drums, and a 1947 Fender amp, given to him by
Mountain's Leslie West ("I think I'll frame it,"
laughed Pete). The microphones are AKG D25 E's
and Neumann 87's used with Sony condensers.
Hanging on the walls are various (intact) guitars,
some of which have been gifts from other
musicians. Also there's a framed gold disc and a
picture of Bill Graham, of Fillmore East and West
fame. A Wurlitzer electric piano stands against the
wall.

Around the turn of the decade, Baba was seen

leading his cohorts in imitation Led Zeppelin riffs.
No great controversy ensued, since the Zep were
so much better at same riffs. 'Join Together' pretty
well settled the whole matter, being the lamest Led
Zep steal ever.

In the control room the walls are lined with demo

tapes of all the Who's material all neatly labelled
and filed. Tucked away beneath these shelves is an
upright piano and a Shobud pedal steel guitar. The
main feature is of course the recording equipment
which comes in the form of a 3M eight-track and an
Ampex four track which he uses for mixing down to
stereo but which he hopes to use for quadrophonic
mixing.

Here we have Peter Baba on his own. What does it

sound like? Not much. Most of the cuts resemble
the Who's most saccharine ballads, especially since
Baba's voice is a strong ringer for that of Roger
Daltrey. Three tracks of nine qualify as abominable:
'Evolution' sung by Ronnie Lane, which was lousy a
couple years back and even worse now; one cut by
the neighbors; and 'There's A Heartache Followin'
Me' where Peter gives C&W a go.

Multi-Tracking
"I started up with Vortexion stereos," said Pete,
"and really got interested in multi-tracking. Then I
went over to the Revox models which are a better
investment today." With these he incorporates a
Neve mixer and Dolby noise reductions units. The
output from the mixer is fed through a SEA power
amp which he said he rated incredibly high. Finally,
there are Tannoy speakers fitted into oversized
Lockwood cabinets.

Baba makes one attempt to rock on the LP. It's

pretty weak, though. 'Let's See Action' runs an
obese six minutes, and is further diluted by the
anemic rhythm section (all instruments are played
by Baba). Between you and me, WHO'S NEXT put
me to sleep, but I still think I can differentiate
between varying degrees of dullness. This album is
about a tenth as good. So that's the legend of Peter
Baba. Believe it if you will.

It was in this studio that Pete actually produced the

first Thunderclap Newman album and also recorded
the Meher Baba birthday recording which was
issued in a limited edition. On the wall of the studio
hangs a giant plaster nose which was bought for
Pete by Keith Moon. "He bought Roger an ear,"
said Pete laughing, "so he could hear the monitors!"

As for me, I dunno, man. I refuse to believe the

rumors that the artists responsible for this album,
not to mention the accompanying promo booklet
where Peter rambles on about his pop (Meher), is
the work of the same guy who wrote 'My
Generation'. No way.

Steve Turner, 1971

Peter Townshend Who Came First (Decca/Track)

Metal Mike Saunders, 1972

Metal Mike Saunders, Phonograph Record, 1972

The Return of You Know Who: Pete Townshend

and Ronnie Lane

HERE WE HAVE the debut album of Peter Baba.

Believe it or not, in his youth Baba fronted an
incorrigible reds-popping teenage quartet
responsible for such gems as 'I Can't Explain',
'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere', and 'The Who Sings
My Generation'.

Chris Welch, Melody Maker, 17 September 1977

PETE TOWNSHEND is back with a new album
accompanied by his old mate Ronnie Lane, and
with trenchant views on punk.

960

"WHAT time do you call this we're supposed to

be doing a bleeding interview!" Pete Townshend
burst into a Twickenham pub where I sat with Mr.
Ronald Lane, well-known sheep farmer and
mandolin player extraordinaire, mulling over pints of
ale and discussing the price of rams.

bitten musicians with a stable basis for belief in

something, when all around them was calculated to
break morale and spirit.
For 15 years they have been on the rock treadmill,
knowing all it can offer and all it can take away.
What is remarkable is that both still retain their
sense of humour and perspective. They remain
younger in their attitudes than many of the sour,
world-weary youths half their age.

But it didn't take much persuasion from Ronnie to

settle Pete down for a drink or two. The first one he
managed to pour all over himself while making a
sweeping gesture. I admired the calm way Peter
accepted the soaking, for his trousers were sodden
with Guinness, and put it down to the maturity
which rock's most respected figure has acquired in
recent years.

Peter is still one of the most stimulating,

entertaining conversationalists, with an ability to
articulate without sounding pompous. He is a lover
of words and delivers them with a relish that is not
always possible to convey in cold print. Ronnie, too,
is a natural comedian with an impish sense of
timing, his humour mostly directed against himself.
The closer you examine them the more you realise
the album they have just made together was
inevitable. Townshend and Lane didn't die before
they got old. They never really aged.

Actually, that calm can be broken by outbursts of

the old mercurial Townshend, who wrote on of the
few genuine rock anthems in 'My Generation'. I
remember seeing Pete in blacker, more violent
moods than most of the patrons of the Vortex could
muster, times when he demolished not only the
Who's equipment but most of the record company's
furniture and fittings, in his frustration and fury.

It was ostensibly to talk about the album Rough Mix

that Pete invited me to Eel Pie Productions, his
office building in Twickenham near the Thames that
also serves as the HQ for Meher Baba activity. But
Ronnie was keen to stop off for a drink on the way,
which is where I found him last week.

From such evidence it might seem strange that

such disparate characters as Lane and Townshend
could be friends. Ronnie is East End cockney
personified, with a raucous laugh and sense of
humour, covering a sensitivity revealed in the
beautiful songs he has written since the day he
walked out of the Faces and the jet-lagged rat race.

Ronnie was just telling me how he had gone to

agricultural college for a while with a bunch of 15year olds who spent all their time throwing rubbers
at the teacher, when Pete arrived anxious to talk
about the album. As we drove back to Eel Pie
Productions, Pete sat in the back seat and
produced a pair of binoculars. "Ah, a back seat
driver," said Ronnie. "Yes, there's difficult terrain
ahead," warned Pete.

Ronnie is a romantic who fled first to the gypsy life

with his brave venture, the Passing Show, a
travelling rock circus that ended in tears and then to
the border country near Wales where he has
attempted to get to grips with agriculture. A
complete reaction to the life he led with Rod
Stewart on endless tours of America.

Their album is superb. Patchy, but with some

marvellously simple, understated songs from
Ronnie, and Peter moving into pastures new he
could not have attempted with the Who, like 'Street
In The City', a big production with strings. They sing
their own tracks separately, only coming together
for a Don Williams song 'Till The Rivers All Run
Dry', and helping each other out with various
guitars. A bunch of old friends lent sympathetic
support including Eric Clapton, Charlie Watts, and
the amazing harmonica player Peter Hope Evans. I
thought it one of the most charming and original
sets of songs heard in a long time.

Pete, on the other hand, remains the restless city

dweller, seeking peace and comfort in the ancient
wisdoms of the east as personified in his guru, the
late Meher Baba; still desperately concerned with
the future of music, and fascinated by the
emergence of punk rock.
The key to their continued friendship, begun in the
days when the Who and Small Faces were rival
touring pop attractions in the era of Ready, Steady,
Go and the Granada, Walthamstow, lies in Meher
Baba. Peter turned Ronnie onto the concept of
"Why Worry, Be Happy," when the latter suffered
from the after-effects of an acid trip. Whatever the
merits of the religion, which has remarkably few
followers, and remains somewhat obscure to
outsiders, it had the effect of providing both hard-

When did they conceive the idea of dual album? "I

was having a brain trauma at the time," said Ronnie
in his best William "Mate" Cobblers voice. "I needed
to have a talk with Peter about certain things that

961

were going on, and out of it, came this album." A

surreptitious explanation, I thought. Hence the
reference to "mind games" on the album sleeve?
"Well yes, that's another story," laughed Ronnie.
"We won't go into that."

"And yet I felt I had achieved something as an

arranger on that one, and helped to contribute."

There had been rumours of rows between the two

stalwarts, but as Pete explained: "We tried to do
things together to an extent, but I think it was more
my failing than Ron's. Having sat and written with
Stevie Marriott I'm sure he could write with anybody.
But I never 'ave. I've never written anything with
anybody. I've taken other people's lyrics and set
them to music and I've sometimes worked on other
people's songs, but I've never written with anybody
because I write unconsciously and tend to just let it
spill out. And if anybody says 'Why don't you
change so-and-so,' I don't know how to approach it.
Because I haven't put it together in an intellectual
way, it feels like being caught out. It's almost like
having a ghost writer that writes everything for you.

Pete continued unabashed. "You have a

preconception in your mind they way a song should
turn out. You shouldn't really. I deny myself that
when I work with the Who. I just say, right we'll put it
in the bin and see how it turns out."

"So we fell out again!" said Ronnie abruptly, and

then burst into more laughter.

So they wrote the songs separately to see how the

album would turn out?
Said Ronnie: "Some of the songs came together
while we were dong the album. But we started off
with a clutch of songs anyway."
Said Pete: "The only songs I wrote specially for the
album was 'Street In The City.' I did another jazzy,
bossa nova thing with Dave Marquee that didn't get
put on the album because it was too middle-of-theroad."

Did they arrive at the songs separately, then?

"As far as Ronnie's stuff was concerned I really
enjoyed working on them. But Ronnie's contribution
to my stuff was much, much deeper. It's hard to
explain. For a start, I don't think I would have done
the album or the kind of material I did, if were not
for Ronnie's encouragement. And that hasn't just
started with this album. It has been constant.
Ronnie's been one of the few people that I've
played demos to, and he has always encouraged
me to do stuff away from the mainstream of Who
clichs. There are two Ron's in my life. There's
Ronald Lane and Ron Geesin."

But you played on each other's tracks?

"Yeah, pretty much," said Pete. "I didn't play on
'Annie' and Ronnie didn't play on 'Street In The City'
but everything else...yeah. We generally made
room for each other."
"He gave me something to do somewhere," said
Ronnie. "When things got too complicated for my
standard of musicianship he found something for
me to do...like make the tea, or go out and buy a
packet of biscuits."

Did he think the Who has become clichd?

There was a great deal of contrast in their style, I

hazarded. The jolly, jog-a-long rhythmic style of Mr.
Lane with his penchant for piano accordions,
mandolins and heartfelt, wryly romantic lyrics
dealing in simple but wonderfully effective terms
with the human condition, and then again the
abrasive, accusatory declaiming style of Mr.
Townshend with his feeling for the classic pop style
inbred from the '60s and......

"I think you can get in a rut and it must affect the
way you work. On a song like 'Street In The City' it's
something I wouldn't have done before. Ron was
knocked out with it when we did the playbacks. And
it gave me a kick to see that."
Did he feel they had been in competition with each
other?
"There was a little bit of that. We were trying
desperately for the opposite. The only song we
really came together on was 'Till The Rivers All Run
Dry', which is somebody else's song. Of Ronnie's
songs, I felt I could fiddle around with 'Nowhere To
Run'. I did a helluva lot on that. And yet it was one
of the songs Ronnie was most unhappy with. It was
a bit fast...or something."

I paused for breath as Mr. Townshend and Mr. Lane

waited quizzically for me to finish. Did they get my
point?
There was a brief silence and Pete said uncertainly:
"It's weird. Yeah, I think there is a lot of contrast..."
I pursued my theme. There were so many albums
that are billed as 'So-and-So And Friends' which

"Slow," interjected Ronnie.

962

usually ended up as one long jam. Did they want

this kind of result?

"I do now value mates," continued Pete,

"particularly mates in the business. The business
has suddenly started to change very rapidly leaving
a lot of us feeling a little bit, y'know, like fish out of
water. No, not threatened because we've been
anticipating something happening for such a long
time and disappointed to an extent that it hadn't
happened.

"Oh no," said Ronnie looking worried. "We didn't go

out of our way to avoid it. That wasn't what was
going to happen! But it's ended up harder-edged
that we intended. We just sailed into it to see what
would happen, and we were as interested in the
results as anybody else."

"But let's put it more directly. If you've got a full

house, a full bank balance and adoring fans, friends
aren't quite as important as they were before. You
tend to be a bit blas, y'know? The Who have
enjoyed a lot of success and..."

Said Pete: "There are a lot of albums by 'So-and-So

And Friends,' and that's not what they are about,
whereas our album is primarily about friendship,
with music secondary, in a way. What we rapidly
learnt in the studio was that..."

Pete paused to think. "It's not made me harder, but

blas. I s'pose. Maybe it's just part of growing up, I
dunno. But I enjoy times spent with mates, with me
family and me mum and dad. But most of all if
you've got the makings of a musician then
friendship is very important, because I can count
the number of friends in the music business on one
hand.

"We didn't like each other at all," grinned Ronnie

and I burst into deafening laughter which didn't
worry Pete at all.
He continued..."we cared a lot about our music.
We've known each other for 15 years, for as long as
my band has been together." (Incidentally, Who
freaks, that's the first time I've heard Pete say 'my
band.' He nearly always talks about 'the Who,'
rather like Charlie Watts insists on talking about 'the
Rolling Stones')

"With friends outside the music business you don't

measure them by how well they perform. If you
meet a bloke in a pub who's a welder, you don't
say: 'Listen, can I look at your work', before you
decide if you're gonna be mates. But with a
musician there is that terrible barrier. You can't
forget you've got very powerful, rigid professional
tastes."

It was amusing to recall that when the Who and

Small Faces first appeared they were projected as
rival leaders of the Mod movement.
"That was the media," insisted Ronnie. "When we
met we were amazed to find we all listened to the
same records."

"Listen," said Pete, suddenly changing the subject.

"I'm trying desperately to get a beer gut."
"Are you?" said Ronnie. "Oh I can show you how to
do that."

"We knocked about together over the years," said

Ronnie. "But basically the thing that kept us
together was Meher Baba which meant there was a
mutual understanding about it. I'm not wishing to
preach about it, I'm just saying that. But it's
basically kept us together. We bumped into each
other from time to time. It's always nice to see the
old bugger. He's very hard to phone up or send the
odd vitriolic letter to, saying 'how about giving me a
phone call sometimes or can't you afford it'."

They have time to practice the fine art of distending

the belly with strong drink as they are not planning
to do another album together in the foreseeable
future.
"We ain't going to do it again," said Ronnie. "We
ain't going to knock out one a year. The nice thing
about this album was one we could grab whoever
we wanted. Except when it came to ringing them
up, nearly everybody was on holiday."

Pete almost looked embarrassed at this chiding.

"Well, it's only in your twilight years that you
appreciate the value of friendship," he protested.
"I'm a late learner. Everybody has been telling me in
that respect I've been a right c--- so perhaps they've
been right all along..."

"Funny that," said Pete. "Yet we could always get

Eric. We didn't really want 'im."
"Yeah, he was NEVER on holiday," said Ronnie.

Ronnie emitted a low chuckle. "Oh shaddup, you'll

make me cry in a minute."

"When Eric does a session he must consciously

think 'I must not be the great Eric Clapton'," said

963

Pete. "'I will just be a normal guitar player who is

just one of the lads.' And consequently he plays
terrible. I had to keep pushing 'im."

length. '5.15' I sat and wrote that in Carnaby Street

and I thought that was very accusatory at the time."
"It's only accusing if you feel guilty about
something," said Ronnie. "Otherwise it's not
accusing at all."

"Also after that he wants paying!" said Ronnie with

mock horror. "Which adds insult to injury."
(laughter).

"The bit about the Wig & Pen," said Pete referring
to a line in the song about the famous Fleet Street
haunt of journalists and lawyers, "was referring to a
journalist who was being sued and was down and
out. It was the only way I could think of doing it.
When I wrote 'Misunderstood' I only found out later
it could be taken as a p---take of the..."

"But his Dobro playing on 'April Fool' was

something," said Pete kindly. "A little spark. When
Eric sparks, he's great. But it's quite difficult to get
him to take off. Even on stage he lays back quite a
lot. He's a double edged character. He's got that
thing where he doesn't always like to show that side
of him."

"Of the Who," said Ronnie swiftly.

"He's just fed up with what he's supposed to be,"
opined Ronnie. "That's what strikes me. I don't think
it oppresses him. He doesn't walk around saying:
'Ooh I'm fed up with what I'm supposed to me. It
just comes out in little ways. Sometimes he just
wants to sit and play the guitar, he doesn't want to
be ERIC CLAPTON, he just wants to play some
guitar."

"Well yeah! But also a p---take perhaps of the

average Johnny Rotten character. 'I wanna be
misunderstood, I wanna be feared in my
neighbourhood.' In fact I wrote more about ME than
I did about anybody else. Then I realised it was like
a punk p---take. It was a gag. It was just a gag. I
wanna be really INSCRUTABLE. I wanna be
inscrutable and vague and so hard to pin down and
leave open mouths when I speak."

"It's a bit of a backlash on what has gone before,"

agreed Pete. "I've known people who have had him
in the studio and when he's gone, they've said:
'Was that Eric Clapton? Nothing special about 'im'."

"You take the p---- out of things you don't like about
yourself" said Ronnie wisely. "We've all got things
we don't like about ourselves but we control them.
Every now and then it's nice to take the p--- out of
yourself, acknowledging the faults are there."

Did they want Eric to be special on the album?

"Nah, just a mate," said Ronnie.

Said Pete: "I got the title for the song from a line I
heard somewhere about how all the teengaers in
America were desperately trying to be
misunderstood, but they didn't quite make it."

"He was very keen to do it. He had nothing to do

and was itching to play. He even came down when
there was nothing to do at the studio."

I supposed there was a certain pleasure to be had

in appearing significant and mysterious. Did Pete
feel he could see through people and their
motivations?

"In Switzerland," said Pete. "We decided to do it in

Switzerland, for... (in chorus) tax reasons. Yeah, it
was Olympic in Zurich. Branches everywhere.
There's a beautiful little town in Zurich. It's even got
the River Thames. They like the English out there.
The number 37 bus goes right by. We had all the
tape boxes marked: 'Recorded abroad'."

"No, not really," he said somewhat awkwardly.

"What I suffer from at the moment when I write a
song is that I tend to think about the people around
me. Christ, am I going to turn into Somerset
Maugham writing secret stories about the people I
know? It's surprising how far you can go before
people recognise themselves. Or am I going to
keep writing about what I see happening on the
street?

Simmer down, chaps. Now these lyrics...they

seemed very accusing, redolent of the folk signer
who puts a hand over one ear and fixing his
audience with a fierce gaze begins: 'Ah, ye think yer
so clever, ye sinner men all'."
Pete pondered. "'Street in The City' was a bit
accusing actually, because when I was writing it I
did stand back and just look. But if I was one of the
passers-by, I'd include meself. Like I say, I tend to
write very unconsciously, it's not written at arms

"I still find the street more interesting even if it's only
the occasional glimpse. My contact with kids on the
street has never been great. I suppose the most
concerted period was in '63 when the Who used to
play the Goldhawk. Those characters we met then

964

have hung on somehow with the band even today. I

still meet them and study what has happened to
their lives. They all seem to be incredibly eccentric
characters."

and screwed everywhere else as well. An enormous

British star. No talent. He put in a lot of work and all
he has to show for it is a little farm and an 'orse."
What did Pete think of the violent mood that
accompanied new developments in rock?

Reverting to today's kids, it was my impression that

they had a strong sense of direction or at least a
strong sense of frustration.

"I remember an early Who gig at the Marquee

where we saw a kid with a hatchet stuck in his back
only he didn't know he had it in his back, and I
thought, 'f----- hell this is part of the business I'm in'.
Guys who used to come to our gigs with sawn-off
shotguns who went nutting moving buses all that
sort of thing."

"Well, that is where the confusion arises," said Pete.

"It doesn't really matter if you know where you are
going or not, the problem is thinking that you know
the answer. Believing it. Then waking up one day
and realising that you don't. Life isn't as it seems.
Life isn't as uncomplicated as it seems. And
frustration comes when you realise that even
violence isn't going to get you anywhere."

"'Ere," said Ronnie. "my dad used to nut moving

buses. I used to content myself with kneeing
hubcaps of moving buses."

"It's one of the great frustrations in my life.

Obviously I've never been the kind of violent
individual who has ended up in jail but I've used
very violent words, and I've realised it doesn't really
get things done. You can be identified with violence,
but it doesn't change your life. It doesn't change the
way you see things or the way people see you. All it
does is change your status. It's another form of
power.

In view of the aggressive nature of so many of

today's kids, did Pete really think the gentle
precepts and Christian style ethics of Meher Baba's
teachings would have any appeal or relevance to
them?
"I dunno," said Pete, and began to break up into
fits. "I don't think they are the kind of people we
want. We are looking for the more select
individual...Old ladies, with plenty of loot. The rich
jaded pop star is more our suitable client. We do
the 40 treatment, or the 100 guinea version."

"As far as kids on the street today are concerned,

their alleged positivity comes from being totally
nihilistic, condemning everything. It's a kind of
positiveness but all it does is bring the vacuum
down quicker.

When did Ronnie first take an interest in Meher

Baba?

"Like with me, when I wrote 'My Generation' I

condemned everybody except my own generation.
The reason I talk so much about punk rock is it's the
first opportunity I've had for such a long time. The
enthusiasm I've got for it, I want to get across, but
I'm very worried for it because I feel it's the first
thing I can relate to for a long time. I like this band
and that band, and I even quite like the Eagles, but
I wouldn't stake my life on them. This is something
real and I just feel that..."

"Oh, a long time ago. I took too much of a certain

substance one night and got into difficulties.
Actually I had a lovely time. The difficulty was living
with it afterwards. Acid yeah. It took me a couple
of years to get over it. I'd already had some on that
disastrous Who-Small Faces tour of Australia,
where we got exported by the army! Pete had been
through the same things as me and we just talked
about it. Rather than getting the teachings out of a
mouldy old book, we actually met people. That was
ten years ago."

"You've gotta let your kids go and graze their own

knees," said Ronnie.

But why didn't they put more of Baba into the

album?

"That's right. But there are always a few examples

in front of you. Remember Phil Seamen (the
legendary jazz drummer who died a few years
ago)? Looking at that man stopped me ever putting
a needle in me arm. Thank you very much, Phil
wherever you are today. There are hundreds of
examples of people who have been screwed."

"'Till The Rivers All Run Dry' is a reflection of it,"

said Pete. "We went to a Don Williams concert,
heard this song, and both thought about the lyrics,
and whatever happens, as funky rock comes and
goes, in the end there are still basic, fundamental
needs that man has. Let's face it, we went through
our little mill very rapidly. Ten years ago we had only
been in the game for two years and we were

Pete mentioned a British rock idol of the early

Sixties. "What a tragic figure. Screwed up the arse,

965

already finished. Desperate. F------- up. Screwed.

And we NEEDED something. I suppose drugs were
a lot to do with it. Meher Baba was a relief I
discovered through myself. I could never, for
example, get into Christianity through a Jehovah's
Witness who bangs on the door and gets a medal
for saving.

done up, or threatened. They're probably used to it,

but they were really smashing blokes. And I was
shouting at them, 'You've got to take over, where
the Oo left off!!' And he said: 'The Who aren't
breaking up are they? They're our favourite group.'
And I'm going: 'I'm disappointed in you!'"
"These two guys were a slightly different kettle of
fish to Johnny Rotten though. They're much less
rigid. They want to be in a band and play, get
success and f---- birds."

"But on the other hand I don't think the existence of

Jehovah's Witnesses belittles the power of Christ's
teaching. It's hard to explain, but the one thing I like
about Meher Baba, the one thing that brings me
back to him is his sense of humour. It seems to be
the thing you need in this age. You've got to be able
to laugh, have your little moan then come out at the
other end with a grin, or else you are bloody well
done for. I'm sad about the violence today, sure, but
I've had me head kicked in so many times I
sometimes think it's damaged it!! You damage it
from the outside by getting into fights, and you
damage it from the inside by pouring LSD inside
you or whatever other drugs you are using. At the
end you can still see a little light at the end of the
tunnel.

Did Pete get banned from the Speak, the fate that
awaits all rock sinners?
"No, but only out of compassion. The next day I
woke up in a doorway with a policeman kicking me.
He said: 'Wake up, Pete. As a special treat, if you
can get up and walk away, you can sleep in your
own bed tonight.' So I staggered home on the
Underground. I was sad about it afterwards
because the whole day seemed a comedown.
"I felt I was spending all my time behind a desk and
the Sex Pistols were out enjoying the dream. No, I
don't think the new wave groups will be rooked by
their managers. I think it's more likely the new and
green managers will be rooked by the record
companies."

"I dunno about violence. Maybe people feel there

isn't enough happening. Britain is very drab, isn't it?
With its dole queues and strikes, and its nonpolitical parties. It's hard to see a way out of it.
Ronnie here is out of it in the sense that he lives out
in Wales. I'm out of it to the extent that I don't have
that contact anymore. I have other business
interests, which I like. I really enjoy book and music
publishing. It's my recreation, or wreck-creation.
That's a good word. I'll use that for the next album."

Would we be seeing either Ronnie or Pete out on

the road again soon? "I'm playing down the Miner's
Arms on Saturday night," said Ronnie. "Pete used
to play down there. Couldn't get 'im off the piano."
"The Who were going to go into the studio," said
Pete. "I don't know if we are still going. I talked to
Roger about it yesterday. But I don't want to do
another album. I'd rather make a film which Roger
seemed keen to do. But of course John is keen to
get back on the road or at least to play. I dunno
what we're going to do. Keith came over from Los
Angeles for the rehearsals then he went back
again. I think he's selling his place there. We tried to
persuade him to come back to England. It's ironic
but I don't think Keith is financially very well off."

Pete's occasional lapses into irrelevance are an

understandable reaction to the pressures often put
upon him. For example, he finally split from the
Who's old management team of Chris Stamp and
Kit Lambert, but only after a protracted series of
meetings that could last up to eleven hours at a
stretch. "It was after such a meeting with Allen
Klein, that Chris Stamp and Kit Lambert clung on to
one another and went down the Speakeasy to see
Wild Willy Barrett. And I had two whiskies and
exploded. I went completely bananas. I went
around hitting people and practically got myself
arrested.

It is a shame that Townshend and Lane won't be

recording together again, or ever doing a one-off
concert, for despite the strands of their friendship,
each remains a separate entity with strong ideas
about how their lives should be run and how they
can write and work. Of the two, Pete is the most
affected and influenced by outside events, probably
the most shocked and concerned. He tells the story
how he was waiting outside the Wig & Pen in Fleet
Street for an appointment when suddenly a man

"Funnily enough it was the night I met two of the

Sex Pistols. They must have wondered what was
going on. Someone said, that's one of the Sex
Pistols, and I turned around and went ARRRH!"
(Here Pete emitted a lion like roar, causing Mr. Lane
and myself to flinch). "I picked him up, and he said:
'Ullo Pete, pleased to meet you,' whereupon I
started to preach at him. No it wasn't Johnny
Rotten. Poor old Johnny, I hear he's always being

966

stepped out on a high window ledge and a crowd

gathered.

mythical properties, he's not embalmed by it. He's

using it.

"Two journalists were standing nearby and I heard

one say 'If he falls, we're in the money.' Then the
bloke on the ledge started cleaning the windows,
and the crowd melted away."

Listening to Empty Glass the cliches Townshend

can't resist, the agonising fragility of some of the
words, the penetrating invocation and introversion
of the rest of the words, the naive swagger here,
the wise restraint there realise that Townshend is
near to madness; recklessly curious, a bit of a bore,
half-mystical, half-playful. That I'm seeing A Fool
rather than A Legend or A True Artist is one of the
many virtues of this LP.

I suppose the moral of the tale is if you are sitting

on the ledge there are more people ready to shout
'jump' than there are to save you. But as
Townshend and Lane will tell you, it's strange who
you meet on the ledge.

The honesty of this LP is, like I say, more

remarkable than it really should be. If all those gods
and idiots who had their futures assured by our
gullibility and starvation prior to punk took as much
notice of the implications of those years as
Townshend, then they wouldn't be so ridiculed and
reviled now. There would be a proper place for
them; they wouldn't be just perpetuating something
treacherous.

Chris Welch, 1977

Pete Townshend: Empty Glass (Atco)
Paul Morley, NME, 26 April 1980
WHAT IS the trouble with these song and dance
men who have had their day but won't admit it?
They get above themselves, as Parsons and
Burchill wrote about Dylan and Stones over a year
ago.

Townshend has responded to the stimulus of punk

as far as it is possible for a musician so surrounded
by conventional rock tradition. If he shook off the
habits that make the music so thick with Who
climaxes (I suppose at least they're his cliches) and
'rock opera' slow passages and sensible rock
excitement then it would sound hollow.
Townshend's getting rid of his trademarks and why
should he? How could he?

The lies they live! The lives they lie about! Yet
although the music on this LP doesn't thrill me as
much as say, the music on the Monochrome Set LP,
it must be said immediately that on Empty Glass
Pete Townshend, singing his own songs himself,
does not mislead or justify or disguise...

If musically it's 'stuck', lyrically and contextually it

can get relatively radical. So I don't 'like' the music
here; I could never damn the commitment. If you're
a Townshend Who fan you should be in your
element.

In fact, the songs on this LP, at their most

confessional, are touchingly sincere. Given, as has
been said, that much of what's here would not go
amiss on a Who album (vocally, lyrically and
dynamically it has the edge because Townshend is
realising his visions, not lending them) and that
Townshend has never been a purveyor of erotic
fantasy or whatever, he is still very open here.

But whatever, whichever, Townshend hasn't made a

classic or perfect LP. Beneath the mainline
mainstream rock Empty Glass is more desperately
untidy, tragic and humane than The Pop Group's
more obviously 'concerned' LP, and at the other
extreme more genuinely horrifying than The Wall. It
states a lot more than the obvious. It is vulnerable
and extremely personal and from Pete
Townshend, rock star, legend, rich man, who could
ask for anything more?

Townshend has to be respected for his convincing,

almost radiant response to the past few years. The
frankness and determination of this LP cannot be
undermined. This is quite a recovery. We're so fond
of knocking those elder statesmen, or just plain dirty
old men, who mess it up and make fools of us and
themselves. Townshend should first of all be
acknowledged for producing something that isn't
pathetic, self-congratulatory, feeding on his own
myth, and then congratulated (or something) for
making songs that have real relevance. It shouldn't
be a big deal, but it is.

The rock journalist? 'Jools And Jim' the song for

Parsons and Burchill is creating a stir and I think
it's an important song. As a writer who's never sure
of what the hell I'm doing, I can appreciate the
dilemmas and defiance in the song. It could have
been a whining song, but it is direct and
constructive. Initially, it's interesting that Townshend
should admit to being affected by rock writing,

Townshend is thrilled by rock and roll, hellishly

serious about it, but he's not shrinking behind its

967

should respond on record, and should do so without

condescension or ignorance but concentrated force.
It's also a purposeful demonstration, questioning
not simply the eloquence, values and judgment of
rock writing, but the obnoxious attitudes of all those
whose stance and habits allow no room for growth.
The song explicitly searches for decency, with the
implication that something far more profound is at
risk. So where is truth, where is 'right'.

The gentleness of 'Keep On Working', the slight

'Cat's In The Cupboard' and the straightforward 'A
Little Is Enough' hardly fascinate me like the 'key'
songs on the LP, but do not merit the dismal
dismissal 'filler'. However sentimental or vulgar or
over-lush they are, they do not become irrelevant
within Townshend's journey.
Townshend talked at length about 'Empty Glass'
last week. It's not a weak song, so I need add little
else. Townshend attacks our inability to be free, the
paralysis of the will. There is no illusion of escape.
The only choice must be action.

'Rough Boys' is the single, opening track and

another important song. It ruefully religiously, for
pete's sake details the stimuli that enabled, or
forced, Pete Townshend to continue those searches
(truth, 'right', dreams). 'Rough Boys' is dedicated in
part to The Sex Pistols (along with his children
Emma and Minta). The Sex Pistols, and what that
all meant, along with Keigh Moon's death, liberated
Townshend from those things which seemed to be
obstacles to his growth Tommy, Fame, Guitar, the
whole past. 'Jools And Jim' and 'Rough Boys'
illuminate the mood behind the gut feeling and the
manner of execution. The songs ride along on the
back of pace and passion. They're both lust songs.

This naturally leads into 'Gonna Get You', which

seems to be more than just a song about pulling; a
song about lust, love, desire.
Empty Glass is no radical, stunning work. It's
patchy, and there are things missing. Three of its
songs are very good, the rest variably interesting.
Empty Glass is an old man giving himself a new
lease of life, finding significance in survival, purpose
in just getting up and doing it, and satisfaction in
conviction. Pete Townshend belongs in the here
and the now and the tomorrow.

'Rough Boys' has terse, indignant lyrics, but

musically gets the full-scale treatment. Maybe it
falls just short of the classic resonance the content
kind of deserves, but I still get a rush when I hear it
because I recognise it as An Occasion. It finished
high up there, Townshend flying and telling us: "I
wanna see what I can find!"

Paul Morley, 1980

Pete Townshend: Empty Glass (Atco)
Richard Williams, Melody Maker, 26 April 1980

And then the song that Daltrey reckons is pompous

but I think is just brilliantly private, 'I Am An Animal'.
As a depiction of being suspended at some strange
point between life and death, it somehow
complements Devoto's burning distillation of
Dostoyevsky's Notes From Under The Floorboards.
It's an unexpected song, one that suggests
Townshend is more serious than just rock-serious,
disconcerting next to the liberating drive of 'Rough
Boys'. Townshend speaks from the other side, the
delicate music enhancing the atmosphere of this
difficult lament. Townshend's out searching, but
here is the chaos, the pressure, the tragedy, the
futility and where is the faith? It's the most intense
song on the record.

TO MOST people, it's probably always been

obvious that Roger Daltrey was simply Pete
Townshend's mouthpiece, the hired vocalist who put
the professional gloss on the composer's rough
lines.
It only came home to me, though, five years ago,
when Townshend found it necessary to deliver the
lead vocals himself on two particularly intense
songs, the self-recriminatory However Much I
Booze and the wistful Blue Red And Grey, from
The Who By Numbers. His delivery had such an
honesty and a vulnerability that I thought, yes, I
prefer Townshend's voice to Daltrey's, and I began
to hear the band more than ever as a group of
professionals, manipulated by a single presiding
intelligence.

From flying, to being suspended, and then down to

earth. 'And I Moved', written for Bette Midler,
receives rippling, muted piano treatment to match
its simplistic sexual atmosphere. It's here and on
the following 'Let My Love Open The Door' that you
begin to notice the obviousness of the structures
and themes a familiarity which is promptly
shattered by 'Jools And Jim'.

The prospect of the first Pete Townshend solo

album is, then, enticing (assuming that one views
1972's Who Came First as something other than a
wholehearted attempt at a fully-fledged solo
album). Empty Glass is certainly a complete

968

realisation, in terms of Chris Thomas's typically

crisp, straightforward production and the work that
Townshend has put into the songs; if it isn't
completely successful, that may be more
enlightening than disappointing.

touch with the feelings of their fans, and who never

forgot the meaning of the word "betrayal."
Empty Glass doesn't have the focussed ferocity of
the best Who music, but it does allow Townshend a
well-earned chance to stretch his muscles in other
directions. And, like The Who By Numbers, its
strengths take a while to make themselves evident.
Townshend remembers the meaning of
"promiscuity", too.

Townshend sings and plays guitar and synths,

accompanied by Rabbit Bundrick's piano, Tony
Butler's bass, and a variety of drummers (including
Kenny Jones and Simon Phillips). There's a lot of
overdubbing and some trickery, but Thomas's
discretion ensures that clarity and impact are never
lost.

Richard Williams, 1980

It's not surprising that, away from the group,

Townshend embraces a greater range of topics and
approaches, though naturally the confessional
songs are the most immediately interesting. And I
Moved is the one that first took my breath away, an
almost unbearably brave song which describes the
moment of his spiritual conversion with this
astonishing second verse: And I moved/And his
hands felt like ice, exciting/As he laid me back just
like an empty dress/And I moved/But after a
moment he was weeping/His tears the only
truth/And I moved/But I moved toward him... This is
sung (in that bruised, strained voice) against a
series of taut ascending figures set to a modified
disco beat, and the result is like being gripped hard
in a big fist.

Pete Townshend: Empty Glass

Dave Marsh, Rolling Stone, 26 June 1980
AS A FUNDAMENTALLY religious artist, Pete
Townshend fashions his music from sermons and
confessions. Though it's not an easy thing for
intellectuals to admit, this is well within the limits of
rock & roll tradition. From the beginning, rock has
been a music that's attracted evangelical
Protestants, lapsed Catholics, cabalistically inclined
Jews and yearning acidheads.
What makes Townshend singular is his insistence
on not separating his most transcendent spiritual
convictions from gut-and gutter-level rock & roll. It's
been suggested (by Townshend, even) that rock
itself is a religion, but that's not quite right. Let's say
instead that rock is a spiritual medium as much as a
musical one. (Which goes a lot further toward
explaining its uncanny hold on the devout than any
social or political explanation I've yet heard.) For
Pete Townshend then, playing rock & roll well
becomes an act of grace, while playing rock & roll
badly is a brutal test of faith.

There's plenty of the expected self-criticism in the

falsetto-led ebb and flow of I Am An Animal and the
similarly multi-faceted Empty Glass, which
contrasts passages of boorishly strutting powerchord bravado with the limpid, acquiescent
pessimism of the play-out section.
Optimism surfaces in the lightweight brawling rock
of Rough Boys (dedicated to Townshend's kids and
to the Sex Pistols), in the attractive Let My Love
Open The Door, and in the wry Keep On Working.

Townshend has been in a near-continuous state of

spiritual crisis since Tommy, and you'd think that his
feelings of self-pity and remorse (which have
dominated later Who LPs) would have been
intensified by the deaths of Keith Moon and "the
kids" in Cincinnati. But he seems to have been
strengthened rather than weakened by such overt
turmoil, and the result is that he speaks with
tremendous clarity here. If Empty Glass' very title
questions Townshend's worthiness to receive grace,
the shape of his music leaves no question that he's
willing to accept whatever fills the cup.

Perhaps the most revealing moment, though,

arrives in the musically unremarkable Jools And
Jim, his reply to the caustic rock criticism of former
NME staffers Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons.
"They don't give a shit Keith Moon is dead/Is that
exactly what I thought I read?" is the expected
response, but being Townshend the ridicule is
undercut: "But I know for sure that if we met up eye
to eye/A little wine would bring us closer, you and
I/'Cos you're right, hypocrisy will be the death of
me/And there's an I before e when you're spelling
ecstasy..." Burchill and Parsons' probable reaction
would be that Townshend's trying to ingratiate
himself; you and I know that he and Lennon are the
only rock stars of their generation who never lost

Empty Glass contains the least stiff-necked music

that Pete Townshend has made in ages. Indeed,
you'd have to go back to The Who Sell Out to find
him so consistently self-confident. All this comes

969

through in both the song structure, where he toys

with sixteenth- and thirty-second notes as well as
standard rock & roll chords, and in the
arrangements, where guitars and keyboards no
longer fight for space but simply fill in where
appropriate. When Townshend wanted to go jazzy
on Who Are You, he felt it necessary to cast the
compositions in the form of apologies. Now he
rocks more freely, and when he does stretch out, he
simply gets on with it. Empty Glass may be an
album without much innocence (not even in 'Rough
Boys', the rousing rocker dedicated to his children
and the Sex Pistols), but that's only because Pete
Townshend is past the point where he can fake
acceptance. You can hear it in his vocals, which are
the most and probably the only assured ones
he's ever done.

disciple of Meher Baba, imagining God's imagining

the world; the other, the scourge of hotel rooms,
explaining his recklessness and inconsistencies.
Empty Glass' two most-discussed tunes, 'Jools and
Jim' and the title track, are no less deceptive. 'Jools
and Jim' (nice Truffaut pun there) could simply be
Townshend's aural poison-pen letter to the New
Musical Express' rock-critic enfants terribles, Julie
Birchill and Tony Parsons. Yet whether intentionally
or not, Pete Townshend's rage is finally more farranging as he delivers a scathing critique of the
puritanical and self-righteous streak in the New
Wave. This is Townshend the rock critic at his best,
spewing out lines like "You listen to love with your
intellect" and "They have a standard of perfection
there/That you and me can never share" with
frightening urgency. Just as the furiously punkish
drumming that kicks off 'Jools and Jim' symbolizes
the end of his defensiveness toward punk's
usurpation of the spotlight, the quiet verse in which
Townshend confesses his own hypocrisy
establishes his determination to let no one off the
hook.

Thus does Townshend the preacher step down from

his pulpit to wander once more through his peculiar
parish. And we don't have to wait long for his first
pronouncement: "Gonna get inside your bitter
mind," he sings in 'Rough Boys'. No longer trapped
between an ocean of transcendence and a bog of
misery, Pete Townshend is far less insulated these
days. When he sings the aforementioned line, in the
same quavering voice he used for the "teenage
wasteland" verse of 'Baba O'Riley', he's talking not
only about the Sex Pistols and his own kids but also
about his mind. Whenever he's being introspective
here, Townshend slips into his "teenage wasteland"
style and sings very softly.

'Empty Glass' is a complex attempt to resolve the

questions posed by the final verse of 'Jools and
Jim'. On one level, it's an extension of the dialogue,
begun in 'The Punk Meets the Godfather', between
an old rocker and a new one (or what's left of the
elder's idealism, which comes down to the same
thing). But juxtaposed as it is with 'A Little Is
Enough', 'Empty Glass' suggests Townshend's
acceptance of new limits to his role playing (and
new vistas in his songwriting: the opening
synthesizer notes of 'A Little Is Enough' evoke
nothing so much as the voices of the aliens in
Close Encounters of the Third Kind).

'I Am an Animal', which declares Pete Townshend

"Queen of the fucking Universe," might be the only
good joke on the LP (except for the cover, where he
sits with halo and brandy bottle, hubris incarnate).
But coming on the heels of 'Rough Boys', it
encapsulates the record's tensions: songs of reality
and songs of spiritual imagination, songs of doubt
and songs of faith, songs of experience and songs
of devotion. What's missing (again) is innocence,
and it's about time he's lost that. For quite a while
now, Townshend has been threatening to dispense
with the pose that he never really knew what both
hands were up to, what actions they were taking.
He's certainly done so here. Empty Glass isn't just
an album with vaguely religious connotations. It's as
consciously spiritual as any rock & roll record ever
made.

Just as important, 'Empty Glass' provides Pete

Townshend's extremely condensed rock & roll
version of the Book of Ecclesiastes (not so ironically
subtitled "The Preacher"). Ecclesiastes, of course,
is one long rant about the futility of everything under
the sun, particularly human creation. To a Who fan,
it can read like the secret liner notes to The Who by
Numbers.
As a confessional, however, 'Empty Glass' offers
little that we don't already know. The second verse
in which Townshend declares, "All I need's a
mirror/Then I'm a Star" is probably just penance
for snipping a similar lyric out of the Who's version
of 'Who Are You' (it exists in a demo treatment). Yet
as an act of faith and a call to action, the song is a
lot more, because it goes well beyond the
superficial rendering of Ecclesiastes suggested in
the opening stanza ("Life is useless").

Not that everything is exactly what it seems. Pete

Townshend remains rock's master illusionist. The
love songs, especially 'Let My Love Open the Door'
and 'A Little Is Enough', might sound purely
romantic on the radio, yet their imagery is shaped
by religion. (Whose body is so "edible," after all, as
the Lord's?) But just as surely, 'I Am an Animal'
shows us two sides of Townshend: one, the devout

970

In a way, Ecclesiastes offers two texts for 'Empty

Glass'. The lines in the first chapter about "One
generation passeth away and another generation
cometh... and there is no new thing under the sun"
are obvious enough. The second text is more
significant. It appears at the very end of the book:
"Vanity of vanities saith the preacher; all is vanity.
And moreover, because the preacher was wise, he
still taught the people knowledge; yes, he gave
good heed, and sought out and set in order many
proverbs."

cheery by a long shot): an aging veteran, one long

preoccupied with both his mortality and eventual
place in the rock cosmos, puts out a solo album that
isn't 80% wank-off or wasted motion. Pete
Townshend could have saved 'Rough Kids' and 'I
Am An Animal' for the Who's Warner Bros. debut,
and he didn't.
Empty Glass sounds best overheard from another
room while one is reading, say, Falling In Place; at
a distracted distance, this might pass as a cool Who
album that wasn't. Its rhythms, its Townshendian
tones, are reassuring evocative in a
sensememory sort of way, like the background playby-play of any baseball game when you're not
following the action. There isn't action much on the
LP, but I like its subtle moves, its familiarly
rising/breaking/coasting melodies, the voice.

There's little there that couldn't be puzzled out from

an Eddie Cochran single: the pointed pointlessness
of life is precisely why there ain't no cure for the
summertime blues. What's really important here is
Pete Townshend's ability to express his
reconciliation with futility in rock & roll terms (he
matches the Bible almost symbol for symbol). Like
a lot of the greats, Townshend has had to live down
a certain sense of shame about the worth of the
genre itself. One measure of Empty Glass' success
is that he seems to have crossed that hurdle now.
Or to put it in the words of the LP's concluding (and
most Who-like) rocker: "Gonna get ya anyway."

Townshend has a magazine-whipped Augie Doggie

face on the front cover, flanked by two floozies. He's
grinning it up on the flip, the ladies have become
featureless white blanks. His halo is slightly
changed. The listener has the nagging suspicion
that on the altogether charming 'Let My Love Open
The Door' Townshend is singing not as a
prospective lover, but as a Cyrano for Avatar Meher
Baba. What does this all tell us? 'Let My Love...', by
the by, contains a line I like a lot: "You're so lucky
I'm around." He's gotten good at cocky. Also at
Clapton. 'Cat's In The Cupboard' is intense Cream
pure and easy (with a verbal nod to Squeeze).
Townshend combines the two c's on the album's
closer, 'Gonna Get You', a confident rocker wherein
he and valued collaborator Rabbit Bundrick whip up
a little Layla traveling music.

Sure, there's an inevitable catch, which is that

we've heard bold declarations from this quarter
before. It remains to be seen whether Townshend
can carry out such brave promises in the next test
of his career: reestablishing the Who as an ongoing
creative entity. But if Empty Glass suggests
anything, it's that the new Who music might be very
different, without sliding into the pomposity of 'Music
Must Change'. Pete Townshend's current songs are
mostly quiet declarations, not strident ones
another sharp departure from his past. And, after
all, those of us who still hold out much faith and
devotion for rock & roll at this point must grasp at
any straw. The ones offered here are far stronger
than most, because they're bonded with real love.

The album was produced by Chris Thomas, most

recently of Pretenders. He understands
Townshend's music better than Ken Russell does,
and individual songs from the album are effective
on the radio, especially 'Rough Boys' (if Townshend
had bobbled with a title like that, it'd be time to retire
his number). The title song starts with the words
"Why was I born today," so morning deejays should
avoid it, lest some sour awakenings occur. It's not
that swell a track anyway. Unfortunately, you will not
hear Pete's heavenly whimper on 'I Am An Animal'
on the radio. He says "fucking" in it. As an adjective.
There you go.

Dave Marsh, 1980

Pete Townshend: Empty Glass
Mitchell Cohen, Creem, August 1980
"Heroin" does not rhyme with "mellowing."
IT IS TRES CRANKY to slap the wrists of writers
(punky Britcrits) whose major crime seems to be not
caring so very much when Keith Moon died.

Won't Pete Townshend make a terrific old English

curmudgeon 20 years down the line, dregging up
mod memories for the BBC/PBS? He already has a
weary, elder statesman aura. When the Cincinati
crush took place, you knew his response would be
measured, impassioned, concerned and thoroughly
unshitty. He's The Deacon. He's one of the most

Where is The Chord?

Just thought I'd get a few objections out of the way
up front. Empty Glass is o.k., really. There aren't too
many skid-marks here. It's kind of cheering ('tho not

971

heroic rockers because he's one of the most

human.

throughout my teens and all of my adult(?) life.

Through good records and bad ones, even when I
swore that I would never again subject myself to the
obscene travesty of The Who impotently thrashing
through their greatest hits, I've checked for Pete
Townshend as the most committed and concerned
rock artist of his generation, as the only one to have
simultaneously created a legend while hysterically
demanding that everybody not only acknowledge
that he saw through it but demonstrate that they
also saw through it, who publicly castigated himself
for crimes to which he was the only witness, who...

Another fine line: "He [a spiritual vision: don't get

any wiseguy ideas] laid me back just like an empty
dress," from 'And I Moved'.
On Empty Glass Townshend is shifting his weight.
His songs take on different emphasis less forced
muscularity, less analytical myth-consciousness
when they're not filtered through the idea of "The
Who." So theoretically, as well as musically, this
effort is justified (so were Who Came First and the
Townshend-Lane record and 'Peppermint Lump'),
but...

This album arrives in the wake of what was possibly

the worst Who album ever, and demonstrates in a
light as positive as Face Dances was negative the
difference between Townshend-writing-asTownshend and Townshend-writing-for-The-Who.
Face Dances was Townshend-writing-asTownshend-for-The-Who, and it was horrendous.
This is totally Pete's street: it is impossible to
imagine Roger Daltrey singing any of these tunes,
and as for the recitations...forget it! Complete with a
couple of poems set into an oblique essay-story
which comments upon and illuminates the lyrics, it
certainly isn't the work of a man who is afraid to
seem self-conscious. Chinese Eyes contains more
raw, unprocessed self than anything I've heard
since Patti Smith's Horses and it has a very similar
intention: to depict the artist experiencing and
attempting to understand every aspect of his (or
her) existence.

Once, Townshend's creations were things we could

not do without. Who Unreleased was the only
bootleg LP I bought in the '60s, and Direct Hits the
only UK import LP, because there were tracks I
couldn't bear not owning and Decca was botching
up left and right. 'Substitute' was stolen from me, I
in turn swiped 'Happy Jack'. This was serious stuff.
Empty Glass is a worthwhile piece of work, all right.
Who else from the mid-60s has thrived through
1980 with as much common sense and sense of
mission? But essential it isn't. It adds to what we
know of Pete Townshend, but not to what is rare
and indespensible about him. Contrary to his
accusations in 'Jools and Jim' (cute), it isn't "a
standard of perfection" we expect of him, it's a high
jump so smart and so wild that perfection becomes
beside the point.

So here we find our nervous, quivering protaganist

stumbling through a welter of relationships,
questioning his work and his reasons for doing it,
waiting for the bomb, savaging complacency and
ennui, undergoing the terrors that create both
tribalism and nationalism and in the album's
single most towering moment creating a
stunningly beautiful metaphor for the central
governing fact of human existence: that we are all
(part of) God, and that none of us, no matter how
wretched or evil or fucked up, can be denied this
participation in the divine.

Mitchell Cohen, 1980

Pete Townshend: All The Best Cowboys Have
Chinese Eyes
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 3 July 1982
HERE IS Pete Townshend: born again. And again,
and again, and again, and again...
Chinese Eyes is this year's second best rock album
(there have only been two 'best rock albums' this
year, the other being of a more combative variety),
and the record which serves as the vehicle for the
most intense and impassioned attempt to
communicate that I've heard for a very long time.
For all its wordiness, its trad-Townshend sound, its
frequent moments of bathos and its return to
perennial authorial themes, it remains an
astonishing record: painful, awkward, eloquent and
boundlessly courageous.

The song in question is called 'The Sea Refuses No

River', and Peter Hope-Evans' raw, achingly lovely
mouth-harp sets off Townshend's exploration and
development of his theme: "Now he's like a stream
in flood/swollen by the storm/he doesn't care if he
sheds his blood/he wants to be reborn/For the sea
refuses no river/whether stinking and rank/or red
from the tank/or pure as a spring..."
Do you find that embarrassing? If you do, fuck you.
Go and read something else. I can't think of
anybody else in popular music capable of writing
that, and damn few capable of singing it, either.

I should state an interest at this point: I have had

enormous admiration for Pete Townshend

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After 'The Sea', virtually everything else is anticlimatic, but 'Exquisitely Bored' is a razor-clawed
parody of The Eagles, complete with horrible sickly
harmonies and shudder-perfect West Coast guitars,
while 'Communicate' features a particularly
Townshendian adaptation of poor old Adam's fakeBurundi drumming, a tongue-twisting chorus and
Townshend exhorting (himself): "Communicate,
communicate/By satellite and
solidstate/communicate, communicate/never, never
hesitate." He's insisting that words be used to break
barriers, unfreeze glaciers, dissolve
misconceptions...pretty much the way he's used
them here.

all his virtues into one record on the largest possible

scale, made no concessions either to big-time
stadium rock nor to what's supposedly 'relevant' in
contemporary beat, risked making a complete fool
of himself (again) and provided at least one of the
year's most inspiring recorded moments.
Best of all, he's finally forgiven himself for all these
terrible crimes and climbed down off his cross.
Welcome back to the world, Peter...and don't get
fooled again.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1982

Probably the nearest that the album gets to

standard Who-type Rack'n Rowl is the splendidly
titled 'Stardom In Acton', and the nearest to Whotype concerns is 'Uniforms' where Pete, under the
guise of taking another look at Teenage Fashion,
examines the drive to join the herd: "We are
marching as to war/we won't obscure no more/But
we're really fighting for our uniform." 'Uniforms' is
also the album's wittiest song; large chunks of it just
plead to be quoted. Try "I am frightened, you are
frightened/shall we get our trousers
tightened/Where in Brighton is the norm/for
enlightened uniform?"

Pete Townshend: The Unimportance Of Being

Townshend
Paul Morley, NME, 12 March 1983
BEFORE I begin my latest erratic arrangement I
must state my position, of which I'm certain. I have
never thought that if Peter Townshend cut himself
shaving he would 'bleed rock and roll'.
He would just cut himself.

Elsewhere, he adapts the traditional 'Girl From The

North Country' into 'North Country Girl' and gives it
a chilling anti-nuke punch line, though the impact of
the piece is somewhat muffled by the overly heavy
instrumentation.

Pete lights up yet another dark brown teeny tight

roll up, and sucks hard, fretful, greedy on this
strange security stick.
Pete, when did you feel that you were, in the
conventional sense of the word, 'old'?
I've felt old all my life.

The album's sequencing seems exceptionally off: it

begins with the unfortunately lumpy and ungainly
'Stop Hurting People', where a confessional poem
is set to an incongruously bouncy backing track and
salvaged by a rather lovely chorus, and then hits
you with the previously lauded 'Sea Refuses No
River', which in turn kills the pleasant, affectionate
whimsy of 'Face Dances Part Two' stone dead. The
tune should fare much better as a single, or rather it
would if Townshend hadn't set it in 5/4, which
should please dancers no end. (The only two hit
singles I can think of in 5/4 were Dave Brubeck's
'Take Five' and Jethro Tull's 'Living In The Past', so
maybe lightning will strike thrice and Pete'll do okay
with this one).

Because you felt wise, or because you felt

weary?
I felt that I was in trouble, as it were. One of the
ways I've measured my inner age is by the fact that
of lack eye to eye courage. Yeah, I can write a
letter, do something drunk, like smash up a room or
get into a fight...but stone cold sober I just cannot
stand up for my rights.
I know that, and I think it's the kind of quality
everyone expects youth to be about the fact that
sometimes you don't need to be right in what you
fight for, that what's important is whatever it is
you're fighting for at that moment.

For them that cares about these things,

Townshend's accomplices on the album include
Virginia (Ravishing Beauty) Astley on piano, Tony
Butler on bass and Mark Brzezchi and Simon
Phillips playing drums, with Chris Thomas and Bill
Price at the desk. The important stuff is this, though:
Pete Townshend, in his seventeenth year as a
recording artist, has compounded all his faults and

I've never been like that.

It's like when I first got into the band I never had a
great yearning to be a great success. I just wanted
to be in a band. I think I got caught up in all the
ambition of the people around me, someone like

973

Entwistle, who looks to be a very, very laid back

quiet sort of bloke on the surface, he's actually got
the most fucking aggressive selfish drive for
grandeur, position, power...

***
I THINK you're sick if you need to get on stage to
start with. You're insecure, you want the wrong kind
of...Y'know, the love of a good woman is not good
enough, you've also got to have the love of 400
tarts.

And there's Daltrey's incredible driving need to pull

himself out of the working classes and to hold
himself up as a banner for every working class man
and every villain and every thug, to say, Listen, you
don't have to fight your way out of every argument,
you can do it my way.

It's important to remember that at art school I was

surrounded by people who were talking about
revolution through modes of action, not necessarily
dealing with revolution per se. They were talking
about the revolutionary qualities of certain painters
pop art was revolutionary; the way Malcolm Cecil
played the bass was revolutionary. David Mercer
came along to talk about his plays and he went on
about bloody revolution

And I've been dragged along to a great extent by

these people. I've been thinking, whose fight am I
involved in? And for a lot of the time I've obviously
loved these people, yet been dragged around by
them. By Moon's insane need to entertain people,
to be laughed at, to be the clown...and then
Lambert, who was probably the most important
person in my life, is not very unlike my mother! All
these people who have been around me have been
much bigger, much more important, much more
eccentric, desperate, powerful, needing characters
than I've ever been...

That was the type of mentality I was in. I was

brought up playing a banjo in a trad band
accompanying Ban The Bomb marches to
Aldermaston.
I was actually becoming a complete hypocrite, but
not a serious hypocrite that needs to be condemned
or crucified; a hypocrite that just needed to be
swept aside because I was confused and, to some
extent, double dealing without realising that I was
doing it.

So where does this leave me? Piecing myself

together, as it were.
***
EXTRACTS FROM a gloriously confused,
pointlessly hateful, elegantly trivialising 9,000 word
dismissal of Peter Townshend...

One big example of that was I was double dealing

with the band for a long time. I was in the band, I
was making money with the band, I was still using
the band as a vehicle for my songs, living off the
band, and all the time I was telling the world how
shitty they were, how frustrated I felt...expressed all
this frustration and I did nothing to back it up.

And here, dressed in the way of tidy liberal

casualness, that post-hippy smartness, rambling
not quite as much as expected, a likeable,
distasteful, loose, lazy sort of person, as interesting
to talk to as any person with an unlikely, looming
past and a few good stories turning stale...and here
we go, into the doldrums of his failure, another
interview of straining solemnity...

I suppose 90% of my mail is from American girls,

but very young girls, between 13 and 15, and it's
always the same gripe that they've got: that they
were born into the wrong time, that their parents do
not understand them. They say they would much
prefer to be 35 years old so that they could have
enjoyed the glorious days of rock as America
celebrates it, or alternativley born young in Europe.

He's just a bit...Ken Barlow-ish. Oh, very clever,

very intellectual, but the very model of conventional
wisdom, and despicably patient. And locked in a
whirlpool where sycophancy or abrasiveness
doesn't reach. Senility? Yes, associated with that
self-hypnosis that's an accessory of years and
years of dope smoking, associated with a form of
surrender.

I fucking feel for them, cos I would hate to be 13

years old and live in America at the moment. But
why the hell do they write to me? And how do I
reply?

The band all it was for. So Peter Townshend didn't

turn out a completely crushing bore; so Roger
Daltrey could purple perm his hair and grow a tan;
so Keith could fly to his moon; so Entwistle could
turn into a long necked bass guitar. And some
songs, if you like.

FOR ME, well, my favourite 20th Century

workers/artists always incorporated into their
considerations of what you term 'futillty', their
confrontation of disenchantment, a sensual
edge, a playful edge, very much anti the
liberal/sociable idea of freedom.

974

The square rock speakers, whether Weller or

Townshend, when you were forced to speak on
behalf of stereotypes, relied in thrashing
through the cold details of futility and inhibition
in a way that narrows down response to a
numbing degree.

tendencies towards mysticism, which again

links up with 'beauty for beauty's sake' and
vociferous, valuable contradiction. Is your best
work an exploration of how we, in the West, can
practically incorporate mysticism into our
everyday lives?
I don't think I've been able to touch upon it. I think
probably the best song I ever wrote about
mysticism is 'Bargain', which is slightly devotional,
but it was also about what a bargain it is to even be
a rat. That even being a rat is better than not being.

There are great ways to be deeply outraged but

still celebratory: brilliant ways to be ingenious
and vivacious without being shall we say
irresponsible. Rock you know what I mean
using that word seems to betray the mind, and
I think that this is wrong.

And it's so strange because whatever position you

are in life there is always someone higher and
there's always someone lower, there's always
someone envious of you, and always someone you
will covet. This is how it is. To the Western
consciousness this represents some kind of
fatalism...

Mmmm...after Christmas I was wandering around

thinking I am going to find out who I am, stuff like
that, and then I read Patrick Walker in the Standard
and it said all Taureans under the influence of
Saturn will be walking round with your hand on your
brow suffering from an incredibly strong desire to
find out who you really are.

There's a great contradiction between your

particular religious values, and your definite
Englishness.
I think it's because we live in an age of
contradictions. We're at a turning point, a period of
great, great change where the Orwellian approach
to the injustices of society...there's no point in
perpetuating it...as we've said already by
recognising futility you're not actually creating the
potential for its eradication.

And I started to read poetry again, and I got a load

of new books and somebody who really fucking
struck me was Oscar Wilde, this thing about the
pursuit of beauty at all costs, this aesthetic
wholeness. Suddenly I saw that you should never
allow yourself to be pinned down because you are
never the same twice. You are always changing
because you are constantly affected by and,
hopefully, growing because of the stimuli that is
applied to you through your receptiveness to life.

What about violent action in the '30s, would

you have gone to Spain and fought for the rightminded (that is, left wing)?
I actually wrote a play about that once...I read a lot
about it...I dunno...it's very weird. I don't know
whether I would have done. It comes back to that
thing about me lacking eye to eye courage.

So if you walk around open to what life can offer

you then you must never expect to remain the
same.
If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later,
to be found out.
Yeah...and I thought Jesus Christ, this is so much
on the opposite path to everything I've ever done,
but it is so attractive. And it's possibly what we
need. When you say to people, there is no work,
there is no future, and there is nothing except the
present and the fact that the sun might shine and
you might be able to get in a day's swimming...l
dunno...you have to make something of that. I think
you're absolutely right...

Do you believe in violent methods?

I'm not a pacifist. I do find it strange that all
generations since the war have been denied the
opportunity, as it were, to decide whether to fight or
not to fight. We've been rendered incredibly
impotent by that fact, and yet we still have to bow to
our fathers and our grandfathers who provided us
with the peace that we enjoy at the moment. Even if
it is a terrifying peace. I dunno. There are a million
causes surely worth dying for.

The text of sensation.

And despite the fact that I respect Paul Weller, it's
something that irks me about him, his rejection of
that, and I see something of my own propensity for
shoving people's futility back down their throats in
him.

Would you die for England?

No.
Are you proud of England?
Very much.

In a way your tendencies towards religious

mysticism can be linked with Wilde's own

What is it about Englishness that is attractive to

you?

975

I think it's like very ordinary things. The main bulk of

the people and I don't just mean working people
they find their dignity in detail, in very, very finely
honed attitudes. There's a strange dignity about the
English that appeals to me. And that fact that a lot
of English people...and this manifests itself in a very
silly way...a lot of middle class people loving their
gardens for example. For a long time I used to
sneer at that, and then I realised that this is an
expression...it's a kind of toy town approach to what
you're talking about...of actually seeing something
in life that is worth cherishing and which is natural
and God given, which they can be a part of.

Do you take yourself too seriously?

No. Because I find it fun to take myself seriously. It
amuses me. I find it amusing to see how long I can
keep up, it you like, a serious stance without
cracking...and also the contrary: to see how long I
can get by without getting serious.
There are moments when you are frivolous?
Let's put it this way: I'm serious or frivolous very
rarely. Most of the time I think I'm just boring. I relish
the chances to be frivolous, whether it's through
rubbing up against a companion like Moon, or
serious when it's rubbing up against someone like
you. When I'm just with me, as it were, I just cruise
along like everyone else.

I suppose why I like the English is for very universal

human things that communicate themselves to me
in a very pure way.

***

Would you say that you're anti-foreign in say

the decent way of the '50s Larkin and Amis?
Yeah...because I think that any culture that is driven
entirely unwittingly and uncontrollably by the
emotions that are, as it were, brought by blood and
birth in other words the Latin temperament, or the
African temperament that they're at a
disadvantage.

EXTRACTS FROM a deliciously unreasonable,

contemplatively nasty, heroically argued 9,000 word
dismissal of Peter Townshend...
P-P-P-P-Peter Townshend is one of those people
who don't really know what they think until they
write it down or express it verbally. Should he have
kept quiet? Whether all this writing down and talking
helped Townshend organise his thoughts and
recognise enlightenment when he damned well saw
it is not in contention: the wordy rubbish fucked him
up, guaranteed. If he'd have been ten years
younger he would have been Pursey-fied. He
should have kept quiet.

I think that the English way is to suppress and

control emotion, and although at first sight that
seems to lead to a kind of soulless, colourless
approach to life, it does mean that you're one step
closer to what I believe is that right way to
live...which is everyone considering other people
before themselves.

Am I being hard? I am. Am I right? I am.

I think what's interesting about the English way, and

it's rooted in tradition, is that for years and years
and years, probably hundreds, we've been forced
by our class structure to stop and think...the ruling
classes by virtue of the fact that they were expected
to behave in a certain way, the working classes
because they were literally restrained from
behaving spontaneously. So spontaneous
behaviour has never been...er...congratulated by
the English.

How can anyone possibly comment sympathetically

on all those arguments Pete Townshend had with
hmself?

I suppose I must think this is a good thing. I must

believe that anything spontaneous is not thought
out. Then again, I love spontaneity in art and
fashion...I suppose spontaneity in its place. That's
very English, isn't it? Keeping things in their place.

By rock I mean that daft attempt to teach the world

truth. Townshend talked truth; rock was truth;
everyone was meant to impale themselves on this
truth. Only now are we recovering, and it's hard
work. Townshend has sort of recovered: and turned
from fake fanatic into meek mellow madman.

It was all this reflective, well meaning, distraught

rubbish in conjunction with some ardent righteous
blows of rock that contributed considerably to the
wonderfully moving and amusing building up, falling
down of rock.

Why am I asking you these questions? Are you

important or something?
I don't want to appear to have any great call on
humility, but I really don't think that I'm important. I
feel that I'm finding out at the moment what is
important to me, and that is important.

***
I THINK one of the problems of being middle class
and coming from a family of musicians has been
the fact that class, the attitudes and consciousness

976

of what that means in this country, has always been

something that has somehow evaded me. I've
always wanted to know where I belong. I need to
know which group of people I belong to, or am part
of. The last couple of years I've actually got
involved with a lot of titled people. I felt I wanted to
find out if I belonged there. I'd done the musicians,
I'd done the working class, I'd done the middle
class.

cliche that consequently makes you suspect

everything that he says. He never stops saying "as
it were".

The band...the whole thing was completely

impossible, untenable, unworkable, solidified,
stultified, emulsified...

"...I don't enjoy doing interviews anymore, as it

were..."

"...I stopped writing for Daltrey around the time of

'I'm A Boy', as it were..."
"...I don't very much care what people think of me
anymore, as it were..."

I know it's a minor point, terrifically minor, but it's

usually the minor points that truly matter.

I know in my case I definitely confused artistic

indulgence with revolution.

***

I don't think it's been a waste of time...What I've got

today, I've got my family; I've got a growing
relationship with a lot of people around me; I've got
an...inordinate amount of love for my wife; I've still
got a love of art and music, and of rock and roll in
particular, and er...I've got money in the bank..,
which means at my age I can look back and say,
well, some of it might have been treading water, but
I'm still relatively young and there's still dangerous
things I could do if I wished to do them. I've just got
to find out if there's anything I feel deeply enough to
say.

THE IDEA that here was a society, the mods at the

time, the young working class kids, it was quite a
wide variety, who were literally getting fucked up the
arse by aristocrats, that kind of thing. I feel that cos
the song was taken up and was so successful in
terms of kids responding to it, and it says so little
but what it does say is what a lot of kids at the time
wanted to express.
And I started to get into that as a habit, looking at
what I felt sometimes people wanted to say, not so
much being a spokesman but attempting...often...to
say what they were trying to say. And I was often
saying things that I didn't necessarily believe
myself. That early stuff was written to such a strict
brief. I was almost like an advertising executive
saying, right, what kind of music's going to fit in
here it's gotta have street consciousness, it's gotta
be right for Roger Daltrey, blah blah blah...

***
EXTRACTS FROM a courageously open minded
9,000 word dismissal of Peter Townshend...
I hate to moan...but you can always guage the
extent of a politician's/union leader's simplemindedness through their use of grand cliches.
Nearly all that conversation from those dead patient
people running up and down our lives for reasons
long forgotten, the ones always nattering away on
LBC or Radio 4, is stained with cliche, rubbed bald
of regenerative meaning by sodden repetition.

I am very good at writing to a brief. If someone asks

me to do a TV commercial for Kleenex tissues I
think I'm probably the best person in Britain for the
job.
I suppose again it would be pointless trying to
wriggle out of the liberal label because in fact I am
very liberal but partly that's a response to the way
I'm treated.

To help them all complete a sentence that makes a

vague sort of sense they have to rely on a set of
phrases. The obvious popular one right now is "at
the end of the day". Shit, that upsets me. Some
politicians can slip that into one sentence THREE
TIMES. As soon as somebody uses "at the end of
the day", I know that they're no good for anything
but managing Wigan Athletic. I know that they're
wasting everybody's time, that beneath that veneer
of alluring confidence they don't know what the
wreck they're talking about.

***
EXTRACTS FROM an assessment of the
Townshend that comes to you from the frontiers of
contemporary thought and sensibility...
One of the greatest things Peter Townshend ever
did, for me, has nothing to do with Tommy or Live
At Leeds or Rolling Stone confessions and

Unfortunately Pete Townshend laces his

conversation with an equivalent cliche, the kind of

977

admissions, not any historical document. It was

when he once said, and the implications of it will
outlast anything he has done or will do, "singles
could just well be what life is all about. What the
spiritual path is all about."

being confused myself, I mean very deeply

confused.
When I attempt to be didactic in my writing I fail.
Where I find I've been a victim of my own confusion
and double dealing has been the fact that I don't
think I ever wanted to be anything other than part of
the establishment, that for a long time I was
speaking for and talking to people who were trying
to resist the establishment or fight for change and in
actual fact I was happy to be part of the
establishment.

Now that's not bad. Thinking about that kind of

statement, one could almost believe that Peter
Townshend could have become the life giver, the
life receiver, the generous sort with a magnificent
contempt for material truth.
Townshend is not the heroic figure the dull
statisticians of rock have cast him as: nor the fragile
defiant incomplete aesthete he wished to become
but for the band: trapped between these two
extremes, these two dreams, he appears to be a
broken melancholy figure, stumbling over obstacles
thrown up by his own temperament, noticing too
many possibilities, and so sabotaging his desire for
simple happiness.

***
EXTRACTS FROM a work entitled Peter
Townshend: a re-writing of history/making up for
lost time.
Peter Townshend, I feel, would rather have given
being an aesthete a good name like Wilde, Valery,
Barthes than have ended up in a book of guitar
greats, like Clapton, Page, blah blah blah.

This fiercely serious man has complex, often veiled,

relations with others: feelings of superiority, of
baffled feeling, inadequacy, of not being able to get
what he wants, or even naming it properly to
himself.

All he ever wanted to be was beautiful. Hence his

whole career has been undercut by pathos. For he
was merely the level headed commonsensical
conservative with a theoretical interest in revolution
who was fucking dragged due to his detached
appreciation of art as action and rock as excitement
into areas of indulgence that never suited or helped
him. After that, all that was left was resignation.

Not, like Baudelaire, the superbly self-aware

melancholic: not like Hendrix, dead: not, like
Jagger, a beautiful failure: not, like Cowper Powys,
a devout master of the art of happiness.
Just...burdened.
***

He talks more of Oscar Wilde than Meher Baba.

SINCE LAST year, we came back from the States,

and I mean all that was definitely the art of
sophisticated presentation machinery at work, and I
came back and actually asked myself some very
very simple questions.

Now that he's on his own, indulged as he realises,

he finds that ambiguity has a greater appeal than
authenticity. And being on his own is undoubtedly
the best thing for Townshend. He leaves behind a
decaying rock truth, rock very much founded on the
type of unhealty, unpractical authenticity he
pioneered and paraded...Authenticity he never truly
believed in, as we now see.

Like...what do I want to do, what is it I want to say,

what kind of art is going to bring me fulfillment, what
kind of communication is going to give me the type
of feedback that I need? What do I need, why did I
get involved in drugs after 15 years of sobriety, why
did I have a drink problem, why did I have a
problem with my wife, why did I end up in financial
relations with so many of my friends?

Yes, it's sad, it needs to be said. Saint Peter was

forced on us: Pete the pathetic is what we get. It
was always destined to end in tears. So smile!
***

All of these questions. And I was saying right now

I've got no fucking excuse, as soon as the band
stops existing I can't continue to blame them for
everything. I'm going through all this at the moment.
And what I find very interesting is actually looking
back at what I've said and done and written and

THE BRITISH public have had affection for The

Who and affection for me with a degree of
indulgence and condescension since I suppose 'My
Generation'...

978

Warhol, y'know, just becomes known because of a

painting of a Campbells soup can and then he
doesn't have to do it anymore, he just sort of
ponces around New York, and in the same way I
feel that when someone stops me in the street and
says, how ya doin' man, or is nice to me and shows
some warmth, it's because of what I did very early
in my career rather than what I do now.

What I really need to do is just to be me, y'know, in

the words of Toyah Wilcox. To admit to what I really
am.
***
WELL, APPARENTLY Pete and Paul met purely to
publicise the release of a double record compilation
of rare Townshend scraps, drops of blood, pieces of
eight. The publicist made this very clear, he even
gave me a tape, which I used to record the
interview: we musn't let him down. The record is
mentioned, as it were...

But I really have tried not to coast.

Cos we never had a Number One in England and I
would still quite like to get one. I suppose that has
driven me, it's not like I've been sitting back on what
I did at the beginning...cos it wasn't entirely
successful.

"I've always just worked in a studio, using music

and writing as a way I suppose of relieving myself,
sometimes in a truly cathartic way, sometimes just
for fun, to relieve tension, and sometimes just
because I love music. Just playing around with
music.

Because we were a group whose drive in a lot of

ways was dissipated and who were manipulated.
We were turned into mods when we weren't mods,
we were later turned into the darlings of Ready
Steady Go, and then a band who had some kind of
pompous propensity to statements about art and
society, and then later on rock opera.

"When Spike was putting together the stuff for the

demo album and I listened back through two, three
hundred things, I thought this is what I'm about.
That some of the time what I was actually saying
was completely unimportant and it was the fact just
that I was playing, that I was doing it, that was the
important thing about me. The only thing that ever
mattered.

And although I responded to all the manipulations in

a positive way, because I really like ideas, there
was no real conviction there.
I started to look inward more and I found very little
there. I found contentment. I found an animal in me
that wasn't what I expected. I found someone who
didn't want to be a star, didn't want to be rich, who
was quite happy to be a fairly simple family man.
And for a couple of years recently I went through a
whole explosive thing of trying to rebel against that
in me.

"And this is how I will judge myself. On what that

leads me to. Not on what happened with The Who,
not what corners that led me into, and not what
roles I ended up playing."
Hand Pete a razor blade.
I leave, and Pete Townshend throws a red guitar
into the street. A blue car glides over it, crushing the
thing. I s-s-s-saunter down Carnaby Street.

I mean, a lot of people felt that I was struggling to

regain adolescence but in actual fact I was trying to
deal with the fact that I'm really a pretty
straightforward person. And that...

Paul Morley, 1983

I get lots of letters that seem to suggest I represent

some kind of pinnacle of human achievement
because I admitted that I'm a drunk.

Pete Townshend: A Musicians Rocky Road To

Bloomsbury
Mick Brown, Sunday Times, 1985

...I don't have tremendous needs, I don't have

tremendous talents, and I don't have special
qualities...and that in itself is incredibly special.

THERE IS about Pete Townshend nowadays a

sense of balance which is hard to equate with the
Pete Townshend the pop music audience came to
know, love and while he agonised at length in
public during the decline of The Who to find
increasingly tiresome.

I suppose only if I'd recognised that a lot earlier

would I have had the self respect, the dignity and
the pride to have been able to turn round and say to
the people around me, Fuck your money, fuck your
band and to some extent fuck the friendships in the
group which aren't really friendships at all.

The questing idealism the voice, it was popularly

held, of rebellious youth and, later, of the concerned

979

middle-aged is not the strident thing it once was.

Now turning 40, Townshend has finally relinquished
his self-imposed obligation to make sense of a role
as pop musics most articulate spokesman.
Relinquished too the sense of "self-loathing" and
desperation of being "about as low as its
possible for anybody to get" which he freely
admits to feeling at the turn of the decade when the
pressure became too great.

publishing company, which Townshend had founded

and run since 1975, Eel Pie, was in dire straits.
Over the years Eel Pie had established a reputation
as a lively imprint dealing in pop-music-related
subjects, short on prestigious authors but long on
bright ideas and enthusiasm. By 1982, however,
after a two year period of concerted marketing, the
company was, in the words of one publishing
insider, "a complete financial shambles", and
required an injection of 1 million or more to fulfil its
publishing programme. Townshend could not
provide the money himself and was loath to borrow.
Looking around for a buyer for the company, he
approached Faber and Faber. Faber was interested
in modifying its culturally rarified image and
reaching a younger, wider audience. It did not want
Eel Pie but it did want Townshend, both for his
ideas and, says Faber chairman Matthew Evans, as
a way of attracting writers who would otherwise
have regarded Faber as a "cultural no go area"

Townshend has instead provided an answer to the

question that plagues all pop stars: what should the
professionally youthful do when they finally,
inexorably, collide with middle-age? If they are
intelligent, articulate and well read, they become
publishers.
The announcement in 1983 that the Bloomsbury
publishing house of Faber and Faber had appointed
Pete Townshend, late of The Who, to the position of
associate editor was greeted with some raising of
eyebrows, and no little mirth.

"I think Matthew Evans wanted a bit of fun," says

Townshend, "some of the excitement that was going
on elsewhere in the publishing industry; the growth
of interest in the popular arts, youth culture
terrible phrase contemporary things. What I did
not want to be was just the man who dealt with all
the pop music stuff."

Faber had T.S. Eliot, William Golding and Lawrence

Durrell; it had literary kudos, plays of high repute,
perhaps the most celebrated poetry list of any
British publishing house. Its reputation did not
suggest much truck with the world of pop.
Townshends arrival was widely held to be a
gimmick, ripe for satire: Spiggy Townshend of
Fabber and Fabber. Even The Times was moved to
note with some irony, that Townshend arrived for his
first day at the office wearing a suit.

Evans admits that even within Faber, Townshends

appointment was not greeted with universal
rejoicing; but, he says, the view that it was simply "a
flashy appointment to give us street credibility" has
changed as the fruits of Townshends 20-odd
months with the company have begun to appear in
print.

This tradition has not continued. It is possible that

Townshend is the only associate editor in the
company to arrive at editorial meetings in a
chauffeur-driver limousine with a two-day growth of
beard, wearing cowboy boots and smoking
fragrantly-scented Indian biddhis. "Pete has brought
a breath of the street to the place," says his fellow
editor, Robert McCrumb. And, suit notwithstanding,
Faber has brought a breath of traditional propriety
to Townshend. Twice a week he appears at the
offices, attending editorial conferences armed with
his share of ideas; at home he reads manuscripts
assiduously, a dictionary and thesaurus by his side.
It is, he notes without irony, "the best job Ive ever
had".

These include a collection of plays by Steven

Berkoff; a study of bikers written by Maz Harris, a
Hells Angel currently studying for an honours
degree at Warwick University; histories of the
demise of punk and the rise of glam-pop, a political
life of John Lennon and a book of short stories by
Townshend himself, Horses Neck. Forthcoming are
books about young entrepreneurs in Mrs.
Thatchers Britain, and about the revolutionary
heroin cure pioneered by Meg Paterson.
The word fun does not leap instantly to mind, but
all the books reflect Townshends personal
obsessions: his interest in pop mores, his friendship
with Lennon and with Meg Peterson, whose
technique cured Townshends own addiction to
heroin. Not surprisingly, the most successful book of
all has been Townshends own. A series of elliptical
commentaries on childhood, the tribulations and
degradations of fame and the obsessiveness which
lies at the heart of the contract between star and

Fabers offer of a job arrived at a propitious time in

Townshends life.
The final, creaking demise of The Who after 17
years, and Townshends own highly public struggle
against alcoholism and drug addiction, had both
taken their toll on his spirit. Less publicly, the

980

fan. Horses Neck has sold an impressive 12,000

copies in hardback.

Who appeared to impose on him. He is, he says,

glad to be out of it.

For Townshend, the book was partly a valediction

for a passing era, partly a cathartic exercise to
unravel the conundrum of self and public image. It
is measure of the disparity between the two, he
says, that he was deluged by letters from the Who
fans who had read the book, "all saying they had no
idea just how unhappy I had been."

Paradoxically, while The Who for years vaunted

notions of youthful rebellion and spiritual
transcendence to little apparent effect. Townshend
has thrown himself into charity work, as a fundraiser for Chiswick Family Rescue of which his
wife Karen is chairwoman and the Prince
Charles Trust, and as chairman of The Whos 00
charity which has been active in raising money for
heroin treatment centres.

This, he says, is an understatement for the anguish

of the Seventies, which, briefly, concerned
Townshends enduring belief that rock music was a
divine lever to move the world; that he had been
personally chosen to take this lever in his hands;
and that The Who were the agents by which the
deed would be done and his subsequent
realization that it wasnt and they werent.

Rehabilitation of addicts has, Townshend admits,

become "an obsession". "I feel a great drive
towards helping the kind of individual who has got
to the end of his tether because I identify with the
dervish drive behind that kind of abandon. It does
produce a great schism, because in the midst of my
own addiction I did feel that I was on some kind of
path. Punitive self-immolation is very similar in a
way to lots of traditional spiritual patterns." He is
currently working towards establishing a Meg
Paterson Clinic in Britain. A study recently
submitted to the Royal Society of Medicine showed
that after seven years only 15 per cent of patients
treated with Patersons techniques had relapsed
into heroin addiction.

His problems culminated in a slow descent into

disillusionment, and ultimately the long night of
alcoholism and heroin addiction until 1982, when
he, quite literally, came clean with a drugs cure at
Patersons clinic in California. A public expiation of
guilt and self-loathing followed. "Id become the
personification of my own worst fears, and I really
wanted to be beaten for it," he says. "But I was
staggered to find that people did not want to beat
me or piss on me; neither, it seemed, did they want
to ignore me. What came from the media, in fact,
was a tremendous compassion and a desire that I
get myself together. That wasnt what I expected at
all, and it helped me to realize that I wasnt in the
hole I thought I was."

But Paterson has refused to have her methods

investigated by the NHS. "She believes, perhaps
quite rightly, that their aim is to discredit her," says
Townshend. "Because if you prove it is possible to
detoxify somebody in 10 days, as she does, there is
obviously an obligation to bloody well do it."

Returning from California was, he says, "like

walking out of darkness. And this feeling that what
Id thought of as darkness was actually just
standing in a door and facing darkness. Were in
that doorway all our lives, and what life is about is
deciding which way you face."

Much theorizing about the value and purpose of

pop music has been sublimated into his role at
Faber. His specific brief, he says, has been to bring
into the company "drug-related issues and streetpolitics", Sixties and Seventies subjects, and
"newfangled things, like Steven Berkoff. He belongs
at Faber, but he needs me here in order to be
accommodated. The establishment here couldnt
accommodate him."

He is no longer the zealot he once was. "I still

believe that rock can enhance the quality of life and
raise the spirit at its best. But you cant look to it
for societal change and I really did believe it was
capable of that once upon a time."

"Pete has brought us an independent voice and a

list of contacts which have been invaluable," says
Faber chairman Matthew Evans. "He is an
extremely smart, bright guy, who fits in with a group
of people who also see themselves as smart and
bright. Any reservations anybody had about him
joining the company have gone, I think."

In two weeks time he releases a new album and

video film, White City, which uses an estranged
love affair on a West London housing estate as a
metaphor for apartheid in South Africa.

"His contribution has been to bring a completely

new dimension pop culture to the Faber
catalogue," adds Robert McCrumb. "Because of his
position as the survivor of the great days of rock he

His continuing activities as a solo performer have

indulged his enthusiasm for music, but without the
burden of evangelism or the moral agonising The

981

has a very interesting angle on the society of which

he was, and is, a part. There are other people in the
company who might have wanted to publish the
books he has, but hes brought an authoritative
voice to those kinds of decisions, and cut through a
lot of the namby-pamby arguments about whether
we should do it or not."

minutiae of the band's iconography were likely to

even notice the enigmatic credit line discreetly
inscribed on the back cover of Tommy: an
unfamiliar word followed by an unfamiliar name.
Avatar (Hindu for the earthly incarnation of a deity)
Meher Baba was born Merwan S. Irani in Poona,
India on 24 February 1894. Although he maintained
a vow of silence for the last 44 years of his life,
Baba communicated his philosophy in writings that
included such characteristic epigrams as "Don't
worry be happy."

Townshend himself is well aware that the

mainstream of publishing still regards him with "a
certain amount of polite scorn. I think the attitude is
very much, Lets see what time tells with this guy,"
he says. "Ive got a reputation as being a bit of a
dilettante which Ive got to live down."

Townshend was introduced to the teachings of

Meher Baba in late 1967 by underground artist Mike
McInnerney, who would later paint the surreal
artwork for Tommy. "It all happened in the space of
two months," Townshend later marveled. "One
minute I was freaked out on acid and the next
minute I was into Baba."

His time with Faber has, he says, affected him in

yet more subtle ways. He is reading more, and also
across a broader spectrum. He has become an avid
watcher of the news, current affairs programmes
and documentaries. He has acquired "a broader
world view".

It was an auspicious time for new influences to

reach the 22-year-old rocker. Sgt. Peppers and the
Summer of Love had drawn a line in the rock'n'roll
sand, demarking the moderate past from a more
radical future. A bad trip on the flight home from the
Monterey Pop Festival in June had soured Pete on
hallucinogens. His band had recorded its first
pivotal longplayer: released in the autumn, The
Who Sell Out sharp conceptual satire and a
masterpiece of psychedelicized art-rock deftly
erased the Who's image as a singles band. But
such essential career developments were incidental
to the long-range ramifications of Townshend's new
faith.

"My emotions," he says, "have become far more

rooted in humanity." This would be a pleasing
transformation in anybody; for an erstwhile messiah
of pop, the effect has been profound. Learning to
think about things other than himself, says Pete
Townshend, has been the most refreshing thing of
all.
Mick Brown, 1985
What Came Next: Pete Townshend Goes It
Alone
Ira Robbins, Who Came First, August 1992

Although the Who spent the better part of the next

twenty months on the road, Townshend inspired
by Meher Baba, who died ("dropped the body" in
disciples' parlance) at the beginning of 1969
managed to conceive and write Tommy, the twodisc rock opera that turned the Who into a
household name. (Even if some neophytes did think
the group was called "Tommy the Who.")

As spiritual epiphanies go, Pete Townshend's public

acknowledgment of his personal rebirth was made
with remarkable understatement for a major
celebrity.
The guitarist was well-known (indeed, deservedly
famous for) his ability to display the strongest
emotions which, in his songs up to that point, had
been frustration, alienation and consequent anger
in extremely demonstrative fashion. The explosive
violence of ripping guitar chords, Keith Moon's
cymbal slashes, John Entwistle's thundering bass
swoops and Roger Daltrey's roaring voice was the
key to the Who's unparalleled rock power, and
Townshend bottled up a young man's blues like a
master brewer.

While this accomplished artistic expression of

Townshend's epiphany attracted a vast new
audience, that same force precipitated a subtle but
unmistakable gulf of faith between the group and its
adherents. An endless stream of you're-the-onlyperson-who-really-understands-me-what-should-Ido-with-the-rest-of-my-life? letters arrived at Pete's
easily obtainable address in the London suburb of
Twickenham, sent by sensitive, alienated teens who
could identify with the angry characters in his songs
and the insightful intelligence he regularly
expressed through the media. (Many received
patient, considerate replies from their idol.) But
most fans had to find Townshend's embrace of

So it was no trifling matter that he chose to

announce the abrupt change in the direction of his
life a topic of major obsession for Who freaks in
eight-point type. Only those truly concerned by the

982

Meher Baba too personal and profound a path to

follow.

successes, Tommy's triumph laid down a majorleague gauntlet. British journalist Chris
Charlesworth may have overheated things a bit in
his 1984 biography of Townshend when he
described Pete "quaking in his Doc Martens at the
prospect of following Tommy." In his book, Before I
Get Old, Dave Marsh quotes Townshend "looking
for the natural thing to do after Tommy."

Wisely, Townshend's lyrics within the Who remained

reasonably universal, expressing Baba's principles
love, surrender, sacrifice, devotion in language
that excluded nobody, even those disinclined
towards messiahs. Despite their spiritual
underpinnings, songs like 'We're Not Gonna Take It'
and 'The Seeker' ironically discouraged idolatry and
left layers of meaning open to individual
interpretation. Rather than use his position to
proselytize, Townshend prudently reserved his most
explicit expressions of faith for the converted.

The Who's supercharged career clearly required an

adequate and appropriate follow-up to the deaf,
dumb and blind boy. And for rock's most
conscientious philosopher, a performer whose
overriding sense of responsibility to himself, to his
art, to his family, to his Avatar, to his audience
could be an onerous burden, there was much more
at stake than sales figures. A reluctant idol whose
every onstage gesture or insightful media comment
brought wider acclaim, Townshend was becoming
to his followers exactly what Baba had become to
him. (Or the other way around.)

A creative technique Townshend had used for years

provided him with the means to explore artistic
areas too singular for the Who. Armed with a home
studio and skill on a variety of instruments, from
drums to keyboards, Townshend routinely recorded
demo versions of his songs, using those solo
acetates to introduce new material to his
bandmates. Pete's demos occasionally leaked into
the Who-freak underground, where fans seized
upon them for the treat of hearing him sing a song
otherwise voiced by Daltrey, and for the charm of
production sound far lighter and more delicate than
the Who's idiom.

That dichotomy, a basic conundrum of fame that

haunts many reflective rock stars, mirrored the
pivotal conflict for Tommy, an unwitting pop messiah
ultimately destroyed by those who worship him.
Like his creation indeed, largely because of his
creation Townshend was at a critical juncture in
his life and his career. Could he reconcile art with
commerce and remain a serious artist advancing,
not simply recycling, the form and discourse of
popular music? Townshend had dreams about
narrowing the gap between performer and
audience, about elevating pop music to spiritual
realms. At the dawn of the decade, global rock
stardom a trick straitjacket of seductive luxury and
idiotic obligations threatened to drown out his
creative voice while amplifying his external
existence to deafening proportions.

But the utilitarian value of Townshend's homework

as sonic shorthand was nowhere near as crucial as
the part it played in facilitating his musical
development. "I had been sobered by the
astonishing genius of Jimi Hendrix," he recalls, "and
I wanted to get away from trying to be a pyrotechnic
electric guitar player and develop a more personal
style. I achieved this by jumping off from the
strummed acoustic style of 'Magic Bus'. Piano I
developed because I needed a writing tool and
harmonic inspiration. I turned to synthesizers for
inspiration, not compositional control. The latter
came later."

Townshend had always been the band's most

voluble and articulate spokesman, but the flood of
interviews and profiles that attended Tommy
underscored its composer's unchallenged
preeminence in the band's hierarchy. Daltrey
became the personification of Tommy, but
Townshend became the Who.

At a time when few musicians had the imagination

to need them, Townshend constructed various
private studios (the liner notes to 1983's Scoop, a
compilation of these solo recordings, contain a
detailed chronology) which afforded him the
unobserved artistic freedom required to turn a great
pop tunesmith into a genuine rock visionary. From
the mid-'60s on, he made countless demos,
tinkered with various acoustic instruments and
synthesizers initially outside The Who's ken,
recorded devotional music in tribute to his messiah
and unselfconsciously tested the stylistic frontiers of
his talents without concern for the consequences.

The two-year period between Tommy, which was

released in June 1969, and the Who's next studio
album (Who's Next, August 1971) hardly seems
long by contemporary superstar standards, but in
the career of a major band back then it was as
noticeable a gap as Dylan's post-accident
sabbatical.
Rather than vanish during the period of artistic
turmoil that gripped the band that year and well into
the next, the Who hid in plain sight, spending 1970

To an expansively ambitious artist like Townshend,

a seeker challenged rather than sated by his

983

carting Tommy across the stages of Britain, the

continent and America. They were hardly marking
time: The Who were by then the world's most
exciting live rock'n'roll experience. The beat-trioplus-singer model taken to its wildest realization,
The Who were an unnatural, uncontrollable force
created of personal conviction and Hiwatt stacks.
Cream had elevated the blues and lead guitar into
an entirely new art form; The Who took pop music
and power chords and did the same thing.

irrespective of the lyrics, which were hard for

nonbelievers to accept made the record
irresistible.
Although it was obvious that love for Baba had
humbled him, Townshend remained a rocker at
heart. 'Content' or not, he wasn't ready to shake off
the values and vision of a musical bermensch who
could rivet a nation of mud-caked teenagers
sprawled across Yasgur's farm. Instead, he turned
towards another spiritual manifestation, an
undertaking of such scope and ambition that it
would easily dwarf Tommy's schematic structure.

Now devoted to and identified with a way of life

that his bandmates did not share, Townshend
confronted his changing role in the rock world with
the distinct vision of a Baba lover. While maintaining
his Who-superstar-rock responsibilities, he needed
ways to channel his faith outside of the group. He
sought out and spent time with other Baba
disciples. He performed with acoustic guitar at
private meetings of the faithful. He began planning
a London center devoted to Baba. But the pivotal
extracurricular project he undertook in the wake of
Tommy was an album of devotional music to
coincide with and celebrate the 76th anniversary
(February 1970) of Baba's birth.

LifeHouse, which Dave Marsh describes as "a

watershed between the Who as a band of idealists
and the Who as a band of professionals, between
the concept of a rock band as an experimental
troupe and the idea that it was a profit-generating,
creative business," was nothing less than an
attempt to use Baba's teachings as a catalyst for an
expansive art project (ultimately intended to yield a
film) that would somehow investigate the myriad
mysteries of life or at least resolve some of the
mounting frustrations its author was facing. As
Marsh succinctly puts it, LifeHouse was about
"everything that was on Peter Townshend's mind
from the autumn of 1970 through the spring of
1971."

Happy Birthday was produced and released in a

tiny quantity (2,500 to start; official repressings were
similarly modest) by the Universal Spiritual League
in London; the Meher Baba Information office in
Berkeley, California sold copies by mail for $5.00.
An unlabeled disc and a 28-page black-and-white
booklet slipped inside a hand-stapled sleeve, with a
beatific portrait of Baba on the front cover and a
blurry photograph of his easy chair on the back,
Happy Birthday reached Who fans for whom it
was clearly not intended as a bewildering but
marvelous jewel.

Although the idea went through numerous

conceptual stages in wildly divergent directions
interviews from this period describe complex,
involved ideas and plans that evidently evaporated
upon explication (although all of Townshend's
remarks on LifeHouse need to be reconsidered in
light of the songs that were later salvaged from it)
the essence of it is a character called Bobby who
inhabits a dysfunctional future. What appears to
have been a vast, extravagant fantasy involves high
technology, spiritual crisis, political repression,
popular enlightenment and rebellion. But what
made the sketchy reports fascinating was
Townshend's audacious role for the Who. The
foursome would take over a London theater (the
Young Vic, on the South Bank) and invite a captive
audience to join them. As Townshend told Chris
Charlesworth in Melody Maker, "The idea was to
get two thousand people, and keep them for six
months in a theatre with us. The group would play
and characters would emerge from them; eventually
the group would play a very minor role. Maybe five
hundred of the original two thousand would stay
during the six months, and we would have filmed all
that happened."

Townshend contributed a half-dozen mostly

acoustic solo recordings: 'Content', 'Day of Silence',
'Mary Jane', 'The Love Man', a demo of 'The
Seeker' (the Who's version, released as a UK single
that same month, was the group's first studio issue
since Tommy), and 'Begin the Beguine', a 1935
Cole Porter composition for the musical Jubilee.
With Townshend adding some acoustic guitar,
Ronnie Lane the Small Faces-cum-Faces bassist
and Baba disciple re-recorded 'Stone' from The
Faces' 1970 album, First Step, retitling it 'Evolution'.
(Three years later, Lane recut the song for his first
solo LP.) In addition, the album contained
devotional poetry, an instrumental by Pink Floyd
associate Ron Geesin and several lecture excerpts.
To the lucky few who heard it, Happy Birthday ably
demonstrated that Townshend could scale his rock
dynamism down to communicate on an intimate,
personal level. The stylistic shift took a bit of getting
used to, but the loveliness of the music

In February 1971, the group actually did play

several shows at the Young Vic, but the results
were disastrous, and that, for a number of reasons,

984

was pretty much the end of LifeHouse. While

Townshend had a nervous breakdown, the Who
somehow pulled together an album from the three
dozen songs he had created for the project.
Released in August, Who's Next proved to be one
of rock history's most successful salvages.

being widely bootlegged and approached

Townshend about reissuing them commercially.
(The claim is dubious: at the time, both records as
any self-respecting Who freak knew could still be
ordered by mail from the original source.) A cynic
might remark on the perceived potential of a solo
record by the creative leader of a band with three
consecutive gold albums, not to mention lawyerly
concern over a prominent artist under exclusive
contract having a sizable hand in unsanctioned
records. But Decca approached the matter sensibly,
and wisely promised to divert some of the proceeds
to relevant charities.

Entwistle stepped out of the group's shadow in May

with an impressive album of his own, the excellent
Smash Your Head Against the Wall. Charlesworth
asked Townshend about his solo plans. "I get so
much stuff of mine put out through The Who that it's
not worth it. If I made a solo album it would be
songs which weren't good enough for the Who and
wouldn't be very good." But, he continued, "I would
like to put out an album of demos which I have
done, but they are very much like the finished
product and would probably only be of interest to
real Who freaks."

Townshend later explained the project's genesis.

"[Decca/MCA] merely encouraged me to put out the
album through normal channels. They wanted
25,000 copies to distribute and offered me a dollar
an album to give to Baba, a very generous royalty. I
decided that if I was going to do it on this scale, I
might as well do a completely fresh album.

As the Who picked up the pieces and resumed their

inexorable march towards arena rock supremacy,
Townshend whose dedication to Baba had moved
him in January 1972 to make a solitary pilgrimage
to the Avatar's Indian birthplace, where the living
disciples are gathered participated in a second
Baba album, I Am, which was released (with a 48page broadsheet, Wallpaper, of photographs,
poetry, lyrics and credits) in early 1972 through the
same set-up as Happy Birthday.

"I was not thinking of this as a solo album at all.

This remained a devotional project. I wanted to
include more material by other artists, but
eventually I had to stick to the most professionalsounding tracks."
The two items by other artists that made the final
cut on Who Came First were 'Forever's No Time at
All', an I Am item written by Billy Nicholls and Katie
McInnerney and played by Caleb Quaye (a Baba
lover who had backed up Elton John and was then
leading a band called Hookfoot), and Ronnie Lane's
'Evolution', cut down from Happy Birthday, where it
clocks in at more than six minutes.

Townshend took a less prominent role this time,

contributing only 'Parvardigar' and a hypnotically
elongated synthesizer sketch for 'Baba O'Riley', a
LifeHouse leftover (and Who's Next hit) titled in
tribute to avant-garde composer Terry Riley.
Additionally, he played synthesizer on a piece by
Dave Hastilow, guitar and drums behind poet Mike
Da Costa on 'Affirmation' (its title notwithstanding,
Da Costa's whimsical 'How to Transcend Duality
and Influence People' is delightfully representative
of Baba's dada sensibility) and synthesized flute on
'This Song Is Green', one of two numbers written
and sung by Billy Nicholls.

Previewing the album in Sounds, Townshend

explained: "Before I edited out all the important
verses, Ronnie's song covered all the major states
of consciousness that we go through to reach the
glorious state of human-ness. Stone. Metal.
Vegetable. Worm, Fish. Animal, then, unfortunately,
man."

Nicholls, a British singer/songwriter whose 1968

debut single on Immediate was co-produced by
Ronnie Lane, is "one of my best family friends,"
says Pete. They met through Baba work in the early
'70s and discovered that their fathers had played in
a band together; Nicholls subsequently joined The
Who's extended family, singing on the Tommy film
soundtrack, penning a 1980 hit for Roger Daltrey
and serving as musical director for both
Townshend's Deep End ensemble and the backing
band on the Who's 1989 tour.

Track Records, the Who's own label, released Who

Came First a handsome gatefold production with
photos of Baba and a poster by Mike McInnerney
in Great Britain in September 1972. The album
arrived in America the following month, on
Decca/MCA. Whether intending an ironic gesture or
not, Track put out a 45 of 'Forever's No Time at All'
b/w I Am's 'This Song Is Green', two Billy Nicholls
songs in which Townshend had little or no hand.
Who Came First made Townshend's love of Baba
most explicit on two songs that began as devotional
poems. Happy Birthday's 'Content' is a tender

Decca Records, the Who's American label,

allegedly got wind that the two Baba LPs were

985

prayer of spiritual security by Baba lover Maud

Kennedy which Townshend set to music. "It's simply
about being content that you have found out about
God," he told Sounds. "Happy to know that
whatever goes down, he's still there, holding the
tickets."

The poetic lyrics to 'Time Is Passing' are indicative

of an awareness of nature that now informed
Townshend's writing and would peak several years
later on Quadrophenia. The themes of liberation via
music and renouncement of false leaders (Don't
listen to people talk. Don't listen to 'em selling souls.
Don't listen to me or words from men above) are
straight out of LifeHouse, although the song
apparently isn't.

Townshend recounted an intriguing story about the

writing of 'Parvardigar', which first appeared on I
Am. "My wife and I were on holiday on Osea Island
in the Blackwater Estuary [on England's east coast].
One afternoon I tuned my guitar to a chord and
picked out a very carefully constructed melody a
la Bert Jansch or John Renbourn. Somewhere in
the back of my head I gave it to Baba.

Most of the material on Who Came First could be

classified as demos, but only two of the numbers
actually became Who records. 'Nothing Is
Everything', named after a book of Baba teachings
entitled The Everything and the Nothing, was a
rousing LifeHouse element which the Who had
released as 'Let's See Action' on a 1971 UK
single. "It's about the people who act in a revolution
and the people that sit back," Pete noted. "I thought
it also said a lot about the way we forget our souls
most of the time."

"Simultaneously, I had been working on Meher

Baba's prayer, 'The Master's Prayer'. I was rewriting
it so the meter scanned common time, with a few
rhymes here and there, so I could put the prayer to
music. When I had finished, it suddenly struck me
that the guitar piece I had dedicated to Meher Baba
might make a good melodic basis. They fit like a
glove. At that time I felt almost as if I had nothing to
do with the writing process at all. If this doesn't
sound completely like me, maybe it ain't."

Written as the theme song of LifeHouse, 'Pure and

Easy' which opens Who Came First ("I put it first
because I like it the best") is one of Townshend's
superb creations. Although the band version, a
Who's Next outtake, remained unreleased until
1974 (when it was gathered on Odds & Sods), the
song was a fan favorite even before its appearance
on Who Came First. The Who made it a concert
staple in 1971, tying it to the coda of 'The Song Is
Over', which quotes its first line. With lyrics of
sublime spiritual beauty, 'Pure and Easy' conflates
the metaphysical power of music with the
transcendence of love, underscoring an achingly
pretty melody with an uplifting ascending chord
progression. There once was a note, pure and easy,
playing so free like a breath rippling by. The note is
eternal, I hear it, it sees me. Forever we blend is
forever we die.

Pete's short-title rendition of 'There's a Heartache

Following Me', an American country song written by
Ray Robert Baker and a UK hit for Jim Reeves
shortly after his death in 1964, was a different sort
of tribute. Baba had named the song, along with
Cole Porter's 'Begin the Beguine', as a personal
favorite. "Baba said that Jim Reeves' voice was full
of spiritual power and love," noted Townshend. "I
listened to him sing this song and had to agree." As
David Silver quipped in a rave review of Who Came
First in Rolling Stone, "even an avatar gets the
cowboy blues sometimes." (Across the pond,
Charlesworth's tepid review for Melody Maker ran
under the punny headline "Pete in the Baba's
Chair.")

Daltrey's cousin, Graham Hughes, photographed

the who-came-first? rock-star-and-egg cover. "The
idea and title came from a brainstorm with
Graham," recalls Townshend. "They were real eggs
and, so they wouldn't break, I was hung in a Peter
Pan truss. I was so distorted by this that the photo
had to be retouched in any case, so it could have
been done equally well with a cut-up."

The lyrics to 'Sheraton Gibson' make it an anomaly

for Who Came First; Pete acknowledged in Sounds
that it was "included for musical value rather than
content. I wrote this two years back after a really
good barbecue with the James Gang, their
managers and families outside Cleveland. I had a
good, good day. The next day in Pittsburgh [the
titular hotel was actually in Cincinnati], I was not
only missing home as usual, but also Cleveland.
This was the first time I ever used synthesizer.

In a loquacious print ad that ran in American

magazines, Townshend wrote (in part), "My own
last ten years have been pretty far out. I took a lot
of dope, played at Monterey, played at Woodstock,
met Dylan, had tea with Jagger, jammed once with
Hendrix, saw the WHO come to a greater height of
personal unity than I ever thought possible; I also
heard about Meher Baba, and stopped using dope.

"I had just listened to Self-Portrait by Bob Dylan, sat

down and wrote ten simple songs directly into the
tape machine without stopping. This was one.
Others I remember were 'Love Ain't for Keeping'
and 'Classified.'"

986

"Since the band began I have written songs at

home in my studio and served them up to the group
as completed single tracks, with all instruments
either played already, or at least indicated. For the
musician that can't read music can't really
communicate anyway the only way to get across
what you want is to play it. That's what I've been
doing. I'm getting to be pretty good at a whole range
of instruments, even the violin! I also can manage
to run an eight-track and all the associated
hardware. Electricians don't confuse me any more.
Control knobs don't scare me any more.

'His Hands' and 'Lantern Cabin', the latter proving

what an accomplished pianist the guitarist had
become, are both from With Love, the third Baba
album, which was released in March 1976. As is
'Sleeping Dog', an amusingly irreverent (if abject)
tribute to the master.

"These tracks are all tracks that I've recorded at

home. I play on all of them except 'Forever's No
Time at All' that, along with the rest of the album, I
engineered. Ronnie Lane and I got drunk one night
and recorded his 'Evolution' song, and apart from
these two exceptions, all the music is from my own
head. On this album, in this context, it is dedicated
to Baba. Not for him to listen to, his ears aren't
around, but so that he will be around whenever it's
played."

With thanks to Wayne King

Townshend estimates that Who Came First

ultimately raised $150,000 in the USA, "most of
which went towards making a film about [Sufi leader
and Baba disciple] Murshida Duce's life. In the rest
of the world, around 40,000 (then $96,000) was
raised and went mainly to the Avatar Meher Baba
Trust in India. More is being raised for the Trust with
this re-release. It will be used to support the
dispensary, school, hospital and pilgrimage center
facilities in Meherabad near Ahmednagar in India."

PETE TOWNSHEND, Broadway hit musical owner

and destroyer of 1001 guitars, is lounging in the
shade of a Twickenham afternoon like a man who's
just toppled America.

Pete Townshend, 1992: "I am still a disciple of

Meher Baba. However, in the middle of my life with
him I had a serious collapse. I tend to keep my
mouth shut about my spiritual life now who knows
what might happen NEXT?"

New York City, August 1992

Ira Robbins, 1992
Pete Townshend: Parka Life
Paul Moody, NME, 23 July 1994

He's just back from LA (where Tommy, the musical,

has just opened) and, funnily enough, he has the
demeanour of someone who's finally made of down
payment on all his cares.
He was due at the launch party for The Who's latest
compilation last night (Roger Daltrey and Kenny
Jones were there, quaffing with abandon), but he
decided to decline the invitation at the last minute.
Instead, he stayed at home with his wife and drew
space rockets with his five-year-old son.

The bonus tracks on this CD, all drawn from the

three Meher Baba tribute albums, have never been
commercially released before.
The demo of 'The Seeker' contains one verse (I
asked questions of my idols...) omitted from the
Who version. Pete wrote in a 1971 article, reprinted
by Rolling Stone, that "it suffered from being the
first thing we did after Tommy...It sounded great in
the mosquito-ridden swamp I made it up in Florida
at three in the morning, drunk out of my mind. But
that's where the trouble always starts, in the
swamp."

Outside, in the glasshouse on the edge of the

Thames, his minder of 20 years, Paul, slouches in
an armchair watching Wimbledon flicker away on a
TV screen while a pear-shaped man from the
record company melts away in the sun and
attempts to keep the schedule running to plan.
Pete saw off the tabloids yesterday with a series of
sprawling reminiscences about spiritual
enlightenment and how satellite TV is the future (no,
really) and today he's out to impress upon the
music press just why 30-year anniversary box-sets
ain't such a bad thing.

Also from Happy Birthday are 'The Love Man' a

lovely song of praise filled with subtle shifts in tone,
rhythm and, in the bridge, a perplexing change of
perspective and 'Day of Silence', "written on my
Marshall & Rose English mahogany upright
piano...on July 10th, which is the day followers of
Meher Baba choose to spend without speaking. I
wrote the lyrics the day after so that I wouldn't
'break my silence.'"

I'm ushered in to see him, just after Radio I exit in a

flourish of handshakes and trailing wires. He looks
ridiculously well. A denim shirt, casual but designer

987

expensive, sets off crinkle cut turquoise eyes, which

thicken with nostalgia every time he talks about his
old band and go ice clear when conversation strays
elsewhere.

"I think I've probably missed them all apart from

Blur. I don't go out these days, and I don't really
follow what's going on. What I think they all
represent, though, is something that's been lost for
a while in the indie scene, and that is the function of
the group, which was something we had in the '60s.

He offers a long slow smile and a Marlboro Light

and lets his ego do the talking.

"The Yardbirds had it when Eric Clapton was still in

them. The Small Faces had it for a while. The Who
had it. The Stones and the Beatles never did. What
these bands had was a way of focusing the mood,
the needs and the feelings of the audience. In the
end they actually came to mirror them, until the
point where the band became less important than
the audience. They became priests, conduits for the
message.

"I remember the first time I went to America, it was

for 16 magazine, to do some promotional stuff for
the Who, and we stopped off at New York on the
way back where Herman's Hermits were having a
press conference.
"Someone asked me what I thought of them, and I
said, 'If you think British pop music means
Herman's Hermits and The Dave Clark Five, you're
in deep shit. Eric Burdon? He's a f ing welder. He
just wants to shag your daughters. These people
aren't going to give you anything! You f ing need
us!'"

"The most important thing these bands have got to

appreciate though, is that they're responsible for
their audience. They owe something to the people
who are buying their records, it's a two-way thing. I
think somebody has to be brave enough to say, 'I'm
willing to die for this.'. I don't think I was ever going
to self-destruct for them, but I was prepared to!"

Funny, but this is precisely what we're supposed to

talk about. Tired, apparently, of running on empty,
trawling through the vaults for anecdotal tales of
Keith's looning and Roger's ego; of recounting
stories of being pilled up throughout the mod years
and alcoholised in Soho doorways for half the '70s,
Pete we're told is keen to discuss quite what
the Who's inheritance is; whether British pop groups
are still interested in taking their lead and squaring
up to the States.

He's talking about the mods, of course. Those

urchin creatures who trundled around on fragile
silver machines in the mid-'60s, wrapped in US
Army overcoats and make-up, ever-prone to flood
seaside coffee bars whenever the sun came out on
a bank holiday.
Here were simply so many of them at the time (all
to do with the availability of fast cash and
something about never having it so good) that they
became all powerful; selecting groups they liked
with an innate snobbishness and sticking to them
like glue. Pete still can't get over it.

Funny, because of the big three who supplied our

chief vinylised glories of the mid-'60s, it's the Who
who, just lately, have come to garner the most
name-drops. The Rolling Stones and the Beatles
will be there forever, bubbling under in mums' and
dads' record collections for years, but aspects of the
Who, somehow or other, seem, on a microscopic,
attention-to-detail level, to have touched a nerve.

"The thing about it, and what still interests people

today, was that mod suddenly moved from being
this very macho, working class thing, where kids
would be coming down to gigs with guns, to a
completely different spiritual level."

There's been a zillion bands who've emulated them

along the way but this is something different. It's a
mod thing, pretty much. After all, Blur have mixed
up their art school cool with saucy postcard
laddishness and come up trumps; Oasis have a
handle on their inter-band rowing and indestructible
group-spirit, and These Animal Men, well, have just
stolen the whole lot, right down to claiming a stake
for the resurrection of Brighton beach as cultural
icon.

Indeed, the mod heartland which sustained the

Who through their early days did follow the band
into the realms of rose-coloured free-thinking. They
may not have followed Townshend's devotion to
Meher Baba, but they did cease to be the hardfaced individuals who launched them. The whole
world mellowed out. Trouble is, too much getting
into bed with such free-thinking usually ends up in
disaster.

Meet the new boss, same as the old boss. Pete

willingly confesses to not knowing too much about
any of them, but it doesn't seem to matter. He's got
theories on practically everything.

"That's it, really. There is an intellectual inheritance

involved, the sort of thing Paul Weller's got
nowadays but in the end, you have to break that

988

tie between the band and the audience and go off

and do your own thing, otherwise it takes you over.

"When I heard about that, I felt sick, just like I did

when Keith died. All I could thing of was where was
the fing doctor? There was one following Elvis
around who kept him alive ten years too long but at
least someone cared enough about him.

"It's like in Quadrophenia where Jimmy loses

everything. His girlfriend dumps him, his dad kicks
him out of the house, his scooter gets broken, he's
lost everything. In the end he's just stuck on a rock
in the middle of nowhere without anything. I think
that when certain bands went away, a lot of people
felt completely lost at the end of the '60s."

"Jimi Hendrix had doctors, but they were pushers,

mixing his drugs with elephant tranquillisers, talcum
powder and Ajax. The point about Kurt is, he said
he was gonna blow his brains out and he did it! It's
a completely different sentiment to 'Hope I die
before I get old'. When I wrote that it was a lifeaffirming thing. It was me saying, 'I'm not going to
be like you. I am gonna live forever and still be a
teenager the day I die!'"

The Who, of course, were busy losing it all over the

place. Enticed by America and trusting to their
ability to thrash it out live, they packed up their mod
wardrobe and fizzed-up pop sensibilities and
became fully fledged rockers. Pete moved into his
white boiler suit 'n' glazed eye period, Roger
discovered curling tongs and fringed suede jackets,
and the US fell for it head over heels.

And that's the point, really. Pete Townshend, for all

the self-destructive nature of the Who's musical
output, was never one to close himself off into a
corner and let the world pass by outside. Neither
was he inclined to the wanton excess of 'bad boys'
Keef'n'Mick. He just had too many ideas spinning
around in his mind for all that.

Naturally, they wound up being dreadful after a

while (post-Tommy and Quadrophenia; just around
the second side of Who Are You), but along the way
they became the most spectacular, frightening,
screwed up rock'n'roll band we'd ever had. Pete
puts the big changes down to their giant tours of
America.

The Who's second album, A Quick One, had a miniopera built into it while the third, The Who Sell Out,
was one huge glorious pop art experiment and
the much discussed (and never officially released)
Lifehouse album centred around Pete's desire to fill
a venue with people who would reach a higher
stage of consciousness when he delivered one
mesmerising note. Duly dubbed, erm, 'the universal
chord'.

"What you've got to remember is that when we went

over there they were still in the middle of the
Vietnam War. People were trying to blow their
brains out on drugs or running to Canada to escape
the draft, of coming back from Vietnam in bits and
then sitting in the audience.

That he's ended up as a literary editor for Faber &

Faber who puts out sprawling, overblown solo
albums in his spare time and has adapted his own
work for a show-stealing Broadway musical, is,
when you think of it, pretty unsurprising. You half
expect him to talk his way around to finding a
solution for Bosnia.

When you see things like that you realize that a

radical response is not the solution. You have to get
straight to the spiritual level.
"And what's interesting is that the generation after
that the kids in their 20s now realize that their
mums and dads have seen this opportunity for
change and have simply returned to the values the
existed before them. And they despise them for it.

And the good thing is all his greatest stuff's on the

box-set. Starting with a Pete introduction from a
1971 Long Beach show as mood establisher ("I"ll
tell you fers sumfink! Awright, now lissen! Just f
in' lissen and shut up, right!") it catalogues all the
Who's highs without descending too far into the
myriad lows. Even the fourth CD's playable. In the
midst of it all are enough bootlegs and out-takes to
make it the most trainspotter-friendly greatest hits
package you could ever compile.

"Their parents don't believe in the old ways but

they've just carried on with them anyway. They've
given up their kaftans and just smoke pot on
Sunday afternoons. Look at Bill Clinton! Look! I Still
play the saxophone! They're play acting, they don't
really believe it."
Isn't this the same nihilism and loathing of the
circumstances their parents have put them in that's
afflicted the American underground ever since and
which eventually saw off Kurt?

Pete himself views it almost non-commitally. He's

seen so many compilations come and go he can
barely muster up any enthusiasm even in the
sleeve notes (headed 'Who Cares').

989

Rather than talk about the Who, he's headed off on

1000 other tangents discussing the state of
China's musical output (there are apparently more
Who imitators there than in England), musing over
winning a Tony for Tommy (to the chagrin of Trevor
Nunn and Andrew Lloyd Webber) and being
reassuringly candid about quite how he sees
himself.

monumentalism, Pete was The Man:

simultaneously ugly as sin and cool as fuck;
aggressive and sensitive; yobby and intellectual;
introvert when he wrote and extrovert when he
played. The solo Pete of 1977's Empty Glass and
onwards '72's Who Came First only semi-counts
is an intriguingly non-identical twin of 'Oo Pete: his
voice is the exact opposite of Roger Daltrey's in that
it's likeable rather than admirable; Pete is
quaveringly vulnerable even when he's acting
tough, as on the Pistols-era Rough Boys and the
comparatively recent English Boy, whereas
Daltrey's leatherlunged defiance rendered even the
most tender of sentiments 100 per cent bulletproof.
By the same token, the music is softer, broader,
cushier and more textural than The Who's patented
combination of irresistible forces and immovable
objects, even on rusty-tank piledrivers like
Psychoderelict's Great Lost Single, English Boy.

"When you've got 86,000 people in front of you,

telling you you're important, it's fing hard not to
believe it. Your manager won't tell you you're not,
your record company won't tell you you're not. The
only one who will tell you is your wife. You're a shit!
Do the fing washing up and stop being so fing
pretentious!"
Well, you asked for it. What did the universal chord
sound like?

So here we have a panoramic survey of almost two

decades of on-and-off music-making, all gathered
together under a title which parodies a Pepsi ad
from the days when Michael Jackson still had his
own nose. It includes essays in spiritual love and
compassion like the covert Let My Love Open The
Door and A Little Is Enough (both of which double
as ordinary pop lurve songs) and the more explicit
The Sea Refuses No River or the faux-naif A
Friend Is A Friend; paeans to that peculiarly
Peteish vision of post-Mod street life with trace
elements of homoerotic subtext (anything with 'Boy'
or 'Boys' in the title), and ear-boggling musical
conjuring tricks like Face The Face, whereon PT
conjures up an extraordinary groove which renders
explicit the connections between hip-hop, blues and
jazz...And just when you think it'd be incredible if
someone deeply chilled was rapping over it, old IceP chimes in with the worst white-person rap in the
entire history of recorded sound.

"I dunno, but I heard it in my head enough times!"

As I leave him and head for the glasshouse, he
lights another cigarette and takes the compilation
tape of the groups we've been talking about (Oasis,
S*M*A*S*H, These Animal Men, Blur, Ride, etc) that
I've made for him, promising to give it a listen.
Outside the sun is shining brighter than ever.
Probably.
Paul Moody, 1994
Pete Townshend:
Cooltalkingsmoothtalkingstraightsmokingfirest
oking (Atlantic)
Charles Shaar Murray, Mojo, June 1996
DEAR DEAR PETE, ROCK'S leading luvvie: it's
been so temptingly easy to take the piss out of him
for his earnestness, his artistic ambition and his
esoteric enthusiasms that by now he's probably the
most genuinely underrated of the '60s Brit biggies.

At some point, The Who will be rehabilitated, and

Townshend will reclaim his rightful slot in the
pantheon alongside Lennon & McCartney, Jagger &
Richards, Ray Davies and Syd Barrett. A while
back, this magazine asked if it was time to forgive
Sting. The answer should have been no: it will
never be time to forgive Sting. But it's definitely time
to forgive Pete Townshend.

After all, The Who's legacy hasn't been hip since

Paul Weller turned into a born-again soulboy and
embarked on his Bad Haircut Decade with the Style
Council, but in Britpop's drive to deify The Beatles,
The Kinks and The Small Faces, the pre-Tommy
'Oo's vast contribution towards building the legend
of UK pop has been criminally overlooked.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1996

Pete Townshend, Noel Gallagher and friends at
the Sound Republic

In the original 'Oo 'eyday, before he commenced his

quest for cosmic wisdom, Pete was the perfect role
model for '60s pop fanboys. When The Who were
still a Patented Exploding British Pop Group rather
than practitioners of post-Woodstock stadium

Phil Sutcliffe, Mojo, December 1998

990

WHEN WORLDS kaleid... Its the second "launch"

night at Sound Republic, all chrome and cocktails
and biz/media chatterati who wont shut their yap no
matter whos on stage. But its also a Rock The
Dock benefit, a dozen former Liverpool dockers
actually there in the crush, and Pete Townshend is
declaring, "Theyre in our hearts, theyre our
brothers." But then, as careless talk overwhelms
high hopes, "And its free alcohol so fuck you all."

Townshend gathered the threads. Not only did he

make a heartening, spring-heeled racket with his
weird line-up of bass (Chucho Merchan), mouth
organ/Jews harp (Peter Hope-Evans) and
keyboards/beatboxes (Jon Carin), but he pointed
accusatory fingers, hollered denunciations and
delivered corking asides. 'Let My Love Open The
Door': "Every now and then I write a good pop
song. This was the last one. A fuckin long time
ago." 'Wont Get Fooled Again': "I bring you 60s
cynicism", and then during the inevitable Jews harp
stretch-out, "This is the drugs interlude. It lasts
about a year and one half." Then on came
Gallagher and Cradock and, while VIPs prattled on,
time stood still at the mystery of it all.

However, hes a robust soul. He grins. He windmills

the opening chords of 'Anyway Anyhow Anywhere'
and then at least the Very Important Prattlers
have to shout to make themselves heard, maybe
get a sore throat to remind them of how 500 men
held out for two and a half years but still lost their
livelihoods and more. A little later, Noel Gallagher
and Steve Cradock join Townshends band to strum
and howl "Oo-wa, the magic bus" with such pangenerational glee that all grouchy passions spent
and a kind of rock solidarity arises to reflect a
glimmer of what happened on Merseyside.

In return for the above Sound Republic paid

25,000 to Rock The Dock who are concluding their
work by financing a "learning center."
Set Lists: Townshend: Anyway Anyhow
Anywhere/Pinball Wizard/Behind Blue Eyes/Let My
Love Open The Door/The Kids Are Alright/Wont
Get Fooled Again/Magic Bus

Liverpudlian Dock-Rocking regulars Doxx Band and

Rumbletrain opened the evening, before Boo
Radleys Martin Carr and Sice set up their stools to
initiated a more or less acoustic segment. By nature
too mild-mannered for the prevailing glare and
blare, the Wallaseyan duo did contrive to impose a
certain delicacy with the wistful harmonies of 'Vote
You' and 'Eurostar', and Carrs straightforwardly
intense guitar on 'From The Bench Of Belvedere'.

Noel Gallagher: Stand By Me/Talk

Tonight/Wonderwall/Live Forever/Help!
Steve Cradrock & Simon Fowler: I Wanna Stay
Alive With You/The Circle/Foxys Flock Faced / The
Day We Caught The Train
Martin Carr & Sice: Ride The Tiger/ Vote You /
Adieu Clo Clo/ From The Bench Of
Belvedere/Reaching Out From Here/Eurostar

Ocean Colour Scenes guitarist Cradock and singer

Simon Fowler seemed far more comfortable.
Locked into their songs, they enfolded the attentive
front rows in their own concentration, revealing a
gentle passion and sensitivity less apparent on their
albums. Even the communal "Wo-wo-la-la-la"
singalong of 'The Day We Caught The Train' proved
that anthems can still be anthemic when theyre
quiet.

Phil Sutcliffe, 1998

Pete Townshend: The Lifehouse Chronicles
Charles Shaar Murray, Mojo, December 1999

Which theorem was at once confirmed by Noel

Gallagher. Everybody knows the "nobody knowwos" chorus of 'Stand By Me', so he coolly leant
back and let the crowd sing it. Point made, though,
Gallagher took control. Heavy-lidded, half-smiling,
he sang 'Talk Tonight', 'Wonderwall' and 'Live
Forever' with a hard precision which even brought
the best out of his much-berated lyrics. In cheery
mood, he chaffed, "Ive had flu all week and I still
sound better than Ian Brown." He played "the first
chord of our next single" it goes "strummmmm"
then, undeterred by those curmudgeonly
comments from George Harrison, closed with a
weighty, slow version of 'Help!', full of unexpected
feeling on the "I need somebody" and the "Wont
you please, please..."

Some day all music will be made this way

In 1970 it seemed so barking mad the band
asked him to drop it. Now, Petes vision of a
third millennium world united by a global
network sounds surprisingly apt.
FILE UNDER just one of those things: Just
because a project is 30 years in the making doesnt
mean that it isnt going to arrive late.
Case in point: Pete Townshends Lifehouse. The
massively complex and ambitious putative follow-up
to Tommy made its predecessor look like a
knocked-off B-side, and both Townshend and The

991

Who almost sank under its weight before band and

manager pulled the plug, took its creator to one side
and suggested that he simply took the best songs
from the project, dumped the conceptual scaffolding
and cut a regular Who album instead. The result
was the awesome Whos Next, still considered by
many to be the finest studio album The Who ever
cut, plus a fistful of stand-alone singles (including
'Join Together' and 'Lets See Action') and assorted
extras that ended up on subsequent albums, such
as The Who By Numbers and Who Are You.

of the early synth experiments which were included,

rather more recently, on PTs Julie Burchill-inspired
concept album Psychoderelict. We have a third CD
which includes some recent live recordings from a
show at the Shepherds Bush Empire, the most
spectacular of which is a devastating version of
'Who Are You' featuring a pile-driving rap and some
of the most boggling guitar Townshends ever
played, which sounds at first exposure as if hes
channeling Hendrix but in which he ultimately
channels himself.

For anybody else, this would have constituted a

serious result. Nevertheless, Lifehouse continued to
haunt Townshend and, despite periodic attempts to
lay the ghost, its taken until now for Lifehouse to
make it from inside Townshends bonce to an
objective existence in the outside world.

Then theres a sixth CD of orchestral music,

including huge chunks of Scarlatti and Vivaldi and
almost 10 minutes worth of an orchestrated Baba
OReilly. A limited-edition deluxe version of the box
to be called The Lifehouse Method will contain,
among other goodies, a seventh CD which
preserves a radio documentary, Lifehouse: The
One That Got Away, produced by John Pidgeon
and introduced by Townshend, recounting some of
the projects convoluted history, and yet another CD
incorporating software which will enable the nettedup to contact a website which will attempt to realise
the original Lifehouse intention of enabling us to
contribute to the ultimate group composition.

The original concept involved the then-new

technology of programmable synthesizers and the
then-nonexistent notion of an electronic network
which is now a part of millions of daily lives as the
Internet linking people confined by a manmade
disaster (industrial pollution, nuclear fallout) to their
homes. As the human race is atomised and
alienated, The Lifehouse then a band, played by
The Who, now a mysterious hacker DJ summons
people to get together physically in one place, to
congregate, in order to reassert their collective
humanity once more by participating in the creation
of a piece of art. The idea was that each person
would supply information about themselves which
would be expressed as code and programmed into
the synth to generate a musical composition which
would represent each and every one of them.

The first, and most obvious, reaction to all this is

that Townshend deserves to share a pedestal with
William Gibson author of Neuromancer and all
manner of other good stuff for inventing the
internet in terms of metaphor and malaise: the latter
as an insidious illusion that tells us that theres
something (as he puts it in our interview which youll
find immediately below this review) "better than
life"; as something which pretends to offer a
solution for our alienation (the pollution and fall-out
are spiritual, cultural and political rather than literal)
but which in fact makes the problem worse in our
wonderful modern globalised, New Labourised
world.

Lifehouse now exists as a radio play, adapted by

Jeff Young from Townshends script, which will be
broadcast by Radio 3 on December 5. This play, in
turn, makes up two of the seven CDs in this
package. Does it work? Cant tell you, Im afraid,
because as this issue of MOJO goes to press,
these two CDs are still unavailable for review. We
do, however, have Townshend and Youngs
intriguing script (soon to be available in paperback
from Pocket Books at 7.99), though without
Townshends introductory essay. The 1999 version
of the story finds protagonist Ray in pursuit of his
estranged daughter as she heads for the Lifehouse,
and attempting to come to terms with the
fragmented memories and broken dreams of his
younger self.

The second is to restate a boring old humanist

truism which is, nevertheless, true: in other words,
that we need each other, that our inner voids can
only be filled with other people, that none of us are
truly complete when were alone. Our own culture
has always told us this: from the Mod Clubland of
Townshends youth, through Woodstock and all the
other rock megafests right up to todays rave scene,
that we like to be together, that we need to be
together. Watching TV these days, we seem to be
told twice a night that what were really most
interested in is upgrading our homes and gardens
and tinkering with our own little private
environments.

So, we hear you asking, what do we have? (After

all, youre asking us to read a review of something
you havent actually heard.) Well, we have two CDs
of Townshends original demos, some of which
surfaced on albums 15 or so years ago and some

Lifehouse, ultimately, is an examination and

exploration of the eternal dialectic between inner

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and outer worlds, and what each has to contribute

to the other.

presence of another human being you have to deal

with things in the moment. You cant suspend time."

Thank fuck its finally finished.

How come Lifehouse stayed with you so long?

Its a very far-reaching idea. It was ambitious. And
in some respects it was ahead of its time, and so its
travelled with time. I have let it go a number of
times, but its always come back, and sometimes
other peoples interest has brought it back. [Film
producer] Jeremy Thomas brought it back in 1978,
and Michael Hurst, who wrote Eureka with Nicolas
Roeg. But usually its the music: every time I hear or
play one of those songs 'Baba OReilly', 'Wont
Get Fooled Again', 'Behind Blue Eyes' I think,
These songs are great, but theyre out of context."

*
Pete Townshend talks to Charles Shaar Murray.
Wossitallabout then?
"Congregation is the most important thing that we
humans have particularly for artists the
importance of congregating to enjoy the response
of others. At the same time, whats actually paying
the bills is a kind of network, fucking network
proliferations. Money making money, flotations
making money, shares making money, ideas
making money, but with very little substance, in a
sense. I find it ironic, and quite cruel, and in a way
Im glad that the play doesnt concern itself directly
with the details of whats going on in society at the
moment. We felt that if we said, Listen this is whats
going on today, as I did back in the 70s I was
trying to say to people, Listen, this is whats gonna
happen in the future, and I would have been partly
but not completely right then people would shut
down. They wouldnt hear it. There is wholesale
apathy, a sense that were powerless.

So after planning it as a movie, how did it end up

on radio?
"Partly because I wanted to do it in the UK, and
partly because I felt that the film I had in my head
could only be made if the idea was allowed to land
as a narrative. Whats strange about the story of
Lifehouse is a kind of double irony. I was conscious
of the first irony, but not the second. I was
attempting to tell a story about a time in which there
were only stories and that, to some extent, in
Hollywood, has already happened. What I feared
was that narrative and story would undermine the
passing of the moment, and that the principal form
which would suffer is music. Because what
narrative is about is that it replaces a moment of
your life: its better than your life, you prefer to live
in that story. At the heart of Lifehouse is this notion
that we are today, and have been for a long time,
losing sight of where the fiction ends, and where life
takes over.

"The predicament I find myself in is that Im

uncomfortable as an artist living in the world today.
The only thing I can be certain of is my process,
and Im not sure about my interaction, my interface
with the world.
"Like Bowie and like others, Im fascinated by the
potential of a network, a way that we can
communicate. What would be great for the internet
would be to use its intimacy. You do performances,
you do gatherings, you set a date, you say, At
such-and-such a time, something will be happening,
please join in. Be present. Observe. Communicate.
Interface. For performers who have become
remote, like The Who, because their mythology is
bigger than their reality, the intimacy offered by
bringing people into a place where you can say,
This is how we are today; its not who we were, but
this is where weve arrived at, that this intimacy
offers a potential for an artistic process: a
performance, a response, an ever-echoing
fashion...but it doesnt work. It promises to work, but
it doesnt.

"In music and in painting and in poetry and in

dance, none of this really matters. I had to get the
story behind the story properly nailed down, and
when I wrote the first script, I was just down on
narrative, on plot. Id never written a plot in my life.
When I wrote my short stories I absolutely refused
to plot: I used any process which would avoid me
having a beginning, a middle and an end. In
Tommy, I didnt plot. In Quadrophenia, I didnt plot. I
did not want to go to fucking Hollywood. The
decision to do a radio play was because radio
would force me to get the story sorted out, without
any falling back on animation, images, trickery,
special effects, esoteric sci-fi computerised
bollocks. What was it about?
"What we found out was that the story was about
me, my childhood, and kids like me. Its an
immediate postwar story, about a kid who is born

"Why the internet is so intoxicatingly powerful is that

the one thing that it doesnt trouble you with is
another human presence. When youre in the

993

after the war and has a vision of the future which is

disturbing but exciting. He realises as he grows up
that he is not going to realise his vision. He has had
a wonderful, almost utopian, vision: he sees that
there is danger of pollution, of nuclear proliferation,
but also of the watering-down of art. He hears this
fantastic music in his head, as I did, and what I
used to fear was that I would never hear that music
when I became an adult, and I havent. The hero
grows up and wants to have that back, and realises
that hes in a time when the generation after him,
his daughter and her boyfriend, are going to do
something about it: theyre gonna stop the rot. And
he desperately would love to be a part of it, but its
too late.

live many virtual lifetimes in one lifetime. Im a 21st

century creature in that my addictive process
begins with a physical hole in my chest, and I want
somebody to fill it: a low-level process. What
society offers is a quick-fix: we can fill that hole in
your chest. If that can be filled physically, then the
process is complete. But the artistic process comes
from the mind, from the unconscious, and that is a
much higher process. When I described my Grid in
the original Lifehouse, it was something
reprehensible that would come under the control of
governments and corporations. The Russian
internets only been up six months, and their first
150,000 customers are the people who run the
fucking bent orphanages.

"What Lifehouse is about on the radio, and whats

timely about it in this millennium year, is: why does
the Labour government feel that it has to put on a
Big Show? Its because Big Shows are fucking
important. Its not gonna be very good, but going to
the Big Show, showing up, getting off your arse,
going somewhere, buying a ticket, being with other
likeminded people, hoping for the best...is what
congregation is about. And the story has to talk
about it, rather than demonstrate it. What makes it
work as a radio play, as with all radio plays, is that it
leaves a lot of pictorial and graphical stuff to the
imagination. The musics not particularly vital to it,
but when you hear the play in the full package with
all the original demos, then the music will fit in in a
more tangential way. Its like having a DIY musical."

"My feeling was that this was going to destroy the

human race. Not because story-telling is bad; I was
on a spiritual journey and looking for a metaphor
like the Tommy one, where I wanted to describe
how were spiritually so shut down. Its my
responsibility as an artist that drives me to restate it.
It's not a paranoid vision any more: where the
Internet today fails is that its not a psychedelic
dream like Neuromancer or an apocalyptic disaster
inherent in my script in 1971... but politicians and
media power-brokers would realise that they had
the power to manipulate people spiritually. A good
artist is someone who has absolute ego, absolute
humanity... at the same time."

You and William Gibson both helped invent

fictional internets: to what extent does the real-life
Net compare to your grid and Gibsons Matrix?

Pete Townshend Online

"Well, I wrote a mischievous piece for The

Guardian suggesting that if the two biggest
searchwords are sex and MP3, then Prince
should be selling more CDs: the stuff he sells on his
own site is selling incredibly well, but not in the
shitloads thatd be worthy of an impish, rather
perverse genius. Whats missing is the human
connection. What would get me onto that site would
be the sense than I was going to get something
from Prince that no-one else was going to get, and
not some fucking sarky remark, which is what I
normally get from him. Why is it that when I see him
play, I get that? Because my experience is unique.
Whats happened to recordings is that theyre no
longer about interpretation and response.

2003 NOTE: WHILE IT'S commonplace now for

artists to put their material up for fans to preview, it
wasn't three years ago, which should show you how
quickly things evolve. Townshend realized the
power of the Net as a communication tool, as a
means of communicating with fans and getting out
his music as he (or any other artist) could never do
before the online world existed.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1999

Jason Gross, Yahoo! Internet Life, April 2000

The Eel Pie and PeteTownshend websites are still

around while the Internet bubble that was active at
the time of this interview is long gone. Business
goes its way and Townshend's art goes on...
Since he's always had a reputation as one of the
eminent thinkers/philosophers of rock, it should be
no surprise that he should have many thoughtful
comments about the Net.

"The impersonal selling machine of the internet is

very one-way; its the artist instructing the audience.
You can send e-mail, but thats as far as it goes.
What Bill Gibson talks about in Neuromancer and
what I talk about in Lifehouse is a myriad dreamlike
experiences so highly compressed that you could

994

Q: What are you trying to communicate with

your fans through your website?

offering the old ideas dressed up anew. I'll try them

again in other words. But I will also try new ideas,
write new music, write stories, make short films,
and publish them all free on petetownshend.com in
what I call wsf (web short-form).If the response is
good, I will then publish them as copyrighted wlf
(web long-form) for sale through my commercial
site eelpie.com. This will of course also apply to
concerts and live music events in the future.

Love. Seriously. I can elucidate that of course, but

in doing so only reduce the impact of that first
statement. An artist of any kind wants support,
response and affection. But an artist also needs
reaction, critique and rebellion. A web-site is a good
forum for fans to communicate both what an artist
wants and needs from his audience. Sadly, I find it
hard to deal with those who simply want to use me
and my work as a base-station for their own loud
but lost voices. I have some fans who are huge in
character and write brilliantly. They are unique and
obsessive, and can use my site as a high-level
launch pad for their own clever ideas rather than
wallow around in the deep, dark recesses of chatrooms and newsgroups. I have barred two very
bright and abrasive writers from my site simply
because I felt I was wasting too much time reacting
them rather than responding or corresponding. In
both cases I felt they were not trying to
communicate in a loving way, so I sat and thought
about my own contributions. Are they driven by
love, or a need to make a living? I'm happy to say,
that although I do run a commercial web-site and it
is linked to I feel the PT website is free of
commercial implications (apart from its cost to me)
and exists merely to deepen my effectiveness as an
artist. All a truly great artist can do is create an
arena or mechanic that leads to spiritual uplift. That
sounds like love to me.

Q: How do you think the Web has the potential

to change the whole music industry?
In 1986, I gave a lecture at the London Royal
College of Art in which I predicted that music (and
visual art) down-loading would emerge every soon
as a liberating device for the artist. As usual I was
fifteen years too early. Of the small few who
bothered to show up to hear some old fart speak
about such things, several walked out, other young
people asked questions like "....why would anyone
want to download a piece of music onto a computer
or transit-chip when they can buy it a shop, with a
printed sleeve..." These were graphic artists you
see, as well as musicians, and were afraid their
complete visions of music and graphics would be
disturbed. Today they will know that a CD can
contain video images as well as music, so perhaps
they will be even more resistant to music
downloading.
I believe music downloading will do more than just
change the way we develop our new music artists.
It will refine the way we respond to art, giving us a
direct route to the artist if we choose. However, I
believe that less direct routes are sometimes more
valuable. Musicians need managers because they
need someone who cares about them and has an
investment in them to tell them the truth as well as
buy airplane tickets. They need record companies
or something like them because they need money
up front to fund their work. The current myth that
prevails that a musician can set up a home studio
and make records for the cost of a single session in
a traditional recording studio is a distraction. I have
had a home recording studio since 1962. Some of
my earliest home recordings have been released to
collectors and made money.

Q: What do you see as the potential of the web

as a means to connect artists with fans (and
potential fans)?
It works for me already in the first sense, as a way
to connect. When I feel more confident I will, like my
friend David Bowie, communicate directly with fans
via e-mail or in chat-rooms. I have my first live chatroom experience with my fans coming up soon on
petetownshend.com. Letters still work OK, but they
require great skill to produce. I sometimes bin
letters only half-read simply because the writer
starts off, ".......you have heard this a thousand
times I'm sure, but I am your biggest fan...." and
written it in closely-spaced, thinly written, collegethesis style hand-writing on a legal pad. I expect
every such letter to be the same.Of course they are
not. (I tell myself: "You have to read the whole letter
Pete!") E-mail equalizes such prejudice in me.

But in a larger studio my work breathes, it is

responded to, it is less secret, less precious, less
personal, but not necessarily less intimate or
exciting. What it might lose is that "Eureka" moment
when a piece of music first arrives in the head and
heart. There are pros and cons to both home and
professional studio environments and processes.

In the second sense of your question, how does the

Web help me to connect with potential fans? That
seems to have some commercial spin to it. Why do
I need new fans? I have a huge audience already,
too big to satisfy. But of course I am anxious to
connect with new fans, so I will try to do that by

So new artists who simply download their music

and wait for money maybe doing themselves an

995

injustice. If they had money up front, they could try

to use the kind of studios and creative and technical
support still enjoyed by artists like Prince, Tom
Waits, Herbie Hancock, Prodigy, Foo Fighters,
Alanis Morrisette or any of the big-selling artists
with influence. They might find something in their
work they never knew was there.

In the Court of the Crimson King

Chris Salewicz, Let It Rock, September 1973
KING CRIMSONS launch in 1969 was a classic
case of subliminal hype. From every musical corner
that summer, with Teutonic fanfares, new supergroups appeared almost weekly.

What is indisputable to me is that radio as we know

it is finished, or soon will be (given my usual
prescience, I suppose in about fifteen years). BBC
Radio One, a pop station without advertising, is now
available on the Web. It is a free-format pop station,
its DJs play what they like, not what advertisers tell
them. Tune in and hear a real pop radio station. The
BBC even play music they've downloaded. Pretty
soon any new and exciting radio station on the Web
that accepts advertising will be viewed with
immense suspicion by its established listeners. If
your favourite web station starts to run ads, expect
change, and expect change for the worse. Ad men
are brilliant at taking what art exists (and has style
and substance) and using it to enhance the product
that they are currently engaged in marketing.
Sometimes they contribute to the artistic process,
especially in the world of pop-art and pop-music,
but mostly they impede change because they like to
target clearly defined markets.

Blind Faith were such a super-group that they

would only be able to play to super-sized audiences
in super-huge stadiums; Humble Pie was the
creative escape route for Peter Frampton and Steve
Marriott; and although the combination of a Byrd, a
Buffalo Springfield, and a Holly seemed a trifle
strange, we were told that Crosby, Stills and Nash
would make beautiful harmonies. Bob Dylan came
to the Isle of Wight, played a few ditties, and left us.
Brian Jones also left us.
1969 was a cathartic year. The summer of two
years previously was relived for the last time, but
the peace and love were replaced by the
manipulations of Fiery Creations scooping Dylan;
by the founding of Blind Faith; by a spurious
ecstacy emanating from the medias reportage of
Wodstock. And perhaps most important of all was
that "progressive pop music" and its culture finally
became acceptable. Half a million people in Hyde
Park meant half a million people waiting to buy
albums. The music industry took an interest. The
social secretaries were ready, or persuaded, to stop
booking the Tremeloes and Harmony Grass.
Instead the colleges were served the Nice,
Fleetwood Mac, Colosseum et al.

Once you can receive web radio in your car, the old
radio stations will evaporate like the stale smoke
they have become. Think about this, all you Internet
billionaires who have created your fortunes riding
on the web start-up, and now wish to control and
influence the Old Order. AOL buying Time Warner is
a meaningless moment in web history. It is a very
significant moment in Wall Street, of course, but
that's a different matter. I am an admirer of some of
those men behind AOL and Time Warner. I say it is
a meaningless merger because it follows that if
radio will disappear as soon as you can get freeformat web radio in your car (which will include all
the old and new stuff you like by the way, most of
which is not played at all today) television, movies
and magazines will all go the same way as soon as
they are released from having to depend on
advertising and can reach people directly.

The music weeklies were caught totally off balance,

wavering, unsure of what their readership wanted.
Earlier in the summer, Melody Maker, which had
already tentatively crept towards the "progressive"
market, had remarked in The Raver: "King Crimson
a rave at the Speakeasy. Which doesnt mean we
actually liked them".
Curiously, or perhaps characteristically for that year,
the heavyweight national press and at the same
time the under-ground press, were the first to see
King Crimsons potential. Richard Gilbert, in The
Listener of 10th July, 1969 was typical. Referring to
a previous gig by "the remarkable King Crimson" in
his piece on the Hyde Park concert he went on to
say what the weeklies seemed wary of: "This is the
band, as yet unrecorded which the underground
connoisseurs acclaim as the most original and
exciting playing todayI gather the sharp cookies
of the music business are already putting their
money into King Crimson, but if their records can

How will such radio stations and TV stations of the

future make their money? Use your imagination,
friends... I know how to do it. If you can't guess, just
watch me for the next fifteen years.
Jason Gross, 2000

King Crimson
996

match their live performances they will survive all

the bandwagon-leaping."

The cover alone is a warning that you are likely to

hear something slightly unusual. The front shows
the totally grotesque face of a vaguely humanoid
creature. This, surely, is the 21st Century Schizoid
Man of the opening track. 21st Century Schizoid
Man including Mirrors begins with what sounds like
a mellotron played backwards emitting a dull bass
warble which suddenly screams. Mike Giles then
enters playing 4/4 phrased drums, with bass and
shrieking distorted mellotron. The first verse then
begins, sung, I believe, by Ian McDonald. Like the
mellotron his voice is horrifically distorted, and he
phrases the lines with maximum emphasis on the
monosyllabic words, creating a manic staccato
effect.

In the August 29th IT, Robert Fripp, who had by now

emerged as King Crimsons elder spokesman, had
a letter printed which occupied a full page. He
spoke of several aspects of the group, and the
Stones concert was once again mentioned: "Chris
Welch thought the concert marked the end of an era
in music. If it ended the hard sounds of the sixties
perhaps it augered in the music seventies, which
would seem to be a music that is more selfconscious than before to the degree that the earlier
forms of group music are remembered but different
forms are sought, ones which expect a reaction
from the head rather more than from the foot." He
continued: "It is obvious that groups who provide
thoughtcan be and often are very successful on a
commercial plane, so let us stop regarding
commercial as a dirty word."

As this very first piece is the only one which King

Crimson, as it is today, still includes in its stage act,
the lyrics deserve to be quoted in full:
Cats foot iron claw
Neuro-surgeons scream for more
At paranoias poison door
Twenty first century schizoid man.

Someone obviously thought King Crimson could be

commercial because under the auspices of David
Entoven and John Gayden, two ex-Harrovians who
formed E.G.Management, a 100,000 recording
advance was secured from Island Records in this
country, whilst American distribution was put in the
hands of Atlantic. Robert Fripp, Ian McDonald, Greg
Lake, Mike Giles and Peter Sinfield were free to
make their first album. Although only four members
appeared on stage Fripp on guitar, McDonald on
reeds, woodwind, vibes, keyboard, mellotron and
vocals, Lake on bass guitar and vocals, and Giles
on drums, percussion and vocals Sinfield was
regarded as an integral member, writing all the
lyrics and operating the light show.

Blood rack barbed wire

Politicians funeral pyre
Innocents raped with napalm fire
Twenty first century schizoid man.
Death seed blind mans greed
Poets starving children bleed
Nothing hes got he really needs
Twenty first century schizoid man.
Between stanzas two and three, Sinfields lyrics are
translated into musical terms, as they are throughout his work with Fripp. Also in this section Fripp,
McDonald, Lake and Giles produce the constant
time changes that are an essential aspect of King
Crimsons sound painting. A formidable musical
empathy develops between the four musicians
during this passage an empathy which is
realized throughout the album. Mellotron at first
takes the lead with guitar, but at the same time
Giles totally unique drumming almost seems to be
the lead instrument, especially when the drums and
guitar join in chorus, with indistinguishable vocals
muttering in the background, whilst the bass pumps
out its own melody.

Like a later E.G. managed band, Roxy Music, they

initially revelled in an aura of mystique. In a rare
interview by B. P. Fallon who then rushed off to
become their press officer they refused to
discuss their past, although Greg Lake had to admit
to having played with the Godz. McDonald claimed
he was unable to play an instrument. Robert Fripp
hoped "that our music defies description to a
degree. If it cant be easily described, then weve
succeeded."
Sinfields role as fifth member whilst only four were
actually on stage heightened the curious nature of
King Crimson.

The climax of the first side of the album comes with

March for No Reason. The piece is a musical
melodrama which ends with the mellotron
thundering and the drums creating a furious
crescendo like a surreal score for a Hollywood
movie. This fits the distinctly Orwellian flavours of
the lyrics:

THEIR first album appeared to be constantly having

its release date put back. Eventually it appeared in
mid-October, 1969. Of course, by now we hardly
knew what to expect, and, true to form, thats what
we got: In the Court of the Crimson King: An
Observation by King Crimson.

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Knowledge is a deadly friend

When no one sets the rules.
The fate of all mankind I see
Is in the hands of fools.

two words, except that this time every instrument

becomes larger than life. Suddenly this shattering
violent satire disappears with a huge, high squeak
of the mellotron in total chaos.

This contrasts with the quieter I Talk to the Wind,

preparing us for side two and establishing the fact
that King Crimson are no mere psychedelic band
their use of spacing and notation make them one of
the first truly surreal bands.

McDonald and Sinfield had written a musical and

philosophical masterpiece. The 21st Century
Schizoid Man had gradually allowed the impact of
scientific progress to bring about this societys
disintegration, until it could only remain stable in a
Macchiavellian obscenity, and, accordingly, this final
piece has minstrel-like vocals, changing to
unquestioning worship on the final line of each
stanza.

Side two begins with Moonchild including The

Dream and The Illusion, the longest piece on the
album, lasting over twelve minutes. In both musical
and poetic terms it is a pastoral drama.

Is it accidental that the whole album is comprised of

five pieces like the five acts of a Shakespeare play?
And are parts of it the latent hope at the end, for
example meant to remind one of one of the
problem plays?

Sailing on the wind

in a milk white gown
Dropping circle stones on a sun dial
Playing hide and seek
with the ghosts of dawn
Waiting for a smile from a sun child.

*
Lakes singing here has a despairing edge, realizing
the impossibility of her ever reaching her goal, "a
smile from a sun child". She is a child of the night
unable to free herself from the social philosophies
of the 21st Century Schizoid Man. And despite the
bells or vibes and cymbals which interweave with
the lyrics, the bass drums ever present staccato
beat reinforces the tone of Lakes voice.

MUSICALLY there are weaknesses, mainly created

by what can be described as Frippery. On the next
King Crimson album In the Wake of Poseidon,
Fripps instruments include Devices, which
probably can be more aptly defined as a box of
electronic tricks. These are used on the first album
too, although they arent credited.
Fripp and Sinfield had obviously decided that In the
Wake of Poseidon should be a virtuoso
performance and accordingly Keith Tippett, modern
jazz pianist par excellence, was added to the
musicians, with Mel Collins on saxes and flute, and
Gordon Haskell on one vocal. Sadly, Collins ability
is hardly on a par with that of McDonald, and it may
be that Haskells contribution was necessary
because of Lakes increasing involvement with
Emerson and Palmer.

Moonchild ends with a final shake of bells which

then fade quickly awayuntil suddenly mellotron,
guitar, bass and drums (again playing against flow)
surge upwards in a grandiose anthem the
anthem of the Crimson King. But all is not well, for
the Crimson King is dead, the struggle to erect a
new order has started and the singer is a potential
revolutionary but:
The keeper of the city keys
Puts shutters on the dreams.
I wait outside the pilgrims door
With insufficient schemes.

The pieces that work best are the songs clearly

inspired by an earlier American tour: Pictures Of A
City, Cat Food and Cadence and Cascade.

But the status quo which the Crimson King has

created cannot be disrupted and the fire witch has
resurrected order a resurrection which has
resulted in the deaths of upstarts:

Cat Food is particularly interesting and extremely

good. Its the first King Crimson piece with no
intellectual pretensions. Sinfield is a macrobiotic
and after every Crimson tour of the States he would
return a physical wreck, having eaten virtually
nothing. He could have written pseudosociological
lyrics, but chose instead to be satirical:

On soft grey mornings widows cry.

The anthem which previously has appeared,
resplendent with medieval chanting, now becomes
an insane parody of itself. Like the others the fourth
stanza ends with the words "the court of the
crimson king", and the anthem enters on the last

Never need to worry a tin of "Hurri Curri" "Poisoned

especially for you."

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Cat Food is also the nearest to a rock n roll

number that Crimson have ever come. There are
traces of Blue Suede Shoes in the echoing doubletracked vocals and in the instrumentation. After the
second verse, Lake shouts "Again" and there is a
brief break that deranges itself into a parody of a
middle eight, and when the vocals finish Fripp plays
a few seconds of pure rock n roll guitar. But the
real maestro on Cat Food is Tippett, manically
twinkling the top notes of his piano in a witty Little
Richard pastiche.

Night: her sable dome scattered with diamonds,

Fused my dust from a light year.
Within this opening number, complete with organgrind sounds from the mellotron, and other assorted
Frippery, we are presented with Sinfields and
Fripps view of humanity. Life is not just a game; its
circus in which everything is contrived or unreal:
"Worship!" cried the clown, "I am a T.V."
The second side is less of a success, and only Jon
Andersons voice saves much of it. My feelings
about this marred section and about the album in
general agree most with Duncan Fallowells review
in, of all papers, The Spectator: Let me say outright
that this album is at an imaginative level rarely
encountered in popbut I do wish Robert Fripp, the
composer, did not have such a penchant for
Tchaikowsky-cum-Mancini climaxes in the
Lawerence of Arabia tradition.

This is perhaps the time when I should make the

point that King Crimsons music is not easy to listen
to, and that can even be a painful experience. It is
certainly not music to do the washing-up to
unless you want to break all your crockery nor is
it in fact true rock music, or even true jazz. At one
moment you may be floating on an acoustic pattern,
and the next you can find yourself with your skull
being bored into and your brain replaced by music
of thrashing, sweeping intensity and darkness.

Islands, released just before Christmas 1971, has a

distinct summer flavour, reflected in every track
except The Letters, a perverse Victorian
melodrama of adultery, suicide and poison pen
letters.

*
CRIMSON had been down to two members and the
next recruits were Mel Collins (Flute and saxes),
Gordon Haskell (bass guitar and vocals) and Andy
McCullough on drums. With Fripp and Sinfield and
additional sidemen, including, once again, Keith
Tippett, and Jon Anderson of Yes, Lizard, the new
King Crimson album was recorded.

Simplicity is the lyrical order of the day and

Formantera Lady is predominately in rhyming
couplets:
Lamplight glows on old guitars the travelers strum;
Incense children dance to an indian drum.
Here Odysseus charmed for dark Circle fell,
Still her perfume lingers still her spell.

Almost immediately Haskell quit. And so, once

again, the search was on for a new bassist and
singer. However, King Crimson had at least
managed to record a fourth album, Islands, which
was released later that month. Shortly afterwards,
Andy McCullough left. The new record had Ian
Wallace on drums, percussion and vocals, and Boz
on bass guitar and lead vocals.

I shant dwell on the title track, because after its

predecessors on side two, Ladies and Prelude:
Song of the Gulls, it is in some ways a magnificent
failure.
Next Robert Fripp, for some reason, saw Sinfield as
no longer the person with whom he should work,
and told him so.

Although there was nearly a year between the two

releases, and Islands had a totally different rhythm
section to that on Lizard. They each have a musical
and compositional maturity which is lacking on
Poseidon and which, retrospectively, seems to have
occurred by mere chance on the first album. Keith
Tippetts piano playing is an essential to both
albums, and it is almost an insult that he should be
relegated to the role of featured player. His playing
on the two albums glitters, and is both subtle and
supple.

The resulting stage line-up Fripp, Collins, Boz

and Wallace toured the States the next spring
and Earthbound, King Crimsons first live album
was released on Islands cheaper HELP label. By
the time the record came out, in summer, 1972, the
band had broken up. One of the titles on
Earthbound is Groon. Replace the second vowel
with an a and the album is summed up.

Lizard is a whole suite starting with Cirkus on

side one and finishing with side twos Big Top.
From the opening lines the lyrics are extremely
obscure:

King Crimson seemed to have finally expired. Fripp

had busied himself producing Keith Tippetts new

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LP, Sinfield was producing the first Roxy Music

album and mumbling vaguely about a solo record,
and a book of poetry.

sound to that of their owners, but with a

Mediterranean warmth than ELP themselves have
missed on the way to near-clinical perfection.
And recently Sinfield has released his threatened
solo L.P. The cinematic credits a cast of
thousands are enough to make one wary of it.
Virtually every musician ever connected with King
Crimson has had a hand in the making of Still, the
title of the album and the final track on side one.

*
THEN, in July, Fripp pulled it off again. Bill Bruford
had been pruned from Yes to play drums and John
Wetton had come from Family to sing and play bass
and viola. The brand was completed by two relative
unknowns David Cross on violin, flute and
mellotron, and Jamie Muir, fresh out of the British
avant-garde music scene, on percussion including
bicycle horns, ten tuned plastic bottles and a bowl
of pistachio-nut shells!

A potentially dangerous move, I felt, contemplating

the fates of other super-sessions. But Still is able to
do its line-up justice, and Sinfields ability to sing
which is possibly the biggest question-mark
hanging over the album is no cause for concern,
as he has written lyrics which his limited-range
voice can handle.

This band, said Fripp, was "more King Crimson

than its ever been. All the original ideals and
aspirations are there love, respect, and
compatible ideas. Its a magic bond!"

The piece de resistance is The Night People. In

similar style to Pictures Of a City on Poseidon, the
music flows, trickles, or surges with the varying
episodic nature of the lines. The lyrics speak
cynically of the contrast between the Embankment
meths drinkers and the discotheque groovers:

The title of the album Larks Tongues in Aspic,

suggests a rare delicacy, and for once, its right.
More than that, its a near miracle piece of vinyl a
miracle which left the band too exhausted to play an
encore at the Marquee when they gigged there as a
break from recording. To describe a record which is
stupendously beautiful gone are the difficulties of
its predecessors is perhaps harder than
criticizing a goofed work. The album reflects
shades, colours, depths of feeling, majesty and
misery. Is Bruford with his crisp, anchor-like
precision, the man of the band? Or does Jamie Muir
(who has since quit Crimson) seemingly playing
nothing but his emotions scraping, tinkling,
crashing deserve that accolade? Wetton
appeared, on that album, to be the best bass-player
in the country, and as for his vocals well, Fripp
has tracked down another Lake, though his
phrasing owes more to Jon Anderson. Wettons
vocal abilities are well tested; the lyricist, Richard
Palmer-James, is no sixth-form word juggler but
lacks Sinfields poetic bite. As there are only three
vocal pieces on Larks Tongues, however, the
album doesnt suffer.

wine-softened tramps:
Pushed on by policemen and queuing fro soup
Evading the worlds outstretched glove,
But one pain they share with the jeweled ghost
troupe
Both searching for some kind of love.
Im glad Sinfield made Still. When Lennon and
McCartney split up as a song-writing duo it quickly
became evident who possessed the wit and
acrimony, and who was more disposed towards
muzak. But the separation of Fripp from Sinfield,
and the subsequent albums, show that neither was
the dominant personality on the four LPs they
made as King Crimson.

*
THE Nice were huge crowd-pullers, yet they had
only sniffed record success until they released Nice
in the Autumn of 1969 the period when the
forces of famepushing and acceptance within and
behind King Crimson were coming to a head and
with the death of The Nice, Greg Lake left King
Crimson to join Emerson and Palmer to produce
technically brilliant and enormously commercially
successful music. Although a few months slower in
getting off the ground than Emerson, Lake and
Palmer, Yes, who were much funkier and have now
become even more musically grandiose (if such a
hybrid is possible) than ELP, soon established

This work is King Crimson. The discerning ear can

catch the odd second or two from the other albums
but to date it seems that Larks Tongues will endure
supreme.
Meanwhile what of Peter Sinfield who could, I
suppose, be regarded as joint owner of the name
"King Crimson"? Towards the end of last year
Sinfield left the guiding hand of E.G. and signed
with Manticore, ELPs threshold of a dream (which
may well come true), and has just produced the first
album by P.F.M., an Italian band who have a similar

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themselves in the top money-earning bracket. In the

last eighteen months we have seen the
breakthrough of three other bands of major
significance in the art-rock field Roxy Music,
Genesis and Focus. And Colosseum should be
included as a near contemporary of Crimson.

Why have you decided to call it a day? Is the

experiment over?
Yes, and for three reasons. The first is that it
represents a change in the world. Second, where I
once considered being part of a band like Crimson
to be the best liberal education a young man could
receive, I now know that isn't so. And third, the
energies involved in the particular lifestyle of the
band and in the music are no longer of value to the
way I live.

All these bands have something, if not someone, of

Crimson in them. And yet they have all with the
exception of Genesis who possibly need another six
months been far more commercially successful.
They have experimented, certainly, but without
being too esoteric, too uncommercial or perhaps
too uncompromisingly daring three things which
Robert Fripp and Peter Sinfield, whether together or
now alone, have never been frightened of. But
without Fripps and Sinfields musical audacity I
doubt that many, if any, of the above-mentioned
bands would have gained their acceptance.

But to go back to the first point, the change in the

world. At the moment, we're going through a
transition from the, if you like, old world to the new.
The old world is characterised by what one
contemporary philosopher has termed "the dinosaur
civilisation," large and unwieldy, without much
intelligence just like the dinosaur.

Chris Salewicz, 1973

An example of this would be, say, America or any

huge, worldwide power. Another would be any large
band with lots and lots of road managers... all these
units originally start out to service a need but you
now have a situation where, being creative, they
have to create needs in order that they may
continue to exist. In other words, they've become
vampiric.

Robert Fripp: Why I Killed the King

Rob Partridge, Melody Maker, 5 October 1974
King Crimson finally abdicated last week. But the
end came with a whimper, an official statement
merely commented that the band had "ceased to
exist".

The interesting point is that a number of groups are

still going when the musicians involved are no
longer in charge of the situation. With King
Crimson, although that situation hadn't yet been
reached, it could have developed that way within
the next six months...

There had been, apparently, no traumatic

personality clashes within the band, no final bustup. Robert Fripp had simply decided "it was time for
King Crimson to come to an end".

It was becoming a dinosaur then?

That decision was taken on the eve of the release

of Crimson's eighth album, Red, which promised a
new chapter in the band's evolution. Ian McDonald
the Mellotron player with the original band, was to
have re-joined Crimson on a permanent basis.

No, It would never have become a dinosaur. But it

would have become a smaller version of a dinosaur.
A mechanical situation would have developed which
would have been unwieldy. And the band wouldn't
have been sufficiently small, independent, and
intelligent enough to exist in the new world.

The band had been together in one form or

another since 1969. Only Fripp, however,
remained from the original Crimson. In the
intervening years, the band had been through a
constant permutation of musicians and, indeed, it
was only three months ago that violinist David
Cross left Crimson after an American tour. The final
line-up was a trio: Fripp, drummer Bill Bruford, and
bass player John Wetton.

And those, of course, are the attributes of the new

world: small, mobile, independent, and intelligent
units, whether it's, ah ... instead of a city, you'll get
small self-sufficient communities, modern villages.
And instead of King Crimson, you're now getting me
a small, independent, mobile, and intelligent unit.
That's substantially the difference between the old
world and the new.

The reasons behind Fripp's decision to split the

band are complex and involved. There are musical
considerations, of course, but Fripp also sees
underlying philosophical reasons why Crimson
should come to an end.

But the transition between the old and the new has
already begun. The old world is, in fact, dead and
what we're seeing now is, if you like, the death
throes. The large units have immense resources

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and a lot of power, albeit power of a not very nice

kind or quality, which they will use to maintain their
existence.

Can we go on to your second reason for bringing

Crimso to an end? You were talking about a 'liberal
education'...

They will not, I feel, be intelligent enough to realise

that, in fact, they're dead and, instead of cooperating and participating in the coming of the new
world, I think there will be a fight.

Yes, in order to prepare myself for this critical

decade I need to acquire certain skills and abilities.
The education of King Crimson has taken me to this
particular point, but it can no longer educate me in
the fashion I need to be educated. My education
now needs to be different. Instead of King Crimson,
I now need, well, that brings us to my third point,
about the energies involved in working with a band.

The transition will reach its most marked point in the

years 1990 to 1999. Within that period, there will be
the greatest friction and, unless there are people
with a certain education, we could see the complete
collapse of civilisation as we know it and a period of
devastation which could last, maybe, 300 years. It
will be comparable, perhaps, to the collapse of the
Minoan civilisation.

This also harks back to that first point about the

change in the world. For the work I now wish to be
involved in, the energies I need are not those I get
from King Crimson. It was a quite superb band, but
nevertheless what we were doing wasn't really for
me. And I don't think for Bill or John either.

But I hope the world will be ready for the transition,

in which case there will be a period of 30 or 40
years which will make the Depression of the Thirties
look like it was a Sunday outing.

King Crimson was a democratic band, we each had

the power of veto, and would accommodate each
other. But we'd got to the point where we
discovered we were working together simply
because we wouldn't be able to find musicians of
that calibre outside of the band.

By the end of this depression the world will have

changed, and for anyone to effectively make the
transition they'll have to break down within
themselves the adherence to the materialistic
concept of living...

In other words, if I wanted a rock drummer I could

find a number of people to work with. But if I wanted
a drummer, and not just a rock drummer, I'm stuck.
There's Bill and, maybe, Mike Giles (a member of
the original Crimso) and perhaps two others in
England. And where would I find a better bass
player than John?

But you seem to be conjuring facts and figure out of

thin air. How do you substantiate your claims?
I base all this, firstly, on a period of living in and
experiencing, first hand, the materialistic civilisation
I'm thinking of America and working in an
organisation which was, although not a dinosaur,
nevertheless large. I saw in America enough
evidence of the breakdown of social and economic
order to know that something's fundamentally
wrong and it can't be reversed.

But whereas we'd originally come together Bill

because he wanted to work with me, and John
because he wanted to work with Bill I felt that by
the end we were working together because there
aren't any musicians of the same quality and
proficiency outside. And musically, perhaps, it was
too much of a compromise. John's a rocker but Bill,
on the other hand, has a very detailed and
meticulous approach.

You don't have to be very bright or perceptive to

realise that, frankly, the system is breaking down.
Life is much too complex and involved to be
continued in the present way.

When David left at the beginning of July, however,

we considered working as a trio. Then Ian
McDonald was joining the band for an American
tour, but this would have involved three weeks
rehearsals, for four weeks work which is rather
unbalanced.

But I've also come into contact with certain ideas...

and the coincidence of ideas from different sources
convince me that I'm right. Again, you don't have to
be very bright to say that within ten years there's
going to be considerable privation. I base my
forecast on ideas from people I respect who have
direct perception of these matters.

And then a European tour was suggested but I'd

already decided the band was coming to an end.
The tour would have meant that the band was on
the road for another six months but I'm not prepared
to keep secrets from men I'm working with and life
is too valuable for me to commit six months to a

I have contacts in New York who are into a very

heavy economic and political situation and they put
the year 1990 as the date of the crunch. Besides, it
feels right to me.

1002

situation in which I'm not whole-heartedly involved.

Hence the decision to end the band rapidly. The
whole thing wasn't discussed, as such, although I
think both Bill and John were aware of my feelings.

I've always known that I will not be a rock 'n' roll

star, the guitar idol that millions of young guitarists
learn their licks from. I'm not prepared to get
involved with that star syndrome, if you like... Eno
and I will be creating energies different to King
Crimson. They'll be far more subtle and indirect, but
they'll eventually be far more potent, they will create
more.

The energies involved weren't right. Getting on

stage and having to fight the aggression of five
thousand people, to beat them down to the point
that they're listening... the band became very adept
at going on stage and smacking straight through,
but at the expense of creating something of a
higher nature, if you like.

Why?
Because I know they will. What can I say? One
doesn't always have the choice, but one is
sometimes fortunate to have the chance to do
certain things.

To give you an idea of the work we've done this

year: from January to February we made an album,
then went to Europe for a tour, then immediately off
to America, back to Britain for rehearsals and
straight back to America for another tour. After that,
I had one full day off in the country before we
started recording Red. With that kind of life there's a
lot of things I'd like to do, but can't.

Side one of the Fripp and Eno album is the finest

thing I have ever done, it ranks with the first King
Crimson album. It won't appeal to so many people
but, over the years, it will come to be regarded as a
classic and, in five years time, people will come to
wonder how they could have missed something of
that quality.

There are my responsibilities to the land, for

instance, which can only be discharged by going
out there and working (Fripp owns a cottage in
Dorset). Consequently you can now see me
halfway up a very large tree clasping two large
saws and a pair of secateurs.

Eno and I will be setting off, primarily in England

and Europe... we'll be working in England at the end
of November and December. It will be of a far
smaller and personal nature, smaller halls and just
the two of us. We'll be able to work without a great
deal of organization or preparation, it will be
personal, it will create the right kind of energies and
it will enable our lifestyles to be civilised, it will give
us a lot of time to ourselves and, of course, it will
enable us to do other things.

I am also spending more time learning, both in a

very broad sense for example, I am practically
inept at anything more exciting than changing a
three-pin plug and in the field of musical
electronics. I would like to become self-sufficient so
that, not only am I mobile, but I'm also independent
as well. In other words, I want to develop practical
skills and, in addition to this, there is a mental
approach involved in all these things.

Such as?
Another of my ventures is an album with Robin
Trower. Robin and I got on very well in America and
he's one of the very few guitarists with spirit, an
unerring ability to pick what's right. His field is what
many people would consider to be narrow, but that's
totally irrelevant. Within that field he's immaculate,
his feel and control are both superb.

But what are your musical plans?

They involve the creation of another small,
independent, mobile and intelligent unit which is, of
course, the Fripp and Eno situation. We'll be going
on the road in November.

And in addition to this, I have been offered some

production work. I'd also like to say that I'm now
open to offers of production work, this is another
thing about being mobile and independent. People
can actually phone me up and offer me work.

Fripp and Eno is, for me, the perfect example of all
the things we were talking about earlier. It won't
reach the mass of people in the way King Crimson
did I hoped, you see, that Crimso would reach
everyone. In terms of most bands, of course, it was
remarkably successful. But in terms of the higher
echelon of bands like Yes and ELP, it didn't make it.

But I get no offers at all as a guitarist, and this is

another thing I'd like to see happen. I'm looking
forward to people asking me to play on records or
on their gigs.

My approach, therefore, has now changed and

what Eno and I will try to do is influence a small
number of people who will, in turn, influence a great
number.

Will you be playing live with Robin Trower?

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I'd love to do some gigs with Robin. But he has his

own trio and it would be, ah, presumptuous... but if
Robin asked me to do a tour I'd say 'yeah, you bet.'
No way could you keep me away.

separate vocabularies needed to express those

feelings.
What my guitar technique will do is enable is enable
musicians to move more freely from one form of
music to another since, in learning the technique,
his personality will be put under sufficient stress that
he will not only develop emotionally and mentally,
but the feelings involved will change his personality.

But there is a fourth thing I want to see develop; I'm

going to give guitar lessons. I have been pondering
for some time, the creation of a new guitar
technique which brings about a change in the
personality of the person who's going through the
discipline.

In other words, it's not so much a guitar technique

as a way of life.

I was tone deaf and had no sense of time when I

became a guitarist. And, looking back over the
years, I've wondered what on earth an unmusical,
tone deaf, timeless dummy was doing becoming a
professional musician.

Rob Partridge, 1974

A Chat with Mr. Fripp
Cynthia Rose, Viz, 1980

And I've found the answer: I needed music, and

music needed me. If you accept that I needed
music, then this also involves responsibilities.
Because of what I received, I have responsibilities,
and I can discharge these as a player.

ROBERT FRIPP is a musician, theoretician,

theologian and, as his colleague David Bowie
(referred by Fripp as "Mr. B") points out, "probably
the man with the best sense of humour in rock".

My tuition involves the creation of a technique

which enables the player to have the facility to
move his hands to perform an idea which has come
from a feeling inside him. In other words, it's a
technique which works on the level of the head, the
hands and the heart...

Like Bowie, Fripp "retired" at the height of an artrock superstardom. Unlike Bowie, he was serious
about it: he entered J.G. Bennetts International
Academy for Continuous Education in
Gloucestershire, with thoughts of becoming a priest.
But by 76, he had been lured back to music
through the continuous demand for his spectacular
guitar-playing and production skills from friends like
Peter Gabriel, Darryl Hall, the Roches, Blondie,
David Bowie and Brian Eno.

Isn't this the essence of most musical forms?

Well, if you're talking about all harmonised and
balanced music, yes. If you wish to take the rock 'n'
roll musician, for example, he plays very largely
from the hips. It doesn't involve any higher
energies. Rock 'n' roll is not a particularly
intellectual music nor is it, essentially, very spiritual.

Hes produced two unique solo albums 1978s

Exposure and this springs God Save The Queen,
and he became the first mega-star over to perform
in concert at a Pizza Express. Currently, Fripp is
promoting God Save The Queen: an album for his
patented Frippertronics backed with a newer style
of music, his Discotronics. But will he play the
Pizza Express again?

What I'm interested in doing is providing the rock 'n'

roll musician with a technique which will enable him
to develop a vocabulary which goes beyond all that.
But in order to explain this a little more we really
have to go into the elements of music.

"No, not with rock and roll. It would interfere with

peoples digestion. It wouldnt improve the impulse
buying of pizzas, either, because I sense this tour is
going to be a very energetic, visceral experience. If
one plays music for eating it implies certain
responsibilities, which one must accept."

If you were to take rock, jazz and classical music:

you have, I suppose, fundamental to rock 'n' roll a
physical expression, this very raunchy feel, but with
jazz you have a much looser approach to things,
something which tends to be very emotional. And
classical music demands a discipline which most
rock 'n' roll musicians would find frightening.

Recently, you published an essay (The

Abandonment of Centre in Stereo Mixing,
Sound International, Feb 80) in which you
talked about seeing sound in visual terms...

Each of these kinds of music exist on different

levels. There's the particular kind of feeling
associated with each of them, and there's the

Well, its how Ive always worked.

1004

Do you find other people working that way?

little snigger as he obviously thinks, Well now this

guy really is a turkey! But Im thinking of turning that
phrase sung by David into a 20-minute piece,
building up accompaniment around it. Its just that
at the moment Im working on a series of
indiscretions using peoples voices recorded in
private and public contexts, saying things which are
indiscreet. One is, "Do you think Errol Flynn was
Nazi spy?" Another is "Are young girls who love
horses taken advantage of?" Fabulous! Theres
piles, but all very different; no one commits the
same kind of indiscretion.

Ah I dont know; people dont rush up and say,

Hey I have to tell you that I mix in terms of abstract
geometric shapes! But I sometimes have
conversations about such intriguing notions as keys
in colour. I sat with Keith Tippett once and we found
that our impression of colours was substantially the
same. C major and A minor were both white for us,
and D minor and D major were both green.
Your approach is to use only you intuition and what
you define as intelligence: the capacity to make the
right choice in a situation where there are no
precedents ... So how do you make decisions?

What do you call this sort of thing, Robert?

Metaphysical rock and roll which, although
hilariously funny, HILARIOUSLY FUNNY, is also
music to dance to. You have to approach it with the
left foot firmly entrenched in humour and the right in
a quite dedicated commitment to the project in
hand. But of course if you move off your two feet
you tend to unbalance and fall over. Walking, Ive
found, tends to involve two feet.

Divergent as opposed to convergent problem

solution. Convergent problems are mechanistic
problems open to mechanistic solutions like uh,
the tap falls off you sink and in comes a plumber,
faced with a practical problem which he
mechanistically solves, then leaves. A divergent
problem would be what to do with the building
industry or, the supply of spare parts for sinks.
One would have to come up with a solution to these
problems in a situation where one does not have
enough information to make a rational choice; one
would have to wing it! That is creative problem
solution, that is the real world and that is the
resolution of 'Under Heavy Manners', the key track
to the new album.

Tell a bit more about what the Frippertronics

project is generating.
Well Eno has been developing ambient video
lately video Muzak. And as Frippertronics is also
an investigation of Muzak, I asked him to get
together an exhibition for my Frippertronics concert
at the Kitchen in the New York. Id seen the first
ambient video, where he put the camera outside the
window of the house opposite and left in and the
first movement was created by a bird that flew by
it was lovely!

This methodology is the key to the new album?

Well, take 'Under Heavy Manners', the track with
vocals by David Byrne of Talking Heads. Heavy
Manners is a kind of synonym for 1984 in current
street jargon it means police repression but its in
fact taken from Manleys Declaration of a State of
Emergency in the West Indies in the 60s. and if we
are under heavy manners, if thats the problem,
what is the solution? I go through a lot of
alternatives, then come up with the advice "Remain
in hell without despair", the song presents a mind,
having sifted through all these panaceas and at one
point ending up in a scream (which on the lyric
sheet contains 47 "a"s and one "h"; I instructed the
printer specially.). Theres tremendous conflict, then
this piece of advice, then a reconciliation at the end:
"I am resplendent in divergence."

Cynthia Rose, 1980

King Crimson
Sylvie Simmons, Rolling Stone, 1995
"KING CRIMSON," says Adrian Belew, "does a
brand of music that no-one else does, a sound that
no-one else makes." Robert Fripp calls it "the sound
of 170 guitarists almost hitting the same chord at
the same time."

David sings that three times...

Its more than a quarter of a century since the

eccentric, bespectacled Fripp formed King Crimson
with schoolfriend Greg Lake (later of ELP fame) and
launched it with the cacophonous 21st Century
Schizoid Man. Fripp said it was his interpretation of
Jimi Hendrix playing Stravinskys Rite of Spring.

Yes; David was there in the studio waiting to sing it

and he said, What approach do you want me to
take? and I said, Oh, what would you like to take?
and he said "Country and Western". So I said, OK,
Id love it. And on the tape you can hear Davids

1005

Hendrix said it was the best group hed ever heard.

The press called it "Progressive Rock " Fripp
called it "Dinosaur Rock" and broke it up.

seem to mind that were 45 years old." (Nearer 50,

but well allow them a little vanity...)

"He took a band that was top 50 in the States", says

drummer Bill Bruford, "and stopped it because it
was successful. Robert is the man who coined the
term dinosaur about these megalithic 70s rock
groups. He did it before Johnny Rotten ever did.
Robert presaged Punk".

Belew concurs, "We didnt want to be a bunch of old

guys who got together to try and recreate the past
or cash in on it not that the band was ever that
popular anyway; Ive always seen King Crimson as
more influential than affluent. In fact, it was several
months before we even played a note of old
Crimson songs.

Fripp came back with a new and sparser-sounding

band (which included Bruford) for Larks Tongues In
Aspic. With yet more line-up changes ("King
Crimsons constitution", Fripp has said, "is exactly
like the British Constitution unwritten and
malleable") Crimson went on to make two more
albums, Starless And Bible Black and Red, before
closing down again for seven years.

"The beauty of this band is we have so much choice

two of everything is something thats no-one has
mined very much, so you have to write your own
vocabulary. No-one knows what they should do
together. The music sounded so chaotic, even to
me! Sometimes you feel like theres no-one in
control and that the music's creating itself, its so
strong and powerful."

A vision, while driving up a hill in the Surrey

countryside in the early 80s, impelled Fripp to put
together a new band this time with Bruford,
Frank Zappa alumni Belew and leading session
bassist Tony Levin. It lasted three albums.

Overall, according to Bruford, Fripp is in control.

"Hell say something like Ive had this vision of a
double trio, I dont particularly want this and I dont
know whether its a good idea or not but thats what
were going to do. And musicians quite like a plan",
smiles Bruford. " Men like to have a kind of
hierarchy".

Then another vision. Fripp was driving past the

church in the village where he and wife Toyah
Wilcox live, when he saw an apparition: a new King
Crimson made up of six musicians two trios: two
guitars, two drums and two bass players. He
tracked down the early 80s line-up, supplemented
it with Pat Mastelotto and Trey Gunn. They released
a work-in-progress indie album Vroom and, this
Spring, Thrak. What Fripp calls "56 minutes of
songs about love, dying, redemption and mature
guys that still get erections."

Says Belew, "It is Roberts band, and I think the

only time that the band goes slightly off course is
when we dont listen to Roberts instincts. But its
more a kind of two-headed leadership between
Robert and myself as writers Robert writing the
instrumental sections for the most part and me
writing melody and lyrics." They wrote in Belews
home studio in Nashville, Tennessee, and at Fripps
house in Wiltshire.

It was, says Bruford, "exactly as though nothing had

happened in the last ten years. I live in England,
like Robert, and we hadnt exchanged more than a
sentence or two in that period, but as soon as we all
got into a room together, you picked up where you
left off.

The plan is to start on a new Crimson album when

the tour ends in autumn. Unless, of course, Fripp
disbands it again.
"Everybody has their own reaction to imminent
success", says Bruford. "Most welcome it with open
arms, but others feel it curtails their freedom. You
may ask why such a wonderful band as King
Crimson keeps breaking up. But Id say its
wonderful because it keeps breaking up."

"In the beginning I assumed wed be continuing

musically where we left off in 1984 as well. No. We
were going to return to a sound more from the 70s,
more to do with Red a thick, intelligent Metal kind
of sound.

Sylvie Simmons, 1995

"Red has been very influential. That guy from

Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, said Red was a very seminal
album in his way of looking at music, so young kids
started buying it. Weve been seeing 18-year-old
guys backstage whove borrowed In The Court Of
The Crimson King from their fathers and think were
just as hip as anything else around. They dont

the Kinks
Kinks Go For Spider Sound

1006

Keith Altham, NME, 21 January 1966

Ray was a keen sprinter. One year he was beaten

by someone who was not half as good as he was.

THE MYSTERIOUS Spider Korner who plays

"seven" string guitar and "roams the world", is the
musical influence behind the Kinks' next single,
Dave Davies revealed to me in a London pub last
week. "Spider is a little known American blues
singer," Dave told me. "He gets these fantastically
weird chords by having the extra string on his
guitar."

"He was bitterly disappointed in himself and

declared he would give up running for ever. He
didn't, of course. He trained in secret and the
following year he beat the same runner by yards.
Ray just doesn't give up."
"Funny thing I dug out an old school photograph
this morning of Ray winning a race. He is right in
the foreground breaking the tape and on the
horizon is another minute figure behind him. It was
only when looked at it under a magnifying glass that
I realised it was Pete!"

"A friend of mine recently lent me some of his

records and I was fascinated by the hypnotic
tempos he uses on the numbers. Rather like the
effect the Stones obtained on 'Satisfaction'."
"We recorded several parts of the new number last
week with just three of us at the session. Pete on
bass, Ray on drums, and myself on guitar. The
number starts off with our usual sound and then
splits up in the middle. The basis of the sound
comes from some of the things Spider has played."

Dave informed me that Pete is currently suffering

from a John Lennon complex.
"He's got an exercise book in which he writes down
all these weird stories," said Dave. "He went to see
Frank Muir at the BBC with them a few weeks ago
and Frank gave him some advice!"

About three years ago when Ray was playing with a

folk group here in London, the legendary Spider
crawled in and borrowed Ray's guitar.

I remarked that Dave was looking happier, wealthier

and healthier than of late.

"We never saw him again," grinned Dave. "He's

kind of a Gipsy just roams the world."

"Oh, It's the farming life for me," declared Dave

ordering up another pint. "Early to bed and early to
rise. I was up at 10.15 this morning," he announced
proudly.

The number itself, which was written by brother

Ray, is still on the secret list but most important
development for Dave is that he has written the "B"
side. His first.

Future plans for the group include an American tour

with Gene Pitney which is being negotiated for two
months time and an EP satirising the Boutique
Business which Ray is writing.

"Usually I get an idea for a song and Ray will say

'but listen to this' and that's the end of my effort, but
this time he was really impressed by my song."

"Meanwhile we are taking care of the two tallest

men in the world (managers Robert Wace and
Grenville Collins)," grinned Dave.

I mentioned the ups and downs of their new hit, 'Till

The End Of The Day' in the NME Chart and Dave
nodded.

"Poor Robert is getting very thin and has lots of

pills. He picks up the phone to speak to our road
manager Sam Curtis and says 'What have they
done now ' and takes a green pill.

"I think sales fell off for a short period over one
weekend which would account for the early setback but I've always had faith in this one. I told Ray
it would be a Top Ten hit although he was not so
sure himself."

"Then he gets our publicist on the other line and

says 'Did they do that?' and takes a red one. It's
very sad. We must take better care of them."

In view of Ray's consistent remarks that he might

leave the group I asked Dave if he thought the
Kinks could carry on without him?
Keith Altham, 1966

"He might say he would give up but he never

would," said Dave. " I know him. Let me explain the
kind of character Ray is. When we were at school

The Kinks: Face to Face

Paul Williams, Crawdaddy!, March 1967

1007

IF YOU ARE not a Kinks fan, you are either a)

uninformed, or b) not a Kinks fan. If it's the latter,
there's nothing you can do about it. The Kinks,
rather like Johnny Hart's B.C. or the novels of Kurt
Vonnegut, are absolutely indefensible (and
unassailable). I can't tell you why they're great:
there are no standards by which the Kinks can be
judged. Ray Davies' music has nothing to do with
almost anything else. It's in a category unto itself,
and if you don't like it, well, there you are.

Ah, what is so rare as a Kink in tune? You might

well arsk. Don't take your eye off the madness,
however, to worry such things: Kinks aren't really
concerned with tunes. When Ray sings 'Dandy', for
instance, it is reportedly the same silly little piece he
wrote for Peter Noone. But in point of fact, Ray's
'Dandy' has little to do with Herman's Herman who
merely sang the song.
Ray doesn't hit a note, but he hits Dandy square
between the eyes, every stretch of his voice
portrays more of the bachelor in question than 17
glances at a full-length mirror.

I would like to say that Face to Face is a

tremendously funny lp. I'm uncomfortably aware,
however, that there are those, even those I respect
muchly and love warmly, who do not find B.C. at all
funny. I hesitate, therefore, to urge upon them an
album that starts with four rings of a telephone and
a pristine male voice saying "Hello, who is that
speaking please", followed inexorably by a lead
guitar and bass who sound like they've been
perched for hours just waiting to play their little run
and get into the song (a righteous complaint against
whatever it is that interrupts phone conversations).
The humor of the thing is indescribable: it's all in the
timing, and I break down every time I hear it. But
there are those who sit unmoved. It must have
something to do with taste.

There's a lot of depth to this album. 'Rainy Day in

June', for example: how can anything that starts
with a thunderclap not be a pretty damn serious
song? But it is, and it's a major work. The
piano/bass thing rainy days all over you, while
Ray's voice just stares out the window. The
important part is "Everybody's got the rain," an
unfinished line which is about as universal as they
come. Wow. A work of beauty.
'Rosie Won't You Please Come Home?' is too
unbearably funny. The nice thing is, he's not putting
down anybody: he's just getting totally into the
mother's part, with full sympathy but never a serious
moment. 'Most Exclusive Residence For Sale' is
almost as good; Ray acts very straight and pseudotragic about the whole thing, but the ba-ba-ba-ba
chorus that backs him up gives him away and
completely gasses the listener.

The Kinks are mostly but not entirely Ray

Davies. Ray is songwriter, vocalist, motive force for
the group, and it is his curious personality that
comes through in every note the Kinks play. Some
people think Ray is a genius (albeit a misguided
one). I think it's more accurate to call him an
amazingly articulate musician; his mood at any
given time is reproduced impeccably in his songs,
with no apparent effort on his part. Playing around
with a familiar melody and an unusual break
'Rosie Won't You Please Come Home?' he lets
the words fall where they may. "And I'll bake a cake
if you'll tell me you are on the first plane home."
Sheer nonsense... but it all falls in place so
perfectly, it's hard to imagine any other words could
belong there. Ray's gift is his control of his music:
whatever he does, it's right.

'Fancy' is so lovely and so far-out musically that

everyone should notice it and nobody will. Two
years from now, when everyone's into this kind of
thing, no one will remember that Ray Davies was
into it first. They never do.
'Little Miss Queen of Darkness' is wonderfully well
built. For once, a good walking vocal to go, along
with a well-handled walking bass, and a drummer
who knows how to take over when the whole thing
walks his way. Oh yeah, There's a fine four-way
fight going on after the drum solo here it sounds
as though Ray won by fading all tracks except his
own. Harmony out of discord. If you can ignore the
frenetic upstaging long enough to catch the words
to the song, do; they're delightful. Davies is master
of smiling pathos.

He couldn't do it without the other Kinks, however.

They complement his vocals and carry the moods
of his songs so precisely that one would think them
pursued by the same demons. Brother Dave on
lead guitar, Pete Quaife on bass, Mick Avory on
drums, all run wild within the confines of a private
world limited by the walls of the Pye Recording
Studios on the one hand and the curious
imagination of Mr. Ray Davies & Co. on the other.
The limits of Mr. Davies' imagination, however, are
unknown.

'Sunny Afternoon' is a song to end if not all other

songs then at least several. It is a Davies tour de
force; if 'Too Much On My Mind' is his statement of
policy, then 'Sunny Afternoon' following, as it
does, a nervous breakdown is Ray's State of the
Union Address to the world. And it's beautiful. It

1008

starts off descending and just floats on down for

another 3.5 minutes: It's a portrait of the artist as a
happy, helpless himself, trapped on a sunshine
carpet of psychosomatic flypaper (purchased from
the album of the same name by the Blue Magoos)
and like every Davies portrait, it is razor-sharp but it
draws absolutely no conclusions. Goods and bads
do not enter into the picture. Ray is sympathetic to
all things and all people, up to and including Ray
Davies.

Ray is something of a musical cartoonist on

contemporary English society and like all good
writers he draws from personal experience and
people he knows for his material. Many of his songs
are regarded as pretty pictures by the critics, like
the Kinks current hit Autumn Almanac, but there is
a derisive message for the "box"-watches, the
complacent and the conventional.
"I suppose I tend to be rather cruel to my friends,"
admitted Ray over lunch in a London restaurant,
"but Im really getting at myself as well. I seldom
exaggerate the characters like David Watts on
our new LP I deliberately underplay them and that
is why the lyric tends to sound sarcastic.

Face to Face is a fine lp; the Kinks have really

never done a poor one. This is perhaps the best
Kinks lp to meet them on it hits hardest and
fastest, it is the most sophisticated and in many
ways the funniest and most musically inventive. It is
also the best programmed, because Reprise chose
to release the original Pye recording, with all
fourteen (!) cuts in their original order. Poor
programming the curse of the throw-away album
designed for U.S. consumption by ignorant U.S.
labels has hurt the Kinks badly in the past. Face
is not, however, the best Klnks album. That title
would probably go to Kink Kontroversy, an early
1966 album that had no single track as good or
even as ambitious as 'Rainy Day in June' or 'Sunny
Afternoon'. Kontro stands, however, as the best
statement of the Ray Davies approach to music
and/or life. Its overall quality is much higher than
Face partly because it doesn't fool around as much
as a result, it avoids the occasional selfconsciousness of the new lp... and it doesn't display
its low points as obviously ('Holiday in Waikiki' is a
good example of a track that just doesn't fit on Face
to Face), in many ways, is an overly arty lp; Kontro
offers us Kinks in their natural habitat.

"People are seldom offended by what I do or write

about them. Either they fail to recognize themselves
or they have enough intelligence to laugh at it."
I have never seen Ray Davies lose his temper but
like many other restrained people there is the
impression that if he did let loose his real feelings,
the top of his head might blow off. He looks behind
the smiling faces and his anger is a s real as his
humour.
University
"Last week we played a University up North,"
recounted Ray, "and because these faculties
seldom organise things well, we were required to
change in the library which served as a dressing
room. One of the students kindly smuggled me in a
drink. The Almoner arrived in the room and spotted
the drink. He made a terrible scene and began
chastising the students. I said: Look man, its only
one drink, thats all, and he said: I dont talk to your
kind of rubbish!"

But Kinks, no matter where they are or what they're

doing, are well worth your attention. Whether or not
you enjoy them is surely a matter of taste. But if,
like many, you've overlooked them, you're missing
one of the finest groups we have.

Then Dave said: "You..." and I had to clap my hand

over his mouth. Its amazing that people like that
are still around, though.

Paul Williams, 1967

Ray is ex-art student and he looks at the world with

the eyes of an artist. His speciality was sketching
people before he began sketching them with music
and the observations are individual.

Ray Davies: " I Don't Mean To Be Cruel To My

Pals"
Keith Altham, NME, 4 November 1967

"Art school was a good thing for me," he said, "I had
a master who said: If you dont feel like sketching
go home and do something else. Im not going to
teach you to be a carbon copy of me. You must
learn to be yourself. He knew that the eye of the
amateur produces more originality and expression
than the product of technique.

THERE is something of the smoking volcano about

Ray Davies. Six foot of suppressed quietly spoken,
quietly smiling and quietly watching! It is what some
people call "an artistic temperament" that seldom
works along logical lines and often distinguished the
talented from the mundane.

1009

"Im going off meat," he continued distractedly,

forking his scampi. "Look at the people in this
restaurant. You can always tell the people who eat
rare meat all their lives. As they get older they begin
to look like pigs fleshy jowls, large-ringed eyes
like in the Hogarth painting, and little piggy eyes."

who does not know he is being thought of second,

is incredible. Thats the kind of love that interest
me.
"Love is much more complicated than just two
people. Autumn Almanac is a love song. Its
possessive Yes, yes, yes, yes, its MY Autumn
Almanac!" he stressed.

I was pleased that I had ordered fresh salmon. Ray

is always looking behind the smiling faces.

Ray has recently been reading the works of Hans

Christian Andersen. He felt they were too abrupt
and the wicked witches got their heads cut off too
quickly!

"Look at the portrait of the Mona Lisa" he said, "and

ask yourself why she is smiling like that Maybe she
has a gap in her teeth like mine. Her whole life is
altered by that one deviation. Picasso works like
this exaggerating one defect to illustrate the
whole."

We rode from the restaurant by taxi to his

managers office after our meal and he talked of
how he planned to buy a Bentley, but decided
against it as he cannot drive.

The bizarre or the unusual slant are a Ray Davies

speciality and he recounted to me how Autumn
Almanacs tune came about.

He talked of how he had written a film synopsis for

the Kinks, "of three different ways of getting
something," and how sorry he was for the BBC DJs
who might get the sack. Suddenly he saw someone
he recognized in another taxi go past. "Great," he
cried, "its our masseur, Harry the Horse." And he
waved his hands together like two pale butterflies.

"It was originally a song called My Street," he said,

"but I played the tape backwards, Ym Teerst and it
came out the tune for Autumn Almanac."
Backward tapes are not a new idea for producing
an interesting tune and it would be interesting to
know how many Beatles numbers have been
produced this way. Ray is very much in sympathy
with current musical trends and often finds his ideas
have been duplicated.

Keith Altham, 1967

The One-up Kink: Raymond Douglas Davies

Overlap

Keith Altham, NME, 31 August 1968

"I wrote There Is A Mountain which Donovan has

written," said Ray, "but my tune was called Jonahus
Mountain and I wrote it for Dave. Ive had to scrap it
now because it would have sounded like a crib from
Donovan."

RAYMOND DOUGLAS DAVIES, as he now insists

on being referred to, is one who excels in the
unexpected and the slightly bizarre. He is probably
the least obvious person I know. He is a whimsical
character who writes about life in an askew manner.
You are never quite sure whether he is serious or
not. Sometimes he will say extraordinary things like:
"I always work on the assumption that I am
indestructible and everyone else is not!"

The fresh fruit salad arrived on the table and Ray

reviewed the large bowl of whipped cream.
"Wouldnt it be great to have a false hand to stick in
there?" he said grinning.

He told me he is currently concerned with writing

about birth. "War-mothers" fascinate him. He
rejoices in the unusual and was recently quite
overwhelmed by a three-year-old girl he met, who
informed him gravely that her ambition was to grow
up to be a horse.

"Waterloo Sunset" might be described as a "love

song," but Ray seldom seems to concern himself
with this conventional formula of boy and girl.
"I missed my favourite film on TV the other night,"
he said. "The Ballad For A Russian Soldier. There is
this marvelous bit where the soldier is returning
home on leave to his wife. He discovers his wife
has gone off with another man. He planned to give
her two precious bars of soap, but instead he gives
them to his father. The look on his fathers face,

"That was really wonderful," says Raymond

Douglas Davies, and smiles that little tight lipped
smile, which might once have been a self-conscious
attempt to hide the small gap between his two front
teeth and is now an ingrained characteristic. 'Days',

1010

the current hit, pleases him quite greatly because it

proves the Kinks could come back after a dud
single like 'Wonderboy', of which he says: "It should
never have been released. I didnt want it released.
We did it as a favour to someone!"

although quite recently he had occasion to pick up

one ginger-headed little soul and address him quite
severely on the pitch.
He is carrying his love of sports indoors to his new
Elstree home and has already installed table tennis
and has bar billiards on order.

Raymond Douglas Davies would like to be a film

producer and would probably make a very good
one. Among other things, he would like to do a
documentary feature about Elvis Presley. He is one
of those artistic people who have an uncanny knack
of doing what is apparently wrong for the times, but
proves usually right. It only appears wrong because
he is the first to do it!

"Id rather have bar billiards than a snooker table,

because everyone can play it," he says reasonably.
Paternal
He takes an almost paternal interest in the career of
his younger brother Dave and informs me he
advised him to give up "Scotch" if he does not want
any more pains in his chest when he plays football.
Of all the members of the group, he finds Mick
Avory the most amusing and is fond of reeling
Avorisms in that monotonal, dead-pan manner
which is the drummers specialty.

He is the type of person who starts a fashion and

gives it up immediately it becomes fashionable. He
has a perverse dress sense, which is disarmingly
effective. He manages to wear a turquoise jacket
with a pink shirt and striped tie and make it all look
incredibly correct.
Different

"Hes just bought a new house," said Ray. "Dave

went down to see it recently in West Molesey and
Mick asked him if he would like to see it. He said
yes and Mick took him into the back garden and
pointed to the house across the way. Hes almost
moved next door to himself!"

"I always made a point, when all my friends were

rebelling and turning up at Art School in army
surplus blankets and open neck shirts, of wearing a
collar and tie," he says.
He has a rare sense of humour. During an All Star
XI charity football match, in which we were both
playing recently, I ingenuously contrived to barge a
massive ex-Charlton player, with the formidable
name of Malcolm Pike, off the ball. I bounced off
some fifteen feet away, while Mr. Pike remained
impassively rock-like just where he was. Raymond
Douglas Davies came over, picked me up and
warned me severely to leave Pike alone, as it was
only a friendly game!

Raymond Douglas Davies is a careful man with his

money. He usually carries about five-shillings and
sixpence with him Ive never been able to
ascertain whether it is the same five-shillings and
sixpence!
I asked him how he viewed the prospect of the "free
concerts" being given by Traffic and other groups in
places like Hyde Park. He was greatly in favour of
all the fresh air and general avoidance of "grotty
theatres," but would not seem to grasp the no-fee
factor. "Of course it would depend who asked us to
do it," he said. "I mean if the Electricity Board asked
us to do it I would not, because I dont like the
Electricity Board... or the Gas Board."

Football is almost as important a part of his life as

music and he will talk enthusiastically of the
supreme tactician of the Showbusiness XI, ex-Irish
International Danny Blanchflower. He was once
asked to produce a record for "Footballer Of The
Year" George Best.

He recently went to see a showing of the space

fiction film 2001, A Space Odyssey, and claims to
have understood the story a great deal more than
most people did. He bought the album of the films
musical score in stereo.

Raymond nearly always backs Arsenal for the FA

Cup, but declares that this year it looks like Everton.
He is very proud of the fact that last season he
scored two goals direct from corner kicks, no mean
feat (or should it be "feet"?) and plays the game
himself with poise and control, concentrating on
skills rather than physical employment.

There were also plans for him to produce and sing

on a solo LP of his own, but these seem to have
been shelved. "Ive asked the group to sing and
play on it with me and they have kindly consented,"
he said. "I would like to make it clear that Ive
always wanted to do an LP with the Kinks anyway!"

He only rarely loses his temper when some

misbegotten opponent thinks it might be fun to go
down in history as the player who fouled the Kink

1011

Of the current hit parade, he does not like or

understand he success of Tommy James and the
Shondells, although he seems to think it might have
something to do with 'Lets Dance'. He does not
care for the O. C. Smith record and thinks it would
not have been a hit three years ago, but the timing
was just right for this kind of record.

English r&b standby). And if you're into tracing

influences, there's 'Bald Headed Woman' and 'I've
Been Drivin' On Bald Mountain,' which the Who
combined to form the flip of their first single, 'I Can't
Explain'. The first album also established a number
of patterns that were to characterize the Kinks
through their next four releases. One critic said, 'in
the beginning the Kinks' music gravitated between a
sea-sickening (lurching) nauseous roll and a
mineral-hard mechanical pulverization.' 'You Really
Got Me' is the obvious pulverizer, and songs like
'Long Tall Shorty' and 'Stop Your Sobbing' are the
earliest examples of Ray Davies' vocal ugliness, an
intentional creation of the grotesque that many
people found fascinating.

The most memorable aspect of the Kinks last tour

seems to have been when everyone managed to
get up on the stage and the group played a stirring
rendition of 'Your Are My Sunshine'. And the most
satisfactory TV appearance of late was on Colour
Me Pop.
"Its such a good show if you want to appear on it
and thats what it's really all about anyway," says
Raymond Douglas Davies.

Five months later Kinks-Size was released on the

heels of 'All Day and All of the Night', their second
smash single which set up a pattern of chunky
rhythm rockers that was to continue through 'Come
On Now', 'Who'll Be the Next in Line', 'I Need You'
and 'Till the End of the Day', each a bit more
distinctive than the last and each an instant classic.
Kinks-Size raves all the way through, with songs
like 'I Gotta Move', 'Things Are Getting Better', 'I'm a
Lover Not a Fighter' and 'Revenge' serving as little
more than vehicles for displaying Dave Davies'
mastery of kinetic energy. Listen closely and you'll
hear Jimmy Page chording frantically all over these
early records, especially on 'Revenge', an
instrumental collision between him and Dave. In
addition to all this rocking, we have the first
appearance of 'Louie Louie' (a perfectly logical
follow-up to 'You Really Got Me') and 'Tired of
Waiting For You', in which Ray uses the unusual
qualities of his voice to best advantage yet in an
unforgettable evocation of weariness that made it to
Number 6 on the Billboard chart. Kinks-Size also
features a teen-appeal back cover feature giving
The Kinks' answers to 30 questions from 'favorite
food' to 'most thrilling experience.'

Keith Altham, 1968

The Kinks: A profile
Greg Shaw, Fusion, 19 February 1970
THE ORIGIN of The Kinks is nearly shrouded in
antiquity 1964, to be exact. There weren't many
'rock' groups around yet; just the Stones and the
Beatles, with a few others like the Byrds, Them, the
Who and the Yardbirds, waiting in the wings. Like
most of the others, they started with American rock
and roll standards, but 'Long Tall Sally', their initial
release, bombed badly and immediately after their
first album the Kinks began keeping to original
material except for periodic revivals of 'Louie Louie'.
There are four Kinks, and the lineup has changed
only once in seven years. Ray Davies, the vocalist,
the eccentric songwriter/philosopher, the gangling
jester who leads the group. Brother Dave Davies,
guitarist and sometime songwriter. John Dalton
(who replaced Pete Quaife in 1969) and Mick Avory,
bass and drums respectively. There are three semiKinks, too: Shel Talmy, who produced their first nine
albums; Jimmy Page, who added much to the
energy level on the first few albums and may have
had more to do with their hard sound than is
commonly admitted; and Nicky Hopkins, who
contributed some tasty piano arrangements to a
number of Kinks sessions.

They were back in September after two more hits

with 'Set Me Free' and 'Ev'rybody's Gonna Be
Happy,' on Kinda Kinks. I've heard 'hard rock'
defined as music based on rhythm climaxes, rather
than the customary melodic climaxes. Perhaps
feeling that they'd mastered hard rock, The Kinks
tone things down considerably on Kinda Kinks, Ray
playing around with vocal control and distortion.
New emphasis is also given here to the structure
and lyrical content of Ray's songs, and the result is,
to me, a transitional album. 'Something Better
Beginning' is an unqualified success as a statement
of emotion, with a perfectly matching instrumental
track. The Beatles were after the same sort of thing
that year, and seldom accomplished it better than
Ray Davies does here. We're reminded of the
Beatles again with 'Got My Feet On the Ground', if

The first album, You Really Got Me, is as

impressive as any first album you could name. They
were into the Stones trip of fast, sloppy high-energy
rave-ups on Little Richard and Chuck Berry themes.
Berry's 'Beautiful Delilah' and 'Too Much Monkey
Business', as well as Bo Diddley's 'Cadillac' appear
here, along with 'Got Love If You Want It' (an early

1012

you could ever imagine a Beatle song so rough and

out of tune. Back to experimentation with 'Nothin' In
the World Can Stop Me Worryin' 'Bout My Girl,'
which Ray sings virtually acapella in a hoarse, lowkey voice. 'Set Me Free' shows an increased grasp
of harmonic subtlety; Ray's tone of voice suits the
mood of the song exactly and it's no surprise that
this song was a hit. The other cuts range from failed
experiments ('Ev'rybody's Gonna Be Happy') to
merely adequate fillers ('So Long', 'Don't Ever
Change').

fittingly, it epitomizes their greatness in that idiom.

Everybody from Ricky Nelson to Elvis to Merle
Haggard has recorded 'Milk Cow Blues', but nobody
has touched The Kinks' version for pure kinetic
forcefulness. I don't know what it does to you, but it
grabs me by the guts and knocks me over. As far as
I'm concerned, it could go on forever. Unfortunately,
it doesn't.
Well executed songs in a number of styles
combining hard rock and vocal structure in ways
only the Beatles have done as well make up much
of Kontroversy. They include 'Gotta Get the First
Plane Home', 'Ring the Bells', 'When I See That Girl
of Mine' and 'Where Have All the Good Times
Gone'. As a sort of sequel to 'Set Me Free' we have
'I Am Free' which expresses a freedom more akin to
the Who's 'I'm Free' than to The Stones'. Energy
flows through an orgasm of rhythmic climaxes on
'Till the End of the Day,' one of the
Kinks' most memorable creations. Many of the
songs on Kontroversy are not a vivid as 'Day' and
'Milk Cow Blues', but musically this album is
remarkably free of that quality of repulsiveness that
had dogged The Kinks from the beginning. I could
find good things to say about the musicianship on
each song but that would be pointless. It's all good.
Thematically (an aspect of increasing importance to
the Kinks) the titles reveal an obsession with
hopelessness or perhaps 'melancholy' would be
a better term. 'What's In Store For Me', 'Where
Have All the Good Times Gone', 'You Can't Win',
'It's Too Late'. Mere weariness has turned to
weltschmertz.

It took only two months to follow this up with

Kinkdom, another transitional step but also the first
really great Kinks album. It starts off with 'Well
Respected Man', Ray Davies' first attempt at what
was later to become his forte, the good-natured jab
at the foibles of common humanity. 'Well Respected
Man' comes off rather heavy-handed, however, and
it seems to me an unfair criticism, as was the
Beatles' 'Nowhere Man.' There are at least four
great songs on Kinkdom, though, including a rare
Kinks blues, 'Naggin' Woman', written by Lazy
Lester and sung by Ray Davies in a precious Jimmy
Reed imitation. The whole band is more tightly
integrated on this album, and apparently secure
enough in their lyric ability to return to hard rock and
prove that they were never better at it. 'Never Met a
Girl Like You Before' allows Dave, free from his 'wall
of sound' format, to deliver his best solo yet. 'I Need
You' brings back the 'Really Got Me' rhythm in a
more advanced context, Ray's voice just as
desperate but a lot more controlled. The addition of
a tambourine and some background vocal harmony
do a lot to fill out the thinness of The Kinks' sound,
an improvement they'd finally realized they needed,
though it eventually took another five years to finally
eradicate it. Much has been made of 'See My
Friends' an intense, moody song that is one of Ray
Davies' favorites, and one of the few from this
period that remains in their concert repertoire. "See
my friends, way across 'the river" is chanted over a
mesmerizing drone, and was in fact inspired by
Ray's impressions of Indian music. It includes the
first use of a sitar by a rock group, predating even
'Norwegian Wood'. 'Who'll Be the Next in Line'
combines rhythm and lyric climaxes in a knockout
of a song, enhanced by a classic statement of
outraged ego, the essential element in most of rock
and roll's greatest songs, from 'Hound Dog' to 'I
Can See For Miles'. If the sheer velocity of the song
doesn't carry you away, there's something wrong
with you. 'It's All Right,' a satisfying rocker, and
another version of 'Louie Louie' round out this
essential album.

At this juncture, almost as though aware of the

changes to come, Pye Records (the Kinks' British
label) put together The Kinks' Greatest Hits. Right
up there with the Byrds as far as outstanding
greatest hits albums are concerned, this one
combines the best examples of each Kinks style,
from the thundering wattage of 'You Really Got Me'
and 'Till the End of the Day' to the sarcastic taunting
of 'Well Respected Man'. The follow-up to the latter
is also included, in its only album appearance.
'Dedicated Follower of Fashion' sounds at first like
more of the same. 'Well Respected Man' is as close
as the Kinks ever come to the Frank Zappa school
of unilaterally putting down commuters and other
varieties of hapless citizenry. But in the sequel, Ray
has become more specific, singling out the Carnaby
Street phonies of his own crowd to be held up, not
to ridicule, but to needed examination. It was a
change in Ray Davies' outlook that carried forward
to include many of the songs on the group's next
album, Face to Face.

In February of 1966 The Kinks released Kink

Kontroversy, the last of their alliterative album titles
and the end of the first phase of their career. And,

The sophistication of The Kinks' humor is in strong

evidence on Face to Face, with such songs as

1013

'Rosie Won't You Please Come Home', a mother's

plea to a runaway child that humorously expresses
sympathy for both sides, and 'Dandy', a song of
mild complaint that nobody took personally. With
'Dandy', this vein of development is mined out, and
Davies goes on to attempt to capture the essence
of the universal. The famous example is 'Sunny
Afternoon', but far more profound to me is 'Rainy
Day in June', in which piano, bass and tambourine
create such a powerful sensation of rain inexorably
falling that Ray's voice hardly needed to form the
hypnotic lyrics so perfectly: "Everybody's got the
rain, everybody's got the rain." 'Sunny Afternoon' is
not to be slighted, however, for as surely as The
Kinks surrounded you with rain a few moments ago
they've now whisked you away to a lazy afternoon
in the English summertime, and the feeling there is
just as eternal.

half minute medley of 'Milk Cow Blues', 'Batman

Theme' and 'Tired of Waiting For You'. The band still
does a 'Milk Cow Blues' medley in concert, but
nothing to match the dynamic tension sustained
through this incredible cut.
In January, 1968 Something Else was released,
revealing a further development in Ray Davies'
outlook on life. He'd gone from satirizing people to
portraying various states of mind, and now he
began simply observing everyday situations he saw
in people's lives about him in England, implying
much about the reality of being a common person
but passing no judgment, only looking on with mild
sympathy. 'David Watts' tells the story of that kid we
all knew in school who always had the best of
everything and never failed. "And I wish I could be
like David Watts" is the singer's only expressed
attitude, one of simply childlike envy. 'Death Of a
Clown', written by Dave Davies, shows the same
incisive lyric ability exists in both brothers. 'End Of
the Season', 'Tin Soldier Man', 'Situation Vacant'
and 'Two Sisters' explore other aspects of life, again
passing no judgment but painting a vivid picture.
Songs like 'Lazy Old Sun' (which does for old Sol
what 'Rainy Day in June' did for rain), 'Afternoon
Tea' and the great 'Waterloo Sunset' recall the
feeling of Face to Face and 'Love Me Till the Sun
Shines' (another D. Davies song) is something the
Kinks hadn't given us in awhile, a love song filled
with honest emotion. Something Else also included
a couple of oddballs: 'No Return', a straight bossa
nova, and 'Harry Rag', a cheery drinking song that,
without too much imagination, you could see a
group of drunken Ukrainian peasants doing folk
dances to. Done, as the Kinks often do, just to
prove they can do it. Harmonically and lyrically,
Something Else is a very pleasing album. Everyone
has his own idea of what makes The Kinks great
that very fact is part of their greatness. And there's
a wealth of enjoyment in their music for anyone who
takes the trouble to search it out.

Perhaps the best song on the album, 'Dead End

Street', was not included in the American release,
though it earned a Silver Record (whatever that is)
in England. It was released as a single here, if you
can find it. The desperation of living on a dead end
street is strongly invoked by the steel-hard guitar
chords and Ray's surly voice, yet at the end it fades
into a sleepy trad jazz doodle, the last few
repetitions of the title becoming mellow and
unconcerned. While I'm at it, the flip of 'Sunny
Afternoon' was another gem from the English
album, 'I'm Not Like Everybody Else'. Starting out
as a determined chant, it reaches a screaming peak
of self-assertion. A great Kinks song.
I ought to say a word about the musicianship on
Face to Face. It's superb. For the first time the
Kinks fool around with sound effects, using
thunderstorms, pounding surf and ringing
telephones to pull you deeper into the scene of
each song. For November, 1966, that was
something.
One of the best greatest hits albums could only be
followed by one of the greatest live albums ever,
and so it was with The Live Kinks (September, 1967
their only release that year). Side One, with the
more melodic songs, reaches its peak in 'Sunny
Afternoon' when, as one critic pointed out, Ray
managed to get 50,000 pubescent girls to sing "I
got a big fat mama tryin' to break me." The kids in
Scotland must be a bit behind the times, because
you wouldn't expect a concert recorded in 1967 to
include a background of screaming hysteria as this
one does. The Kinks play on this hysteria like a
fourth instrument, contributing to the greatness of
this record. Throughout Side Two the tension
mounts as The Kinks rock harder and harder
through 'I'm On an Island', 'Come On Now', 'You
Really Got Me' and, to top it off, a blazing 8 and a

Three of the songs on Something Else were

authored by Dave Davies, who was apparently
beginning to feel his oats as a songwriter. In the
twelve months before Village Green was released,
Dave put together an album of his own that was
never issued. Some songs from it, among them
'Susannah's Still Alive' and 'Funny Face', made their
way onto various Kinks albums. 'Lincoln Country'
and 'There Is No Life Without Love' were released
as a single in England but never appeared on an
album. During this period The Kinks also compiled
two albums, one of which, Four More Respected
Gentlemen, came close to being released later in
1968 but never was. Songs included 'Till Death Do
Us Part', 'This Is Where I Belong', 'Lavender Hill',
'Plastic Man', 'King Kong', 'Berkeley Mews',

1014

'Rosemary Rose', 'Easy Come, There You Went',

'Pictures In the Sand', 'Mr. Songbird', 'When I Turn
Out the Living Room Light' and 'Where Did My
Spring Go'.

When Arthur (Reprise S6366) arrived that summer,

it was critically acclaimed as the best album of
1969, though I believe the public ultimately chose
something else it always does.

Thematically the songs were in the same vein as

the previous two studio albums, and I can think of
no reason the material shouldn't have been
released. The other album, untitled and never
completed, included several songs later released
on singles, among them 'Days' (a fine song that got
some airplay), 'She's Got Everything', 'Polly',
'Wonderboy' and 'Berkeley Mews'. A few numbers
from that album ended up on Village Green.

It would be presumptuous of me to try and sum up

Arthur in a single paragraph when so very much
has been written about it, but all else disregarded
(like the fact that Arthur is the only rock soundtrack
that completely overshadowed the film itself
does anybody even know for sure if the film was
ever finished?) Arthur can be seen as part of a
linear progression for The Kinks. Nostalgia for the
vanishing details of an older way of life gives way to
nostalgia for an entire age of British glory. Ray
Davies, speaking through Arthur, says, "I wish my
eyes could only see! Everything, exactly as it used
to be." "But it's too late, so late." Back on Village
Green he says, "How I love things as they used to
be" in 'People Take Pictures of Each Other'. Davies'
resentment of photography is also a recurring
theme in these albums, probably because it's a
false preservation of something that has changed.

The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation

Society is not so much a nostalgic excursion as an
appreciation of the old and fine things in life, and
the ability to enjoy them. In the title song, The Kinks
half-seriously set forth their credo, a wonderful list
of things to be preserved. The Kinks were the first
(and only) pop group to suggest that some
worthwhile old things be preserved in the creation
of a new world, a suggestion that probably turned
off a lot of people in the revolutionary times of the
album's release. One possible reason those three
albums were not issued is the fact that this album
and Something Else together sold only 25,000
copies in America, indicating either that the public
disliked the new Kinks approach, or, more likely,
that they were interested in the loud, mind-dulling
music and/or psychedelic mysticism that was
currently popular. Anyway, it was their loss because
Village Green was another fine, comfortable album.
'Big Sky' takes you out in the open and introduces
you to the man upstairs. 'I think of the big sky and
nothing matters much to me.' Try it and see if you
don't agree. 'Last of the Steam Powered Trains', a
variation on 'Smokestack Lightning', reminds you
that if you don't hurry you may never get a chance
to ride a train again, and that your children probably
never will. That matters to you, doesn't it? Of course
it does, or you wouldn't be listening to The Kinks.

Musically the Kinks are self-assured and brilliant on

Arthur. They know what they want to accomplish
and how to do it, and they take great relish in the
execution. Here's Ray fooling around some more,
bloating his voice on 'Victoria' to sound just like that
fat old queen, and Dave obviously enjoying his
chance to bash out those fine old Everly Brothers
riffs on 'Mr. Churchill Says'. And the sheer devotion
of 'Shangri-La', which approaches the order of a
hymn, reaffirms for a final time Ray Davies' belief in
the transcending value of appreciating the small,
everyday things in life. Some take 'Shangri-La' as
satire, but the performance of the song puts the lie
to that. They deliver it with a conviction equivalent
to Pete Townshend's in Tommy, confirming for me
that Ray's faith in the earthly is every bit as
profound as Townshend's devotion to the spiritual.
It's been over a year since Arthur, and now The
Kinks have returned, transformed. When I first
heard 'Lola' I knew something was different. The
thin sound they'd never managed to lose had finally
vanished. No longer could you imagine each Kink
playing his own axe in a different corner of the
studio; they were now a tight, powerful unit. The
lyrical content of 'Lola' was revolutionary, too.
Always before there was the feeling that Ray
Davies was expressing his own state of mind in his
songs. Now, like the 1967 Who ('I'm a Boy',
'Pictures of Lily') Davies was putting himself in a
totally alien place and seeing how it felt. I was
deeply impressed, and after predicting a whole new
phase about to begin in The Kinks' music, I sat back
to wait for the album.

The dismal sales figures for Village Green

prompted Reprise to launch a promotional
campaign with the slogan 'God Save the Kinks'. An
album containing 18 songs from various stages of
the Kinks' career was made available by mail for $2.
It included two previously obscure songs, 'Days'
and ''Berkeley Mews', and excellent liner notes by
John Mendelsohn. This sampler may still be
available. The campaign was successful, resulting
in pro-Kinks articles in all the major rock papers.
The Kinks have always been well-liked by the
critics, and for the most part the latter were
outraged at the band's declining popularity.

1015

Lola Versus Powerman and the Moneygoround

(Part One) (Reprise S6432) has borne me out
almost completely. The Kinks have a new, modern
sound; they're using piano or organ on nearly every
cut, to fill out the sound, and they're still playing
joyous, aggressive rock and roll, yet without
sounding the least bit old-fashioned. Ray Davies'
head has apparently gone through some changes,
too. With 'Ape Man' you think at first that nostalgia
has been carried to ridiculous extremes, but you
soon discover that Ray is protesting (yes!) the way
'over-population, inflation and the crazy politicians'
have reduced us to the status of animals. The tone
is cheery, like he's having a ball swinging from that
tree, but the sarcasm is unmistakable. It comes up
again on 'Powerman' as Ray rips apart, none too
subtly, those who lust after power. You get the
feeling he imagines himself oppressed by the rich
and powerful. Is this the same worldly philosopher
who was so at ease in his old rocking chair last time
we saw him? Listen to 'Rats': "See that face look at
me, he's much too selfish to see/ Once he was
warm and was kind, now all he has got is a pin
stripe mind." On 'Got To Be Free' Ray revives an
old theme. I was sure he'd freed himself long ago,
but here he is saying "got to get out of this world
somehow." In still another song, 'Moneygoround',
he claims that he's "in a pit and stuck in it" and "I
only hope that I'll survive." His complaint here is
music publishers taking their slice of his royalties.
Not content with this, he devotes another full song
to the evils of the publishing profession in 'Denmark
Street'.

touch for whimsy, as 'Lola,' 'Ape Man' and 'Top of

the Pops', the latter a delightful Dick Clark fantasy,
plainly demonstrate.
Wherever they go from here, The Kinks will clearly
be an important force in music. I presume Part Two
of Lola Versus Powerman will be along in short
order, giving The Kinks a solid foot in the door of the
Seventies. They've been with us since the
beginning of rock, consistently among the best, in
their own unique way, through all the changes. Of
the surviving 1964 groups, they've spanned the
years with greater flexibility and continuing creativity
than any of the others. We haven't heard the last of
The Kinks.
Greg Shaw, 1970
The Kinks: Lola Vs. Powerman And The
Moneygoround (Part One)
John Mendelssohn, Rolling Stone, 7 January 1971
SO, APPARENTLY having forgotten the Byrds'
words of caution, you wanna be a rock and roll star,
eh? Before you trade in your stereo components
toward the price of an electric guitar, there's this
latest rock and roll essay by Ray Davies and his
boys that your ears just have to read. Paragraph by
paragraph it goes like this:
'The Contender' silly quasi-bluegrass yielding to
some of the most energetic rock and roll noises the
Kinks have made since their live-at-Kelvin-Hall LP.
Impatient to get out of the life you're presently
leading but not content to be a constructor of
highways or a sweeper of sidewalks, you resolve to
bust out by playing rock and roll.

This hardly seems like the Ray Davies (now

Raymond Douglas Davies and why does he feel
the need to change his by-line after all this time?)
we once knew. What has happened? Lola Versus
Powerman and the Moneygoround. What does this
mean? If 'Lola' represents the music of the Kinks, it
could mean that they feel their music is being stiff
led and exploited by the various middlemen.
Perhaps they've had hassles we don't know about.
Maybe so, but I'm still disappointed in Ray.
Categorizing people and heaping abuse on
stereotypes this is the sort of thinking I thought
he'd outgrown with 'Well Respected Man'.

'Strangers' a beautiful song about how people

come together in the face of tragedy with excellent
words and a soulful gasping vocal by Dave Davies,
who, on the strength of stuff like this and 'Mindless
Child of Motherhood', is starting to loom ever larger
in the Kinks legend. A footnote to the idea of the
quest introduced in 'The Contender' rather than an
actual part of the statement.

But maybe he's got the right idea. Hostility is

currently very much in vogue, so the Kinks stand to
benefit by their present attitude. At any rate, they
seem very sure of themselves, and I can't recall
when they've put together a better sounding
collection of music. 'Lola' is still the tour de force,
but 'Ape Man', 'Strangers', 'Got To Be Free',
'Powerman' and 'This Time Tomorrow' are real
knockouts. Dave has obviously been listening to
George Harrison and Peter Green, and he's learned
a lot. And the Kinks haven't completely lost their

'Denmark Street' conceivably an intentionally

grating non-song. Herein you meet the music
publishers, who, although they hate your words,
hate your tune, and think your hair too long, sign
you up anyway in the event of the public's taste
conflicting with their own.
'Get Back In Line' the album's masterpiece: lovely
musically, most poignant lyrically, and with an
extraordinarily soulful vocal by Ray. It gets to the

1016

point where the union-man decides whether or not

you eat, let alone bring your woman home some
wine.

What with all the rats and powermen about even

the dubious freedom of hopelessness that is the
theme of 'This Time Tomorrow' seems inviting.
What's crucial, they remind us in 'Got To Be Free', a
knock-out finale in which Dave, the rocking kid
brother, and Ray, who's older and more apt to take
things philosophically, rebound off of one another's
lines and music, is simply to get out of this life.

'Lola' what praises remain to be sung for this

perfectly magnificent piece? Let me mention only
that, contrary to the belief of those who celebrated it
in its single incarnation, Ray never comes out and
tells us whether or not Lola is indeed a transvestite
the most he says is, "I know what I am and I'm
glad I'm a man, and so is Lola." This fits in the
essay contextually rather than thematically; that is,
not because of its plot but because it was the hit
record our attention is directed toward in

This just may be the best Kinks album yet. And,

brother, that's saying one heaping mouthful.
John Mendelssohn, 1971
The Kinks Draw An Unruly Crowd

'Top of The Pops' the two most banal riffs Ray

could remember, namely modified versions of those
from 'Louie Louie'- and 'Land of a Thousand
Dances'. As your single makes its way up the chart
you discover all manner of friends that were never
around before, the press becomes interested in
your polities and theories on religion, women
scream at you and the prominent queens invite you
to dinner. As your record reaches No. One, which
prompts your agent to suggest that here's your
chance to make "some real money," celestial
organs start to play.

Mike Jahn, New York Times, 1 April 1971

The Kinks: Philharmonic Hall, NYC
THE BRITISH VOCAL group, the Kinks, played
Tuesday night at Philharmonic Hall before an
enthusiastic and somewhat aggressive audience.
The Kinks are an above-average band given to
polite and pleasant songs about love or, a frequent
theme, the bankruptcy of middle class British life.
Occasionally they produce a song of note, such as
'Sunny Afternoon' or 'Lola', but their Philharmonic
Hall appearance allowed no great showcase for this
material.

But everyone thinks himself entitled to a Cut of the

profits from this song he's never heard, which puts
you on 'The Moneygoround'. By the time you've had
your solicitor serve the necessary writs, you're on
the verge of a nervous breakdown, having wound
up with "half of goodness knows what."

The instruments were loud and a bit muddy, the

vocals were unintelligible. Ray Davies' voice could
hardly be appreciated, but Dave Davies often
produced guitar lines of some imagination. In all, it
was a pleasant affair musically, but the audience
made it a bit sordid.

Given so mixed-up, muddled-up, and shook-up

world as this, it's no surprise that your fancy turns in
the face of the horrors of the rock and roll life to
simply escaping, the idea with which side two of the
essay is most concerned.

Several dozen people clumped toward the front of

the audience and insisted on standing throughout
the show, smoking marijuana and turning to shout
obscenities at anyone who asked them to be
seated. By the end of the show, several dozen
people had crept onstage, a few of them playing
with the vocal amplification speakers. At the
concert's end, several hundred crowded onstage
and forced the group off. The sound of crunched
microphones could be heard. One man walked up
the main aisle spitting into the seats.

Escaping to a blissfully uncivilized existence is what

the delightfully catchy follow-up to 'Lola', 'Apeman',
is all about. Herein Ray, affecting a West Indian
accent, delivers such unforgettable lines as: "Come
on and love me / Be my apeman girl." Light
harmless stuff reminiscent of Something Else, but
don't allow yourself to be lulled into a false sense of
security, for these are, after all, the post-Arthur
Kinks, and they paint pretty horrifying villians
nowadays.

The Kinks shared the bill with Trapeze, another

British band.

Like the fat black creatures with "pinstripe minds" in

Dave's 'Rats' and the Hitler-emulating musicpublishing 'Powerman', who are introduced to us in
two crushing rockers in which the Kinks rediscover
some of the heavyisms they were playing years
before Led Zeppelin.

Mike Jahn, 1971

The Kinks: Muswell Hillbillies

1017

Chris Charlesworth, Melody Maker, 25 December

1971

"Well, we may play the Rainbow next year before it

goes out of fashion.

RAY DAVIES: 'We have built up a following in

the States but the people don't really
understand us in this country'

"There's a place in the Midlands called the Belfry

and we usually play there the weekend before we
go to America, but that's once a year. It's quite a
nice place to play.

SUPERSTARS may come and go but the Kinks

keep marching on.

"Did you know The Band have only played 15

concerts since they were formed? I wanted to play
the minute I stepped off the plane in New York, but I
couldn't because of the press party. I really wanted
to play that night."

THEY DON'T change as much as musical styles

change around them; not for them going heavy,
selling out or making solo albums as the current
heroes on the rock biz do/don't according to what's
in vogue.

But how about Britain?

They still play those early hit singles on stage, and

when they next do a British tour we may see them
wearing red hunting jackets and frilly white shirts.
Remember that? when they caused a storm
through infighting among themselves on stage, and
when Dave Davies seemed to have the longest hair
around, except for the Pretty Things.

"Well, we have got some lined up for the middle of

January. We are planning a show in places like
Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham and probably the
Rainbow. But we're going back to the States in
February, and there are another two American tours
next year."
Are the rest of the group upset by this apparent lack
of British activity? "No, they don't mind. A lot of the
time we are rehearsing or recording. We are fairly
occupied."

Ray Davies remains a busy man. While his group

may have appeared to have been taking things
easy for the past year, their lovable leader who
blows kisses from the stage is working all day and
all of the night. Whether it be writing, which takes
up most of the time, thinking, recording or
performing, Ray Davies keeps himself occupied.

Conversation turned to the group's new album, and

its lyrics which appear to point an accusing finger
towards all that is wrong with today's instant society.
Was it Ray's intention to preach in this way?

We may well be on the verge of the Kinks' biggest

break-through since the early days. They've just
signed a new recording contract with RCA, and the
Kinks are the front line in RCA's attack on their
contemporary record companies.

"The album is actually a condensed version of what

was going to be a double LP but it wasn't practical
to make it that way. At the same time I wanted to do
a TV show along the same lines but I couldn't make
it happen. The album doesn't go in for hard songs
at all, which may go against us and I had written
two or three others with similar themes.

The first album, Muswell Hillbillies, already with us,

is good. Another is expected in the early new year,
and RCA are spending left, right and centre in
promoting their new signing. A month ago they went
to extremes by hosting a launching party in New
York which cost them over $10,000.

"The trouble with records is that you only have a

certain amount of time on one side and a whole
album is only 45 minutes long. In the end I was
happy with it. I was attacking things that lack quality
and I suppose I do feel strongly about this, but
some of the songs were meant to be funny as well.

Ray Davies was bewildered by it all, and he still is.

There's a vague air about him as he talks, as if his
mind is on something else. He doodles on a pad
when he talks, pausing before he answers
questions and often answering along completely
different lines.
Why haven't the Kinks played much in Britain this
year?

"The songs were also about trying to live, getting up

every day and problems like writing letters and
paying bills. These are real problems to me,
actually getting them done. I just don't know how
other people get with these problems, but that's
what I was trying to get across on the album.

"We have been looking for places," he replied. For a

year?

"Complicated life isn't about big business deals or

having lunch with Rothchilds bankers; it's worrying

1018

about the electricity bill and petty things that are

always there."

Hall when we were in New York, and if I play badly

somewhere I feel ashamed afterwards."

Are there any activities outside the Kinks that Ray is

currently working on?
"Yes, Granada asked me to do another programme
for them and I had lots of ideas. It's going to be a
story about a person who is always told what he is.
Everybody keeps telling him what he is and what he
looks like. It's just a play with music, which I am
writing. I'm writing the story but I couldn't write the
script because it would take too long. It's got to be
out next July but I am hoping to have it finished by
April.

What about the new generation of rock fans who

have arrived since the Kinks' early days or the
changes that their original followers will have gone
through since then? "I don't think they have
changed basically. They have been around longer
and they have been through everything that is going
on with worries and problems to cope with but I
think the basic following is still there. As far as 'You
Really Got Me' is concerned, it's a new song every
night for us. We play it differently every time we play
it."

"The next album will be about this story. It will

contain the music from it but in the meantime we
will put out an album of just songs without a running
theme. I'm also working on a musical film which is
allegedly coming out this year, and it's taking up a
lot of time. I suppose I am very busy in a way, but if
I were a businessman I would say that I haven't got
much of a turnover at the moment.

Did this mean the Kinks will go on for ever? "We

could break up next week, but I don't think we will.
We are developing all the time. We are going on to
new things and keeping the old songs as well. We
do it to live and I get a certain feeling from the
songs I write. I like to think that other people get a
feeling from the songs I write, and those are the
people who really understand the Kinks.

"I like writing and playing, but I think I write to play

rather than write and play."

"The fact that a guy in Cincinatti really knows me

because of the songs I write is amazing. I met
someone in San Francisco once whom I'd never
met before and he knew all about me. He knew little
things like what I liked and what I didn't like and
he's worked it all out from the songs I'd written. It
was a great feeling."

How was the last American tour..."It was excellent.

We had bad nights when we were all off together,
but the rest of the time was very good. On this tour
we concentrated on the new album, playing tracks
from it, and we put Shangrila on the act as well. We
get requests for the old numbers, but I think a lot of
the people haven't heard things like "Waterloo
Sunset" which came out in the period when we
weren't allowed into America.

Undeniably the Kinks tend to be a vehicle for Ray

Davies' writing and consequently his thought. Did
the rest of the group feel held back by this?
"Mick Avory is working on something of his own at
the moment, but I do want the group to become
more creative. On the next album I want to do more
group arrangements instead of my own. We are
planning to work a lot next year and I want it to be
group work instead of my own ideas.

"We have built up a following in the States but I

would like to build up a bigger following over here
as well. I still think people don't really understand us
in this country.
Wouldn't another hit single help? "Yes but I am not
looking forward to going through the mechanism
necessary to get another hit single. We haven't had
a single out for eight months but when we played
that gig in Birmingham I discovered that there
wasn't one song that people really wanted to hear.
They wanted to hear everything, but there wasn't
any one to finish the act with like a current hit song.

"I throw away a lot of ideas if the rest don't like

them. There was a song I wrote this year that I
wanted to record and I thought would be our
biggest song ever. It took me a long time to write it,
but the rest of the group didn't like it at all. I had to
leave them for a time because I really thought they
would be knocked out by it.

"I think the people who have seen us play once or

twice understand us more. We wouldn't have made
it in the first place if we hadn't gone literally all
around England for a year. We played every week
in a residency in Manchester and built up a great
following there. It's still an honour for me to play
live. It was an honour for us to play the Carnegie

"I started to write songs for the Kinks because the

standard of the stuff the recording company was
bringing us to record was very bad. They brought us
songs that everybody else was doing. I am a
vehicle for the Kinks and the Kinks are a vehicle for
me. We have created a working relationship with
each other and we help each other along. Over the

1019

next three years I am going to make six LPs with

the Kinks, and there are still things I want to do. I
would like Shel Talmy to produce for us because I
really enjoy working with him."

However, the Kinks were worth bearing thru all the

dogma. This was the first gig of their U.S. tour, and
although the lack of alcohol might have depressed
them a bit, I would never have expected such
sloppy playing from Ray Davies and company
under any circumstances it was great! Dave
Davies messed up every song with his banal notebending guitarwork, and he succeeded at proving
nothing except his lack of ability (ah, how
refreshing). The road manager/sound man for the
Kinks was on a bit of a destructive sweep; he mixed
Ray's guitar and voice almost totally out of the
picture, and generally added to the lack of
professionalism exhibited by the band such
quality, what can I say. Dave Davies did Strangers
exceptionally badly after two aborted attempts (he
forgot the lyrics). Apeman came off well, unlike just
about everything else played that night (ho hum,
can't win 'em all). Shangri-La and Lola were plain
disasters a treat to behold. The only thing that
saved the show was Ray Davies' entire sense of
stage beauty prancing about like a Limey fag of
sorts, his accent, et al what we live for. They left
the stage after a 40 minute set hoping for an
encore, didn't get one (the people began leaving),
but returned to the stage anyway for another fifteen
minutes. I only wish they could've been as drunk as
everyone in the audience, thus they would have
had a lot of fun being bad. And, oh yea, their new
album is superb.

Are the days of the great Kinks' singles over then?

"No, but I really feel that the stuff I am writing at the
moment is album material. It's not material for a
single. I just don't like all the problems involved with
singles, promoting them and things because people
think that's all you are doing, just the single. I don't
think there are any singles on Hillbillies. It's a
comedy album. 'Complicated Life,' 'Alcohol' and
'Acute Schizophrenia' are comedy songs.
"They are not serious social comment, but I think I
have made a more definite statement on this LP
than ever before.
"That life is complicated is what I am really trying to
say."

Chris Charlesworth, 1971

Kinks: Wesleyan University, Middletown,
Connecticut
Jon Tiven, Phonograph Record, January 1972

Jon Tiven, 1972

POISON RING Records recording artists FANCY

opened the show with their joy-evoking rock 'n' roll
which is always something that I'm immediately
susceptible to.

The Kinks: Muswell Hillbillies

Metal Mike Saunders, Rolling Stone, 3 February
1972

If you can imagine tasteful gut-level raunch, that's it;

most of the songs are composed and arranged by
Vic Bernadoni (the drummer) and sung by his sister
Christine, who packs a below the belt, mean punch.
Doug Schlink's guitarwork continues to amaze me,
as does Paul Ossola's bass-work, and Bob Orsi's
vocals and harmonica playing were a real crowd
pleaser. Fancy's music has really matured over the
past eight months their first album wasn't much of
anything to these ears, but they've gone farther into
rock (rather than riffs), and even more recently, into
jazz/rock experimentation. Fancy's new album (out
in a few months) is quite excellent, and hopefully
will pleasantly surprise everybody.

CAN YOU TELL the Kinks apart in the picture on

the cover of their new album? No, of course. Except
for Ray, they all look the same these days.
Faceless. Their music has also been sounding that
way lately. Still, they're a heap better than most
other groups you could ever name.
Musically, the Kinks' roots in the British Music Hall
tradition really show up strongly on Muswell
Hillbillies. At least five songs could be described as
this type, and when the country-ish material is
added, the two styles account for almost the whole
LP. Only one song, 'Skin And Bone', is straightforward electric rock and roll. Most of the music-hall
style songs come over pretty well, even if the genre
is minor compared to things Kinks have done in the
past. 'Have A Cuppa Tea' is reminiscent of previous
Kinks quaintness and 'Alcohol' is particularly
delightful sort of a follow-up to Ray Davies'
Maurice Chevalier tribute 'Just Friends' on Percy.

The Manhattan Transfer were more of a stage act

than anything else, with their Sha-Na-Na/ Dan
Hicks type stuff getting a sizeable audience
reaction. I myself was not particularly impressed
we've seen it all too many times.

1020

The country stuff is another matter. A portion of it is

fine, but some of the songs are so positively
uninspired and unenergetic it drives me up the wall.
Such as things like the Kinks nasally whinning 'I'm a
Muswell hillbilly boy/But my heart lies in old West
Virginia' or Ray singing the saga of 'Holloway Jail', a
total doggerel of a song which would have been
more at home on some forgotten Marty Robbins
album ten years ago. The Kinks who roared out of
Muswell Hill in 1964 with 'Long Tall Sally', 'You Do
Something To Me', and (finally) 'You Really Got Me',
weren't any shuffling hillbillies, they were grade-A
urban brats and they later matured in a way
encompassing broadened scope and sensibilities
that few rock bands have ever matched. And that's
why it's such a drag to hear the routine 1971
country slide guitar rot turning up on a Kinks album,
even if only in a couple spots.

Badfinger/The Kinks: Berkeley Community

Theatre
Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, April 1972
IT WASN'T YOUR usual Berkeley concert, the type
you'd hear, say, Joy of Cooking at. I can't imagine
where they came from, but sprinkled liberally
among the scruffy, unkempt Berkeley regulars were
a crew of Sunset Strip-types, the guys with carefully
shagged hair and Rod Stewart waistcoats, the girls
visions of crimson lipstick on powdered faces,
underfed frames in slinky vamp gowns and
feathered boas. One particularly flamboyant
assortment of such ladies turned out on closer
inspection to be composed of creatures whose
claim to membership in the feminine gender was
highly dubious. In a way, the ambience of this scene
set the tone for the evening.

The most disturbing matter of all concerns a very

serious recent Kinks problem that has turned up
once again here on Muswell Hillbillies: production.
Ever since the Kinks started handling their own
production on Village Green, it's been a detracting
factor from time to time, and here it seems to have
reached its ultimate dilemma. For some inexplicable
reason, Ray Davies one of the finest singers of
rock and roll that has ever lived persists in
burying his vocals throughout the album. While in
several respects Muswell Hillbillies represents an
uncertain crossroads for the Kinks' recording
career, the fact of Ray Davies' voice being back in
the background where one can't hear it properly
somehow seems most symbolic (and perplexing) of
all.

Opening the show was Badfinger, who despite

warnings from friends who'd attended earlier
performances on this tour, were quite satisfactory.
But then I've always had a strong fondness for this
group who could overlook the critics' easy write-offs
of them as Beatles imitators and go right on
producing the sort of delightful pop songs those
same Beatles might have been favoring us with
since 1966 if their own self-importance hadn't gone
to their heads. In fact, my only complaint is their
failure to do more of their own fine songs, such as
Come and Get it, Bloodwyn, and even the one
currently riding the top of the charts in Nilsson's
washed-out version, Without You. They did
however present a good serving of songs from NO
DICE and STRAIGHT UP, enough to give me that
glow only a finely crafted pop song, performed with
vigor and honest feeling, can provide. Mixed in with
these were two or three extended boogie thumpers,
all of them Dave Mason songs on which bass
player Tom Evans sang lead in his loud, coarse
voice. He shouldn't sing so much and they should
stay away from such long jams, especially in
concert halls where dancing is impossible. Also less
than overwhelming was their closing Little Richard
medley, which, although backed by exciting rock
music, fell through due to lack of lung power on the
part of Joey Molland, who otherwise came off as a
superb guitarist. For an encore they attempted
Chuck Berrys Johnny B. Goode which suffered,
conversely, from Evans' excessive volume and a
lack of drive from the group. The song meandered
through Bye Bye Johnny and even Slade's Get
Down and Get With It before finally coming to an
end. Good as these boys are, rockers they ain't.

Overall, Muswell Hillbillies is a weird tangent for a

group that've always been at their best when
rocking their asses off whether 'All Day And All
Of The Night' or 'Victoria' but the album
succeeds, where it does, largely on its combination
of cynicism, tenderness, and wit that the Kinks have
long been known for.
As must be obvious by now to anyone who has
ever encountered a true-blue rabid Kinks fan, each
new Kinks album is an Officially Sanctioned major
event, even in these post-Village Green
Preservation Society /Arthur days. From an
objective historical basis, there's a valid case for
such devotion: the Kinks now have to their credit
around 16 albums, and many Kinks fans would tell
you that all but three or four of them are excellent.
In fact, there are some crazed loons who would go
so far as to claim that the Kinks are none other than
the greatest rock and roll band of all time. The
crazed loon writing this review couldn't agree more!

After a short intermission spent observing the

aforementioned creatures of the nether world strike
poses in the lobby, we claimed our seats again for

Metal Mike Saunders, 1972

1021

the act many dedicated, under-heeled Kinks fans of

our acquaintance had scrimped and saved their
pennies to witness. All I can say is I'm glad we got
our tickets free. From the start Ray Davies
presented a foolish image. The Kinks have been
called aging fops but I think stronger terms are in
order. His curly hair cropped to neck-length and
hanging before his eyes like a sheepdog's, Ray
pranced out wearing a bright red schoolgirl's jacket
and broke into Till the End of the Day. They did
two verses and stopped; the hall erupted with cries
for a hundred different songs. Ray listened for a
while then began an a capella Dead End Street,
which stumbled to an untimely close without the
benefit of the guitar part that made the record so
effective, the band plainly struggling to stay
together.

homosexual or not, but whether he's acting out

some inner confusion of roles or perhaps trying to
cash in on the success met of late by such
champion andromorphs as David Bowie, Marc
Bolan and Alice Cooper, I find such affectations as
his mock-striptease act and his treatment of Lola
extremely annoying.
What has become of Lola is a good summation of
what has become of Ray Davies and the Kinks. As
recorded, it is another of Ray's classics of
sympathetic but aloof cultural observation. He
paints a truly funny picture of innocence
encountering the deviations produced by a modern
society he continues to denounce as sick, letting it
stand as a vignette without becoming involved.
Nowadays he introduces the song thusly: "Here's a
song my mama taught me when she thought I might
grow up to be a heterosexual." And he sounds like
he means it! Right away the whole focus of the
song is changed, Ray is asking us to accept him as
a member of the gay world, and the song becomes
an insider's joke on straight naivete, and maybe a
sexual fantasy as well. For all we know now, it may
even be a true story. Certainly Ray, with all his limpwristed mincing, is doing nothing to leave any
doubt. I understand now why all those freaks were
in attendance.

There followed the most pitiful display of

squandered talent it's ever been my misfortune to
regret seeing. A number of old songs from Sunny
Afternoon to Brainwashed were begun, but none
was finished. Like a former star mugging it up for a
nostalgic cabaret crowd, Davies refused to take
seriously either his music or the crowd's capacity to
enjoy it. Remember how he got thousands of
screaming pubes to sing "I got a big fat mama tryin'
to break me" on the 1967 LIVE KINKS LP? Well he
tried the same bit, as if in parody of their once
majestic kinetic power, only this time he asked the
audience to sing the whole damned song, without
even instrumental accompaniment, while he stood
hands against hips with the fingers splayed out,
bumping and grinding as coyly as a go-go dancer in
a gay bar. Between these we were treated to Ray's
interpretation of The Banana Boat Song, his Al
Jolson medley, and one Frank Sinatra
impersonation, presumably from his forthcoming
LIVE AT THE TALK OF THE TOWN LP.

As for the audience, they seemed to revel in it all,

and it isn't hard for a cynic to assign significance to
this. There were surely enough illegal chemicals
consumed to eliminate critical judgment as a factor,
but even more meaningfully Ray's antics were on
such a vulgar level that the average kid was most
likely hit right where he lives. It was obvious after
Ray's first few shouts of "get it on" "outa sight" that
he meant them as seriously as he could. I think this
may be the key to the recent activities of the Kinks.
For the last five years they have produced album
after album of the most subtle, perceptive and
brilliant music to be found anywhere in rock and
each one died a neglected death. Now they have a
hit album filled with unremarkable boogie songs of
rather obvious protest (I heard a lot of calls for
People in Gray) and an audience that for the most
part may be unaware of much they did prior to
Lola. It would appear they have a new chance for
a successful career by pandering to the lowest
elements in that audience, and the fact that they
may be consciously aware of the irony in this would
more than account for their slipshod performance,
their obvious contempt for their public, and their
disinclination to treat their old songs seriously.
Those songs were works of art, and they must
know it. I wouldn't cast my pearls before swine,
either. It's just a shame there aren't enough rock &
roll fans of pure and noble breed to keep the Kinks
in the pearl business.

All of this was in painful contrast to the Kinks' 1971

tour on which they combined passable renditions of
songs from their LOLA album with a number of
weak but sincere older songs, including the
memorable Milk Cow Blues/One Night/You Are
My Sunshine medley. They may not have been in
top form, but at least they were trying. This time, the
only songs played straight through and
uninterrupted by lame jokes were three from
MUSWELL HILLBILLIES. For brief moments during
these, the group seemed to play well together, and
a welcome feeling of excitement was generated.
But not for long. Always the next song would plunge
the dignity of Ray Davies to new depths. For a few
years now Ray has leaned increasingly toward the
cute, with You Are My Sunshine being perhaps the
first blatant example, but now he comes on almost
compulsively campy. I never before gave thought to
his sexuality, I personally don't care if he's

1022

 Greg Shaw, 1972

component of Kinks performances. It took me four

years to finally understand The Live Kinks, and I
had to be totally drunk to do it, but it's now one of
my favorite albums of all time.

The Kinks: The Kink Kronikles

Metal Mike Saunders, Rolling Stone, 25 May 1972

The Kink Kronikles opens with Victoria, the same

song that had opened Arthur with the most overt
rock and roll the Kinks had recorded in several
years. Arthur was a culmination of all the themes
from the three previous Kinks LPs: nostalgia, the
little people in life, village greens, situations vacant,
steam-powered trains, and Ray's intense dislike of
photography Tied together by the character of
Arthur Morgan and the Kinks' bubbling, lopsidedly
off-center wit, it all came together perfectly. One
lyric on the album almost summed up by itself so
much of what the Kinks had been saying: "I wish my
eyes could only see/Everything, exactly as it used
to be."

IN THE VERY first paragraph of his liner notes to

The Kink Kronikles, John Mendelssohn emphasizes
the Kinks' position as an underdog band. Perhaps
even more than the exceptional individuality of their
musical catalogue, this is one of the main factors
that has made them so unique. Indeed, it is a factor
that the group has at times seemed to welcome.
More about that later.
The Kinks started out by being raunchier than any
group in history. You Really Got Me, All Day And
All Of The Night, I Need You, and Till The End Of
The Day were truly the Kingsmen unleashed, and
for my money more thrillingly raucous records have
never been recorded.

No less important, Arthur also marked a culmination

of Ray Davies' songwriting style. Some of the songs
on Arthur are among the most intricate ever written
to remain essentially rock and roll. What makes the
difference between Victoria's being not just a good
record but a classic one is the "Land of hope and
gloria" bridge; it expands the song in such a way
that when the Kinks come back into the original
verse and chorus, their effect is overwhelmingly
enhanced. Yes Sir, No Sir and Nothing To Say on
Arthur are also similar in their structural makeup,
and Shangri-La may stand forever as a
masterpiece of rock songwriting.

Ray Davies has bluffed his way through this matter

a dozen times, and John Mendelsohn continues it in
the liners here, but the truth is this: Jimmy Page
played guitar on those early records, and it is some
of the finest rock & roll guitar work ever laid down
almost as definitive an expression of the classic
rock & roll attitude as those records themselves
were.
After such successful rock and roll albums as You
Really Got Me, Kinda Kinks, and particularly the
Kink Kontroversy, not to mention Well Respected
Kinks, Ray Davies decided it was time to explore
some different alleys. This is precisely what the
Kinks' work since Kink Kontroversy has been a
probe down one alley of expression, and once the
genre has been satisfactorily mined, a move on to
something else. Village Green Preservation
Society, Arthur, Lola Vs. Powerman, and Muswell
Hillbillies are all markedly different albums both in
music and theme.

From Victoria until the end of the second side, The

Kink Kronikles doesn't let up for a minute.
Previously unreleased, This Is Where I Belong
serves as a magnificent theme song for Side One,
which ends with Waterloo Sunset, the Kinks' alltime ballad and previous closing cut of both
Something Else and their Then Now And Inbetween
promo album.
David Watts, previously the opening cut of
Something Else and side two of Then Now And
Inbetween, opens side two. What perfect planning!
In addition to Shangri-La and the all-timebourgeois-decadence-beer-drinking-and-singalonganthem Sunny Afternoon, the side includes Dead
End Street and Autumn Almanac, integral
members of the Kinks' fantastic seven-single string
of 1966-68: Sunny Afternoon, Dead End Street,
Mr Pleasant, Waterloo Sunset, Autumn Almanac,
Wonderboy, and Days. You could take a complete
course in rock melody Ray Davies' knack
throughout is superlative just by listening to
these seven singles, and they're all here on Kink
Kronikles.

Ray's effete, melodic side had been apparent all

along, especially on the records Page played little
on Kinda Kinks in particular. So it is no surprise
that the Kinks went into an extended introspective
soft-rock period, recording Face To Face,
Something Else, Village Green, Arthur, and Lola Vs.
Powerman. It is this period that is the focus of The
Kink Kronikles.
In between, the Kinks released The Live Kinks in
1967, an evocation of everything the Kinks have
ever meant at their best: effeteness (what vocals!)
coupled with raucousness, sensitivity combined
with the inebriated attitude that is still a large

1023

Ray Davies is probably every bit as complicated a

person as he seems to be sometimes: Nicky
Hopkins has claimed to have done 70 percent of
the keyboard work, but Davies is credited on the
album. And Davies has claimed that his brother
played "all the solos on all our records" that he
only used Jimmy Page for tambourine, on Long Tall
Sally!

I do know this for sure, though: the Kinks are a lot

of people's favorite group, and those people
compose as passionate a group of fans as you will
ever find. God save them all.

The Kink Kronikles, for that matter, is more

complicated an album than it might at first appear to
be. Things start breaking down starting with side
three, partly from incohesive programming (which is
strange, because the structuring of the first two
sides is superb), and partly because nothing ever
catches fire.

The Kinks: Schoolboys In Disgrace

The title, of course, rates an unqualified 100 points.

Metal Mike Saunders, 1972

Ken Barnes, Phonograph Record, December 1975

RAY DAVIES' NEWEST philosophical treatise
directs itself to the topic of education and
schooldays nostalgia. While a plot of sorts is
undraped at the beginning of Side Two (a
schoolboy, identified as the embryonic Mr. Flash of
Preservation infamy, disgraces himself with a
complaisant schoolgirl and is paddled publicly for
his pains), most of the LP concerns itself with
generalized misty-eyed musings on first love and
boarding school camaraderie.

The inclusion of previously unreleased tracks such

as King Kong and Polly, to be sure, is alone
justification for the existence of this last half of Kink
Kronikles an unbelievable 16 of the total 28 cuts
on the double album have never before been
issued on legitimate American LP but that
doesn't change the fact that these last two sides
don't work. I miss the absence of some good rock
and roll Jimmy Thunder or Big Sky, say that
would shake things up a little. On the last two sides
of Kink Kronikles the soft-rock Kinks simply sound
too much like just another effete non-rocking
English group, which is not at all what they were.

If Schoolboys in Disgrace sounds a bit thin after the

quasi-mystical role reversals of Soap Opera and the
Preservation trilogy's political melodrama, it is. But
that's more of a relief than anything else. The LP is
topically inconsequential enough so that instead of
worriedly following the story line, you can readily
enjoy it simply as a musical record album. As such,
it's the Kinks' best in five years. Where previously
(with the partial exception of the promising Soap
Opera) you had to search out the occasional Davies
gem among an excess of dross, here the first-class
tunes outnumber the mediocrities by a considerable
margin.

The Kink Kronikles is really not in any way

representative of the Kinks' entire aura. An album
without the Kinks' loud, chunky rock and roll is akin
to an analysis of Van Morrison without any mention
of Them (indeed, considered by some souls as one
of the five greatest rock groups of all time...). What
makes Waterloo Sunset so great is that these are
the same guys who did You Really Got Me. And
they still play both of these songs on stage. Unlike
the Beach Boys, Beatles, and numerous others, the
Kinks have never renounced one bit of their musical
past.

The Kinks' music nowadays falls into the broad

classification of contemporary Mature Rock; the
rock & roll, made by the older generation of
seasoned veterans like the Who and Stones, or
newer artists with equally lengthy pedigrees(10Cc,
Elton John). Consummately executed, smooth but
complex, it's often suggestive of songs past, selfconsciously spanning the two decades of rock
developments (50's piano here, mid-60's guitar riff
there). The Kinks are supreme adepts, and if the
pure-excitement edge of 'All Day and All of the
Night' is gone forever, the band's more mature
music has its rewards too.

The first two sides of Kink Kronikles do, however,

capture perfectly the Kinks' period when they were
creating their own highly individual music, totally
uninfluenced by current trends. Ultimately, the Kinks
are one of the most underdog groups of all time. As
Ray Davies put it, "Sometimes it seems as if it's us
against the rest of the world." That they've made
some extraordinary music all along hardly hurts the
case, and Ray Davies' sensibility as expressed in
the Kinks' recordings is almost inseparable from the
music in the final analysis. Whether or not the Kinks
are one of the greatest groups of all time is
subjective nitpicking; arguing about it is better
suited for beer bars (which is how the Kinks'd have
it, I'm sure) than newsprint.

Like 'I'm in Disgrace', opening in lovely low-key

fashion and mutating into a series of descending
chords reminiscent of the Who's "Pictures of Lily."
Or "The First Time We Fall in Love," which starts
like a reject from Grease, a hokey 50's parody
which becomes progressively prettier and more

1024

touching, rocks into an affectionate upbeat doowop

tribute and sounds like the Beach Boys by the end.
'Jack the Idiot Dunce' is an all-stops-out rocker, 50's
style; 'No More Looking Back' is a complex
contemporary one. Much more hard rock than
expected from present-day Kinks, and back to the
basics, too (very few horns and no female chorus).

Kinks had just signed a new record deal with Arista,

their third in a career over a decade long.
The executives talked of You Really Got Me and
Waterloo Sunset. Someone mentioned Lola. Ray
Davies just smiled. After all, he'd seen it all before.
He'd even written about similar music business
encounters. "This all seems like a crazy dream/I've
been invited out to dinner with a prominent
queen/And now I've got friends that I never knew I
had before/It's strange how people want you when
your record's high/Cause when it drops down they
just pass you by" (from Top of the Pops).

The Kinks are steaming along into their 12th year in

fine form, selling their couple hundred thousand
LP's every time out, playing and singing with
obviously reinvigorated spirit. I wouldn't take it
amiss if they decided to put out a mere collection of
unrelated songs next album, but any Kinks project
attaining a musical level as high as Schoolboys
merits only the warmest commendations.

Most of the people standing on this sunlit balcony

haven't thought much about the Kinks over these
last five years. If they saw Ray Davies on the street,
they'd probable pass him by. He hadn't had a really
big hit single since Lola. RCA thought they got
lucky with Muswell Hillbillies but then Ray Davies
got too clever. The hits stopped.

Ken Barnes, 1975

Ray Davies & The Kinks at 13
Barbara Charone, Phonograph Record, December
1976

The people from Arista applaud a "welcome to the

label" toast. They talked excitedly about hit singles,
putting the Kinks back in the charts, back at the
"Top of the Pops." Ray Davies was about to begin
another ride on an endless money-go-round.

LONDON Ray Davies' tired eyes incredulously

surveyed the scene before him. The view from the
top was a familiar one. The sprawling greenery of
Hyde Park in heat provided stationary sanity. A sea
of changing faces, gay laughter, forced
conversation, and clanging champagne glasses
whirled by in an elusive blurr.

"Everybody says it's gonna get to the top/Life is so

easy when your record's hot."
This was the beginning of a long hot summer. Soon
after, the Kinks entered their brand new 24 track
Konk studio to make their first album in two years.
Two weeks into recording, the studio air
conditioners broke down. Temperatures began to
swelter. So did temperaments.

Like the Kinks, London's swank Dorchester Hotel

remains distinctly British. Despite the fact that this
elegant landmark had been recently purchased by
wealthy Arabs, the atmosphere stubbornly remains
firmly rooted to fading traditions. Another one of the
survivors.

The air conditioning was not the only problem.

Summer turned to Fall and Ray Davies kept
destroying finished tracks and creating new ones.
The band and studio engineers were used to the
flurry of confusion. They patiently waited to see
which way Ray Davies would lead them. But their
guide wasn't too sure himself.

On a sunny summer afternoon, the view from the

penthouse suite is breathtaking, and the mood is
festive. Waiters in crisp white jackets parade with
silver trays and sparkling champagne. Record
company executives toast their new signing and
curiously wonder which ones comprise the band.

"I've often believed that I should write two sets of

lyrics," Ray Davies quietly observed when the
album was nearing completion. "One set that the
Kinks sing and one set that you could give to Andy
Williams. I'm sure Andy Williams could record
'Sitting In My Hotel', which is nice. He couldn't sing
'dressed in two tone daisy roots' but the Kinks
could."

Unobtrusively standing in the corner of the balcony,

two original Kinks maintain low profiles. Dave
Davies and Mick Avory drink beers and trade stories
with the road crew.
The center of attraction stands with his back to the
celebratory crowd. Ray Davies stares intently at the
park across the street, gazing down on the ordinary
people. Davies turns around and faces the small
group of people who eagerly surround him. He
smiles politely and pumps outstretched hands. The

The last song the Kinks recorded possessed an

optimistic, one-last-chance bid for seventies
recognition. Ray even considered changing the

1025

name of the group. "Yesterday's gone and that's a

fact," he declared on Schoolboys In Disgrace.
"Now there's no more looking back." Underneath
the prevailing optimism which surrounded that song
and the rooftop signing celebration, lingered a
frightening desperation.

emphatically, almost raising his voice. "This is a

new thing. That kind of behavior upsets me a little
bit."
The selling of the 1970's Ray Davies has been a
long and arduous process sometimes made more
difficult by the star himself. He's been asked one
too many times if the Kinks are still around. And
right now he's running scared.

"It's got to happen," Davies said quietly with

underlying urgency. "But I don't feel desperate. If I
was desperate I would have put out the first things
we recorded in July. I just knew that it was gonna
get better. I felt the songs would get better."

"I worry when people say to me 'Ray, where have

you been since 1964? Don't you make records
anymore? Have you broken up?' It's a funny thing
what people like," the artist muses. "This one British
DJ loved 'Sitting In The Midday Sun'. He said if he
were an artist he'd love to have it out. But he didn't
play it," Davies says in bewildered disbelief.

"If I aimed songs for the masses they'd be totally

different. I probably wouldn't even write songs,
probably just do cover stuff. I'd cover Barry White
tunes in a clown's outfit," he laughs. "I'd do that if I
took my cue from what was happening outside.

"People like our stuff, they like our shows but they
don't buy the records. Why, I don't know. Some
people didn't like our early stuff but bought 'Sunny
Afternoon'. Lately I do feel divorced from the history
of my writing. With me, it's a personal thing. It's not
a process I can comment about because I'm doing
it all the time. I was trying to forget who I was for a
bit," he says, reflecting on the bulk of the seventies
Kinks' work, "but the only things that are gonna
work are me."

"I know in the end that I've got to try to save a little
bit of myself. If it comes to a decision where a line
won't get airplay but that line makes the song for
me, I'll always pick the line that works for me."
Frustrated, restless, and determined to adhere to
his principles, Ray Davies isn't too sure just exactly
what works for him. Although he doesn't see himself
as an Andy Williams figure, his true identity remains
hazy.

That was the original premise upon which the Kinks

were built. Davies opened up his eyes, poured out
his heart, and managed to come up with something
that belonged totally to the Kinks. It's that same kind
of individualism that he wants to preserve. Through
erratic performances and partially successful studio
experiments, the Kinks stubborly remain unique.

"I think I'm going through an identity crisis," he said

somberly in the studio bar. "The crisis revolves
around what songs I want to sing. I want to say
things but I don't want to say what people expect of
me.
"People say, 'ah Ray will write a song about that,"'
he imitates frequent thoughts said of him. "Really,
people come up to me and say 'Ray write about
this.' But I want to find less obvious things to write
about and my so called identification crisis is really
my search for what they say is Ray Davies material
for songs."

"We relate to the seventies because we did

something that sounded like us. When we started,
we didn't think about image. We just took it as an
extension of what you did, of the music. If I made
wallpaper music and was heard on the radio every
hour on the hour," he imitates an American DJ,
"with my latest disco hit, I wouldn't relate to it at all.

Haunted by his illustrious past, Ray Davies is

understandably tired of an endless stream of
requests for another Waterloo Sunset. Once the air
conditioner had been fixed and the Kinks began to
hit stride without any girl singers or horn sections,
several record people came down to hear the rough
summer mixes. Ready to travel back in time, the
listeners wanted Ray Davies to recreate all those
nostalgic yesterdays.

"Some of the performances particularly on that last

album were not me singing. It was different voices. I
was another character. But what I'm realizing now,"
he says restlessly "is if I'm making Kinks' records
and writing Kinks songs, then I have to sing like
Ray Davies.
"The whole thing about the Kinks is that it's done
quickly. Then you capture the feel and make the
records talk. Sometimes it works and sometimes it
doesn't, but you've got to keep some of the things
that don't work. Otherwise," he grins wryly, "it would
just be another boring disco record."

"What worries me is when people come hear the

mixes and they say 'oh yeah, that's Ray's Waterloo
Sunset or 'oh yeah that's got a bit of You Really
Got Me in it' and it doesn't," Davies says

1026

Keeping an eye on the charts, watching the

medioric rise of London's new wave punk bands
who adolescently emulate the master originals, Ray
Davies wonders where the Kinks fit in the scheme
of things. Davies can't continue being everyone's
favorite songwriter, singing to a dedicated but cultlike audience.

Sometimes I take the train. Why do people expect

that star behavior? They say 'Oh no, Ray's got a
hole in his sock,"' he laughs, pointing to what
looked like a rather large hole in his sock. "They
think I shouldn't have a hole in my sock.
"That's why people misunderstood our band right
from the start cause they expected the wrong
things. We'd go into a room with our flies undone
and people would say 'that's not the way a rock star
acts.' After three or four hits you get established and
I suppose you should walk around with an
entourage of models and out of work actresses,
loony people," he says sarcastically.

"Are we relevant to the seventies or are the

seventies relevant to us?" this rock oddity wondered
aloud. "We're probably relevant because we're
irrelevant. I do wonder where my music fits in the
seventies. If everyone had to play piano like Rick
Wakeman or look like David Bowie then I wouldn't
relate to 1976 at all.

"I've never been like that. You can turn on being

recognized and turn on being nobody real easy,"
says this soap opera star. "Once you have the
gladiators in the arena, seeing them fight and win
and lose is not enough. They wanna see you get
killed. And I don't want to be a gladiator."

"I don't relate to bands because I like their music.

It's the people. Although I've never heard them I can
relate to a band like the Vibrators," Ray laughs of a
young punk outfit who thrive on the outrageous. "I
wouldn't switch that off because those kids know
what the Kinks are. If they studied guitar or played
rock 'n' roll then they played a Kinks riff at some
time.

The only sixties survivor who still writes from the

streets, Ray Davies refuses to participate in the Ican-do-this-better-and-bigger-than-you rock 'n' roll
extravaganza sweepstakes. Even the now standard
dry ice would not work with the Kinks. They alone
remain pure. Almost innocent.

"There's a little bit of influence there."

He underestimates himself with such hesitant
praise. Kinks riffs lay under the musical foundation
of aspiring beginners and seasoned professionals.
Still, Ray Davies is fascinated by these new bands.
Publicity photos of some of the more bizarre looking
acts like Split Enz decorate the walls of the studio,
clashing with the general working class ambiance of
the Kinks.

"As a writer I still get turned on by ordinary little

things that people do, I can't write from a privileged
angle," he says referring to contemporaries who
write from sheltered penthouse suites. "It's like
writing about the war in Germany from Sidcup. It's
like me picking up a newspaper and saying, 'oh yes,
there's a crisis in Lebanon, I think I'll write a song
about that.' If I wanted to report everything I'd go
write for a newspaper."

"Punk rock," Ray Davies muses asking about all

these new bands. "Did I hear a hint of the 50's
coming into it or is it all 60's? All 60's?" he says with
a large grin, "That's just what I wanted to hear. That
just solved the problem."

The last few months Ray Davies has groped

towards his real self, trying to smoothly fit his multifaced personality in between the Kinks structure.
Just recently he went into the studio and tried to
destroy a perfectly good backing track by singing
every note out of tune. The band thought the vocal
was great. But Ray hated it. The vocal didn't belong
to him.

Intrigued by blatant attempts at visual

commercialism, Ray Davies prides himself on his
own somewhat eccentric appearance. He'll wear a
bathrobe onstage, spoil a white suit with beer
stains, buy a pair of trousers and instantly rip the
seam.

"I humiliated the song because it was taking over

my soul," he says intensely, still feeling the wounds.
"Songs take me over. But by doing that song badly I
suddenly found I was doing things for myself and it
picked me up again as an artist.

"We were in Hamburg, Germany this year and a

photographer tells me he can't take my picture
because I wasn't wearing a gold suit. I say stick the
camera up your ass. I had this on," he points to his
drab grey coat and trousers. "The guy hadn't
obviously listened to any of the songs.

"It picked me up because I know I can't sing well,

can't play well, but no one does things the way I do.
That changed my outlook and made me appreciate

"You don't have to be dressed in a gold suit to be

anybody. You don't have to drive a Bentley.

1027

myself more. I sing certain things like me and that's

why they work."

where a lot of my contemporaries write from outer

space," suddenly serious tones are replaced by self
mocking introspection. "There's only so much from
the ground level. And you can only see it from the
ground.

Despite this revitalized self esteem, Ray Davies

depends on the Kinks for his own survival, to add a
touch of sanity when his creativity starts verging too
closely to the edge. Everybody might be a star but
Ray Davies doesn't want to go out solo just yet.

"Maybe that's what keeps my perspective ok," he

pauses once again moving to the couch and then
begins to laugh. "Sometimes I write about people
from the floor. You can't get any lower than that.
Actually you can see quite a lot from the floor."

"It's too lonely without a group," he said, glancing at

the Kinks weekly alcoholic tab listed at the bar. "I'm
not ready for sitting down and writing everything
and not meeting people. If I made a solo album I'd
have to have musicians. I will make a solo album
one day," he threatens.

Whenever he finds himself writing from a privileged

point of view rather than the more inspiring ground
level, Ray Davies hits the floor. In retrospect he
admits that the last several album projects have
been too ambitious; the whole consumed the sum
of it's parts. Concept albums like Preservation and
Soap Opera lost song singularity in search of an
overall theme.

"I could play all the instruments and have

everything the way I want it, but it is a group. I want
a group and I give them the benefit of the doubt. I
need to see other people's inadequacies and their
strong points to know mine," he admits honestly.
"That's what really changed it for me. Now I'm
writing all these new songs."

"I've been trying to tell too much of a story, trying to

make things relate as an overall work instead of
trying to make each song work. The songs are
better now without a concept," he said eager to
begin that evening's recording session. "But the
songs are harder because they're more difficult. I
think I've sorted out the type of songs that seem to
work for me and that the band can play. That's what
this new album is all about."

The Kinks musical inadequacies blend well with

Ray's holes in his socks. Emotion is more important
than technique, anyway. Mick Avory is the Kinks
drummer just like Charlie Watts is the Rolling
Stones drummer. That's the difference between a
band and a one man show.

When the engineer arrived with the tapes, Ray

Davies immediately disappeared. Visions of
Waterloo Sunset expectations haunted his
subconscious, and the author retreated to the
safety of an upstairs office.

Throughout the afternoon Ray Davies had been

restless, constantly shifting from the couch to the
bar stool and back to the couch again. Only the
Kinks would have a bar stocked with empty bottles
of every conceivable spirit. Ray absentmindedly
tries each long gone fifth again, finally settling for a
plain tonic. He finds the situation amusing.

But Ray Davies was right. This is new music.

Unmistakeably Kinks from start to finish, the songs
are self contained, full bodied, and stuffed with
emotion. The ballads are particularly excellent, as
Ray Davies sings ground floor lyrics with lump-inyour-throat conviction. There's even one track
where Dave Davies sings a lead vocal that beats
Death of a Clown.

But regular '4 AM' twitches do not make him smile.

Throughout our conversation, he periodically talks
about an uncompleted song that he'll never release.
It's all part of the identity crisis that is about to be
positively terminated. Acute schizophrenia and
paranoia belong to the past. The real Ray Davies is
about to stand up.

While the tapes impressively spun vibrant new

Kinks life around the studio, Ray Davies sat
upstairs by the electric fire worrying about that
disturbing song partially responsible for those 4 AM
twitches. Yet this is probably the most important
record Ray Davies has ever made. Rock 'n' roll's
most extraordinary ordinary man is back.

"I'm feeling that...," he awkwardly searches for the

proper sentiments, "...it's a problem that maybe
everybody has when they become a little
bit...successful. They don't know who to relate to
when they write a song. I've gotta write about
people who I look at from my penthouse," he laughs
cynically, "from that angle.

"Imagine Led Zeppelin doing 'We'll Meet Again',"

Ray Davies had earlier asked laughing. "That's the
strange thing about the Kinks. We would do things

"Maybe the mistake I make is that people expect

me to write from the penthouse when I write from
the ground level. I still write from the ground level

1028

like that. So why am I worrying about a song that

will upset people?"

manners that youve got to improve its your

attitude!"

He quickly answered his own question.

An ode to positivism and awareness, Attitude sets

the tone for much of the album: the world is falling
to bits, so lets all stop pissing about and bitching
and whining and actually do something. In Misery
over on the second side, Ray delivers a message
similar to that in John Cooper Clarkes I Dont
Wanna Be Nice: "Until you learn to laugh youll
never come to any parties at my house/If you go on
like this the only house youll ever visit is the nut
house... look in the mirror and dont take yourself
so seriously." Advice of this nature would seem
condescending if Davies hadnt so patently learned
the lesson himself.

"Because maybe a little bit of the character is me,"

he said slowly. "Maybe I just don't want people to
see that little bit of me."
Barbara Charone, 1976
The Kinks: Low Budget (Arista)
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 8 September 1979
The Kinks and the 70s have not enjoyed the most
harmonious of relationships.

Elsewhere, he indulges in much timely parody:

National Health extracts much urine from the
Stones Shattered, dismisses Valium as a cure for
nervous tension and depression and ends up
recommending exercise in much the same tone as
he recommended "a nice cup of tea" on Muswell
Hillbillies. A Gallon of Gas is a nicely topical
answer song to Chuck Berrys No Money Down
with the same bruising strutter of a riff. Rays finally
got the dream car, but its rusting in his driveway for
lack of fuel.

Things started off most tickety-boo with 1971s

Muswell Hillbillies (a.k.a. The Last Great Kinks
Album) and thereafter stumbled into the most
hideous series of debacles imaginable: all those El
Dumbo concept albums and the most shambolic
live gigs this side of Dunkirk. Ray Davies spent
most of the 60s establishing a reputation as one of
the UKs best and most prestigious songwriters and
most of the 70s tearing it down.

The Woody Allen Ploy (Ray as puzzled, inadequate

little fellow in a big nasty world) is charmingly
resurrected on Superman (the Kinks US disco hit
with the Heart Of Glass riff). Ray is a nine stone
weakling with knobbly knees: "Id really like to
change the world and save it from the mess its
in/Im too weak, Im so thin, Id like to fly but I cant
even swim."

As the decade zooms to a close, the chief Kink

extracts the digit from wherever it had been lurking
for the past eight years, injects a giant slug of
silicone into his sagging reputation and whips out
an entire long-playing records worth of excellent
songs.
It may come as a surprise to Modern Youth, who
only know Davies from The Jams version of David
Watts, a few revived 45s and all those conceptoepix, that old uncle Ray was into British concerns
when most of his illustrious contemporaries (chaps
like The Beatles, the Stones and even The Who)
were getting religious and psychedelic and midAtlantic and generally embarassing, that The Kinks
eschewed elitism and technoflash, that Dave
Davies still sounded like a garage guitarist even
after he learned to play in tune, that The Kinks were
one of the Great British Groups...

On the title track, we find Ray as "a cut price

person in a low budget world": his size 28 trousers
that he brought in a sale are pinching his size 34
waist (gerrawaywiya!) , his cheap shoes pinch and,
on Little Bit Of Emotion, he borrows a few of the
changes from the Stones Beast Of Burden to
intone a genuinely moving plea for people to face
up to their own (and other peoples) emotions. The
discreet employment of a fake Cockney accent on
the choruses heightens the impact by putting the
chorus into implied inverted commas for ironic
distance. We see.

Gentle reader, can you believe an Excellent Kinks

Album even after all these years? Low Budget kicks
off with a blaze of dirty guitar, a brisk, bashing
tempo and Ray yelling incoherent abuse at some
hapless third party whos probably himself: "You try
so hard not to follow any trends, then you cry in
your beer and say youve got no friends/but its not
the make-up or the way that you dress, its not your
appearance that they all detest/its not your

Drummer Mick Avory thrashes away as artlessly as

ever, Dave Davies still sounds as though hes
plugged into the worlds cheapest fuzz box, Jim
Rodford has cleaned up the Kinks traditionally
dilapidated rhythm section no end and Ray Davies
is writing great songs again. This album is a smash
in the States (which doesnt necessarily make it a
bad album). We must repeat: the first great Kinks

1029

album in eight years. To go even further: Low

Budget is actually worth spending money on, even
in these El Skinto times. A miracle, yet.

of the Really Got Me era. Davies is crochety with

conservatives and gloom merchants of every age
and stripe in songs like Attitude and Misery.

Charles Shaar Murray, 1979

Its a positive, spunky record only a Randy Newman

shade of wit and a silver of musical freshness away
from their '60s glories.

The Kinks: Low Budget (Arista)

Phil Sutcliffe, 1979

Phil Sutcliffe, Sounds, 6 October 1979

FOR OLD codgers like me its very difficult to pin
down reactions to albums by old codgers like the
Kinks. These we have loved.

The Rise And Decline Of The Kinks

Along with the Beatles, Stones and Manfred Mann

they were the fabric of our formative years, the
opening door to life beyond the classroom (like
Hendrix? Purple? Bolan? Pistols? Dury? Numan? to
you?). but I suspect this is the Kinks Komeback.

A CUT PRICE PERSON IN A LOW BUDGET

LAND

Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 6 October 1979

IN THE DINER of the airport serving Providence, a

New England town where the best-dressed people
in the hotels talk about Edward Kennedy as if they
knew him personally, Raymond Douglas Davies of
The Kinks is discovering that the meagre quantities
of cash in his jacket pockets are insufficient to cover
the cost of the second round of milkshakes that he
has so grandiloquently ordered for himself and his
companions.

It certainly is as far as the cash flow situation goes

having peaked at 10 in the US charts. That makes
the home response a mere bagatelle for Uncle Ray
to toy with and yet hes always been so fascinated
by the nature of Englishness, cockney to aristo, that
he probably does care quite a lot what you think.
So, to non-Kinks devotees, can I say "Give these
poor old sods a chance". They might surprise you.

Nervous tension! Davies' flight to New York leaves

within minutes or fractions of minutes. The previous
night's concert the last gig of a seemingly endless
tour celebrating the band's most successful album
ever, a tour which has laid to rest once and for all
the popular notion that the expressions "live Kinks"
and "disaster area" are virtually synonymous had
been videoed for videocassette sale by a Time/Life
crew, and at 6 pm the chief Kink is due in the studio
to begin mixing, editing and (wherever necessary)
overdubbing the tapes.

Possibly with a song called In A Space, which

quietly ranks with their legion of immortal classics.
The tune hints at Jesus Christ Superstar, the
dramatics substituted by a nursery-rhyme naivet
that gently explores some of the largest mysteries
of what it really means to be a human being.
Thusly: Im in a space allocated to me by the
human race... Now Im out in inner space/And
lookin at the people standing face to face/ ...On a
planet thats/Driftin in a space.

So all he has to do is get on the plane. His

manager, a soft-spoken Brooklynian now
transplanted to L.A. the better to service his other
two clients (Cooder and Newman by name), is
waiting at the gates with the tickets. His two
companions are ambling off swapping anecdotes
and the gurl behind the cashdesk wants six dollars
to pay for the seven milkshakes.

He goes on to observe how many people there are

in the world and how many seconds comprise
infinite time fore and aft. Its an innocent pop song.
Its also a centrifuge whirling your brain like the
stone in Davids slingshot (it keeps on spinning
because Goliath hasnt showed up yet). A wondrous
recording of a moments awareness of how small
and significant a person is. And its not at all
pretentious. Wow-ow-ow...

So Ray Davies is turning out his pockets every

crumpled dollar, every tarnished dime as the last
call for the New York flight comes up over the
Tannoys. The cashier's fingertips go tap tap tap with
impatience. If something doesn't happen in a couple
of seconds, Ray Davies is going to wind up The
Kinks' triumphal tour of America by getting stranded
in Providence Airport, without even a cent to his
name.

Nothing else quite matches the perfection of this

little episode but Moving Pictures nearly makes it
with its Kurt Vonnegut-style resonance through
simplicity (We live, we die, no one knows why/We
come, we go, we see the show) while Superman
and Low Budget are rollicking Kinks jokes.
Musically they horse around with punk and disco a
bit then glance back to their own dirty rocking days

1030

But of course, he doesn't. The rest of the party turn

back for him, pay the cashier and escort him onto
the plane. "Can you lend me ten dollars, Elliott?" he
asks his manager. "I'm er embarrassed."

last-but-two album) and Ray Davies jumps as high

in the air as he possibly can. As your retina
resumes normal service, a spraddle-legged Davies
five feet up is still burned into your vision, but the
real thing is working the front of the stage, scooting
around like some insane cross between Bob Geldof
and Mick Jones, subsumed in comic aggression,
pretending to belabour the audience with a lowbudget Gibson that's older than most of the
audience.

"Sure, Ray," Elliott Abbott replies soothingly. He

digs into his trouser pocket turning away briefly in
that rich man's way so that no one can see exactly
how much money he's carrying and peels off two
tens, which he hands to his charge. "Take twenty."

And what a Ray Davies! The last time I saw The

Kinks, I saw a mascara'd vaudevillian in a baggy
white suit pissed out of his kugel and trying to romp.
Now I see a hyperactive rock and roller with a jack
o'lantern grin, a spiky haircut, black drains, white
sneakers and a highly excellent jacket. Behind him
are The Kinks.

Davies says he only needs ten. Abbott coaxes him

into taking both bills.
Raymond Douglas Davies is 34 years old. For more
than 15 years he has been a rock and roll star. This
month his 20th album as leader of The Kinks is
roosting comfortably at the top end of the American
album charts, and for an endless succession of
weeks he has played to packed houses all over
America. He worries that his wealth and success
make it impossible for him to remain a socialist, but
here for one grinding little moment he has
experienced the desperation of having to face the
wrath of an airport cashier who wants money for
milkshakes. He's a cut-price person in a low-budget
land.

Ian Gibbons is hemmed in by a raft of keyboards.

Gibbons is in his 20s (the only Kurrent Kink to have
that distinction), a perky little chap from Southend
with short fair hair and a playful disposition in bars.
(Ever been handed a potted plant when you're
trying to look cool in a hotel bar?)
Next along behind is Mick Avory, who's been the
drummer in The Kinks for as long as there's been a
Kinks. Never as much of a celeb as Charlie Watts
or Keith Moon, Avory's combination of
hamfistedness and precision (combined with your
basic Giant Wallop) represents an enduring school
of classic British rock drumming. With his deadpan
sullenness, heavy Cro-Magnon features and
chopped-off shoulder-length black hair, he bears an
unnerving resemblance to Conan The Barbarian.

"Yes, I was a socialist," he muses. "I was brought

up to think that way, and then I had a success and it
made a lie out of what I was. I made a gesture and
it wasn't accepted so I left it physically and
emotionally, but I didn't become a capitalist. I hate
ultra-capitalism and ultra-socialism, but I'm not a
liberal. I believe in anarchy with order..."
ANARCHY WITH ORDER

He has the archetypal physique of the veteran rock

drummer: the massive shoulders and biceps, the
beer-thickened waist. In taxis he ploughs through
thick stacks of golfing magazines; in hotel rooms he
performs detailed impressions of a milkman's horse,
leaps on people for impromptu wrestling matches
and gives the impression of silence even when
talking.

WINE! 'LUDES! Pot! Far out! Rully neat! Tonight in

New Jersey a couple of thousand kids in football
jerseys, Led Zep T-shirts and levis are squashed
into a college gymnasium for a dose of anarchy with
order. A slide that says LOW BUDGET is projected
onto a stained, torn screen. A pair of scrawny,
unhealthy potted plants flank the stage. Some
homicidal maniac is playing Elton John, Billy Joel
and Foreigner records. Bruce Springsteen's home
state is out for a month of Sunday lunches.

His teammate in the rhythm section is Jim Rodford,

a tiny man in high-heeled boots whose
acquaintance with the bass guitar is not much
shorter than that of Leo Fender. A Proper Musician
who spent lengthy spells with Argent and Phoenix,
he now gets far more satisfaction leaping around
playing four-chord classics with The Kinks than he
did rebuilding the universe with the pashas of
progressive rock. An established pro who finally
realised that the Pistols were right, he thinks of The
Kinks as "the original punk band".

Then the records shut off and the room goes dark
and people shout "Rock and roll!" and "Yeah!" and
things like that. A smarmy deejay announces "The
Kinks!" into the hubbub and shadowy forms take
their positions.
At some unheard cue, three things happen. A pair
of thunderflashes explode, the band hit the first
chord of 'Sleepwalker' (the title track of The Kinks'

1031

And stuck there on the end thrashing it out on the

black Les Paul is an original punk. Dave Davies is
32, and still rock's leading kid brother, which sounds
cools until you realise that this man has spent the
last 15 years in the shadow of his elder sibling. You
see it in his face, still framed in the tangled,
centreparted hair that's always been his trademark.
In 1964, Dave Davies had longer hair than the
Stones or anyone: Kid Outrage. Dave Davies
played the most epically crass and gleefully
deranged guitar imaginable back then, and though
his chops have sharpened up over the years, he's
still capable of playing like a kid who's just plugged
in his first electric guitar and wants the people on
the next street to know about it.

formed and then had taken over by his elder

brother.
But anyway...onstage The Kinks are giving 'em
anarchy with order. In New York I saw two straight
nights of The Clash on superb form (somebody else
will tell you about that) supported by Sam & Dave
and The Undertones, and even after that The Kinks
are undeniably putting on a dynamic, energising
rock show. If you'd swapped the audiences round
I'm not sure that The Kinks couldn't have come out
better with The Clash's audience than vice versa,
but then the Clash audience was probably a lot
more open-minded. Tonight, The Kinks haul
themselves out of the rock history books and elbow
their way to the centre of 1979's rock and roll stage:

He has a kid-brother face, does Dave Davies: a

looser, softer, more petulant version of Ray's. They
say Ray Davies is some kind of enigma, but he's
got nothing on Dave. At least with Ray you know
what the contradictions are; Dave vanishes
offstage. Two days on the road with The Kinks and
the only time I saw Dave offstage was just before a
gig when I sneaked into the dressing-room to nick a
couple of beers and saw him tuning up. Other than
that...ask Ray where Dave goes when he's not
attempting to blow out his speakers and he just
shrugs and murmurs, "I never see him either."

Listen! They're doing 'Attitude'. Davies, grinning and

glaring, at least 75% sober and punkier than you'd
think he had a right to be, is screaming his new
motto out to his audience and his band and most
of all to himself:
"The '80s are here! I know 'cause I'm staring right at
'em...
Take off your headphones/Hear what's going on,
You can't live in a time zone/You got to move on...
It's all in the music/It's all in your brain,
You've used all the old licks/Now it's all gotta
change...
change your attitude!"

If the recorded fallout from the illustrious but

chequered past of The Kinks belongs to Ray as
artist and auteur, the live legend belongs to Dave.
He sings backups in the classic tradition of lead
guitarists like Keith Richard and Mick Jones: high,
strangled and absolutely right though very nearly
totally wrong. It was Dave who precipitated the
famous onstage brawl that ended with the Kid in
hospital and The Kinks banned from American
stages for four years. It was Dave who demolished
a rented Hammond organ belonging to another
band during The Kinks' set at the Bickershaw
Festival in 1972 because he didn't want it on stage
with him. It was Dave who screamed "I can't
remember the fucking words!" when singing his
theme song 'Death Of A Clown' (his 1967 solo hit)
at a Kinks Komeback gig at Fillmore East and had
to suffer the ignominy of Ray returning to the stage
to announce "Now you know why I'm the leader of
The Kinks" for his pains. It's Dave who cut through
with rock and roll savagery when Ray was dragging
the set through years of trash and vaudeville. It's
Dave who improvises the most on stage...

And he chants "Aaaaaaaatitude Ooh ooh ooh" in a

calculated parody of the 'Who Are You' hookline,
sweating through his second dry shirt of the night,
ramming it home with messianic zeal of a convert,
of a man who's just woken up and is endeavouring
to run around shaking the shoulders and bellowing
in the ears of everybody else who's still asleep...
The years of concept albums and fake nostalgia
and retreats into alcoholic evocations of a mythical
past have fallen from about his shoulders. Ray
Davies is Born Again, and for the first time in too
many years The Kinks are a group who can be
loved for their latest work rather than for their
greatest hits of the '60s.
Ray...what happened?
"When we were doing Soap Opera and
Preservation, judged on the level of a Yes or
Genesis spectacular or an Elton John spectacular
those shows were amateurish and bad, but I made
those statements in the simplest and most direct
way I could. Now I feel liberated, and that's why the
new album sounds more positive.

And now it's Dave who goes to places nobody

knows when he's not playing and where Ray used
to introduce him as "Dave 'Death Of A Clown'
Davies" he is now honoured as "my brother, the
founder member of The Kinks!" the group he

1032

"Now I literally live from day to day. If I want to read

a trashy book, I read a trashy book. If I need
sunglasses, I buy 'em. I bought these ones here"
(he removes a spectacularly tacky white-framed
pair from his face) "from a shop in Binghampton in
February. They're called Kool-Rays."

But for an incredibly long time, you were living in a

fictitious past. Why was it necessary to invent such
a thing?
"Because when we started we were pushed into a
way of life that wasn't normal. People said it wasn't
normal, but now it is normal. I think your judgement
gets a bit suspect, living in that sort of change. It's
like that thing about when you've got jetlag, you
shouldn't make any decisions for two days. I was in
jetlag for five years, and things that seem right at
the time when examined in the cold light of day
seem kind of..."

He grins that gappy lopsided grin, the result of a

childhood accident, which also left him with a series
of puckered scars on the side of his neck along the
jawline. You don't see those scars, even though
they are now revealed by his short haircut, since all
his official photos are taken from the 'clean' side.
"That was me. I was becoming...I'm trying to explain
it and not sound phony, because it is phony in a
sense...what was accessible to me I would use, and
that was what I had to become. I was liberated by
my situation, and liberated from...everything I had
done before.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD TIMES GONE?

RAY DAVIES swings the strap of an Ovation
acoustic guitar over his head and wanders to the
front of the stage. The eyes of the entire population
of the Providence Civic Centre (Center to you,
Captain America) are upon him, as are the cameras
of the Time/LIFE video crew. For the purposes of
this video, The Kinks have rented a Rolls so that
they can be seen arriving at the gig in it (cutprice
people in a low budget land).

"I just shed the burden. I shed my 'Waterloo

Sunsets' and 'Sunny Afternoons' and realised that I
was a writer and that Graham Greene can't write
Brighton Rock forever and that writers can only
keep going with new ideas.

Strumtime. He goes C, C, C, D, E; the intro to 'Lola'.

The crowd apes out. Ray stops playing. He
scratches his head. "I'm sorry, I forgot. We're not
playing that one tonight." What a cruel man this Ray
Davies is! He gives the dog a bone and then
snatches it away just the second that the jaws are
about to clench and slaver. Hubbub!

"It's going back to what we were when we started.

We thought, 'Well, we can't write songs like The
Beatles or sing harmonies like The Hollies, so let's
do something we can do. We know you can hit a riff
and you can play an offbeat and I can sing in a
limited sort of way and write something around that
and use the materials that are there.' That's what
we're doing, and that's why I think the album's
worked.

Davies cowers away in mock terror. "Ohallright," he

blurts. "You twisted my arm. But I'm going to play a
guitar solo first and you're going to have to give me
a lot of encouragement." He strums his way through
a neat little modal reduction of the chords and
melody of the song, that most quirky and
simultaneously hilarious and poignant of all Kinks
songs, before the band crash in and everything's
underway. What a windup artist: what a weirdly
logical blend of debonair assurance and fearful
bewilderment. One will be reminded of this moment
when, much much later, one will encounter Davies
in a hotel corridor with his glass of black velvet and
a bemused expression compounded of sly delight
and faint terror.

"New ideas...the good things that have come out of

England in the last few years have all said positive
things, the fakes have been sussed out...it's
inevitable that a few compromises have been made
to the commercial end of things, that you'll get a few
identikit bands built around an image to fill that
space without mentioning names but that's
inevitable with every phase of every era of rock
music, but it was nice to shed off all that glitter
image. That was the leanest period of British rock
music. Lightweight.
"I'm not sure if I remember that time as it was really
happening, so I have to reserve judgement. That's
why it's best to write things instantly, record them
instantly, get them aired instantly, get them on TV
instantly...You said a good thing yesterday about
'living in the continuous present', because you can't
live in the past and you also can't live in the future."

"I just handcuffed two girls together in my room," he

murmurs. "I didn't want to but they made me."
In Mick Avory's room, the end-of-tour celebration
proceeds with a vengeance, but it's on a low
budget. The drinks have gotten dangerously low
before Ray arrives with his champagne and
Guinness (of course they have Guinness in America

1033

 Irishmen live in America, and where you find the

Irish you find Guinness) and his white-rimmed
glasses. In the room you find Rodford and Gibbons
and a few of the crew and a few fans. In the
corridors tall skinny girls with lurex legs appear from
nowhere and vanish again, as do bemused boys in
Log Rollers and check shirts and autograph books.
They think everybody who doesn't look like them is
a member of The Kinks.

SLEEPWALKER
"THIS STARKNESS which has come out now...it's
brutal, but it's real, and it's hopeful to me as a writer.
I'm trying to answer your question, and it's because
it was an unreal time. I'm rewriting Muswell
Hillbillies as a play, and I'm trying to organise it, and
I'm having a lot of trouble. I'm rethinking a lot of the
reasons why I did it, because the past wasn't that
good. It wasn't that good!"

And in the room is Freaky Frank. Listen to the man!

His stringy hair flying, his eyes bulging, his Union
Jack Kinks T-shirt stained with fresh liquor, Freaky
Frank interrogates anyone who he thinks might be
able to tell him a little-known fact about British rock.
What's Mick Abrahams up to? How did the Savoy
Brown reunion go? Do Budgie have a new album
out? What was the Dutch B-side of The Kinks'
'Superman' single? No British rock musician can
possibly be so boring, so redundant and so clapped
out that Freaky Frank will not want to keep
scrapbooks on their work and collect all their
records.

The Kinks' stage show trades off the latest works

hefty chunks of the new album, a couple of tracks
each from the previous two and a purist's
selection of the early garageband classics. Gone
are the sprawling setpieces like 'Alcohol', gone are
the excerpts from the concept albums, gone are the
old dreamy swaying they're-playing-our-song
delights of 'Waterloo Sunset' and 'Sunny Afternoon'
and 'Days'. Instead, there are hard, pointed
versions of 'Where Have All The Good Times Gone',
'You Really Got Me' thwacked home with
considerable verve and panache, a devastating 'All
Day And All Of The Night' as a closer...The sole
seeming remnant of the '70s Kinks is the teasing
'Weeeeeeey-oh!" from 'Banana Boat Song' which
has become Ray's equivalent of Dury's 'Ol-Ol!'
routine.

Freaky Frank lost his girlfriend because he decided

to follow The Kinks all over America. Freaky Frank
is showing Ray the same snapshots that he showed
him in Detroit. Ray is beginning to wonder if the
principle of universal tolerance towards humanity
actually applies to Frank, even though he is as
passionately devoted a Kinks fan as you'll find
anywhere.

The audience chorus back "WEEEEEEEY-OH!"

Ray shakes his head. "You're not ready for that," he
announces and hits the next song. A little later, he'll
try it again, and after the band have completed their
second encore with a version of 'Twist And Shout'
that sounds like an aural equivalent of paintstripper,
he returns to stage front.

And Kinks fans are passionately devoted. A rock

writer of my acquaintance once told me that his
economy-class ticket for a flight was once
mysteriously altered to a first-class because the
man on the ticket desk had seen a favourable
review he'd written about the Kinks. And the Kinks
Kultist underground looks after its own, like some
rock and roll equivalent of the Masons or the
illuminati. And you don't even know that you're a
member until it's too late to get out.

"Weeeeeee-oh!"
"WEEEEEEEY-OH!"
'Weeh-eh-eh-oh!"
"WEEEEEEEH-EH-EH-OH!!!"

Freaky Frank doesn't actually dislike the new British

bands. You ask him if he likes The Clash and he
says sure, even though he really likes The Police.
But the old bands are the ones, and The Kinks are
the best. Frank has every record they've ever
made. Every edition of every album and every
single. If it was released, he's got it. Even if it wasn't
released, he's got a promo copy. You could love a
guy like that if he wasn't such a bore. Frank's in
jetlag and he never even left the airport.

"Daylight come an' I wanna go home... g'night."

And the place explodes again.
IT'S YOUR ATTITUDE
"I STILL haven't got it together to have a crystal
clear idea and go through with it and have it come
out the way I intended. 'Attitude' did. In a sense I
was singing to the band. Every album has one song
that cracks the album. It moves forward from there
or it breaks up. On Misfits there was a song that

While he listens to Foghat, Ray Davies listens to

The Residents and Pere Ubu and for all I know
The UK Subs. Listen to Low Budget and you'll know
exactly what Ray Davies has been listening to.

1034

they couldn't get together, consequently two of the

guys left. I always look for a key track, and 'Attitude'
was the key track, and I was singing 'You can't live
in a time zone' to the band.

that's the only strength to me. That sounds crazy,

but...I don't know where I stand, because I've been
successful and that's taken me out of the normal
working class. I still have the belief but...God. Let
me think for a second.

"It's also a memo to self; at least the self that I was

from maybe 1971 through to '75. The game is to try
and remember who you are. I was talking to an
Englishman who was on the verge of supersuperstardom in America, and it happened for him.
He became a superstar. He was saying, 'It's all
breaking for me, I don't know whether to play
Nassau Colosseum or the Garden for two days.' I
said, 'Just try and remember that you're a human
being.' What's the Shakespeare line? Thou art only
a man..."

"It just all became a fake to me. I think the law is a

fake, politics is a fake. It's phony, it's what we're led
to believe. From the first day you got to school,
you're put in a rut and you stay there all your life. I
went to college and it was all worked out for me.
There's no chance to change anything. On the other
hand, though I seem to be a moderate, I think the
only way to have a revolution is to have total
revolution and change everything.
"The media say don't think about it and it'll go away,
but one day it won't and I think somebody should be
there before it happens. You've got to change
history a bit...or stop it. And to do that you've got to
change art, change the way people think. Destroy
all the pictures, all the music that's been written..."

I mention that the Roman generals, when returning

from successful missions of conquest, used to have
a man standing beside them to whisper in their ears
over the cheers of the crowd "Remember thou art
mortal".
Davies grins. "Maybe my man disappeared for a bit.
Maybe he was telling me 'Maybe you're a preacher'.
Sometimes I write songs to myself aimed at myself.
That's a flaw I've got, because I don't get it across
that the song is not aimed at the world. It's a
personal thing, a personal dig. Sometimes I get
misinterpreted..."

Burn down the National Film Theatre?

"Turn it into a museum. Forget all the old ideas, all
the old constructions. A computer can compose
better music than a human being these days. Have
you heard The Residents? A lot of it's silly, but
there's an attempt there to create a new lifestyle. Or
even Devo, in a sense. Pere Ubu! The Modern
Dance has some good things on it...that was the
good thing about the last few years: there was an
attempt to create a new music, but it wasn't a
revolution. It just needed one person to come along
and articulate not just new ideas, but a new form as
well. An actual physical New Music, a new
construction...

ANARCHY WITH ORDER (slight return)

"I'M NOT really extreme about anything except
getting my work done. I'm against people who take
extremes without good reason, or just because it's
fashionable. Fashionable extremes really make me
angry...I don't think everybody can ever be equal. I
don't think everybody is really the same. Young kids
in England in a comprehensive or secondary
modern school have no opportunity at all. They're
letting them get day jobs in April or May because
there's no point in their being at school any more.
It's really scary, because they're going to hate and
resent people like...well, like...us.

"The best music, the sexiest, the most interesting, is

always illegal. It's always the devil's music."
Me, I reckon Barry Manilow is the devil's music.
SHANGRI-LA

"Because in the '60s there was a dream that it could

happen, and now it...hasn't...happened. How are
you going to cure cancer? How can you stop colds?
There's going to be conflict, and I think conflict is
the most democratic way of doing things. You've got
to have sides. I don't want the world to be overrun
by the National Front, but I don't want it overrun by
the Socialist Workers' Party either.

WHAT DO you want from life?

"There's a lot of disillusionment in me, but there's a
lot of humour. I like comedy. I want more new
comedy. I'm looking forward to a new alternative to
Monty Python, for a new comedy to be accepted.
And I'm looking for a new music, because I haven't
yet got close to what I set out to do. I'm proud of the
new album, but I want to do an album to un-think a
bit.

"I don't know where I fit on the social scale any

more. I've got working class beliefs, but I'm a fool,
because I still believe in the common man, and

"It's like when you go on and do a Chuck Berry 12bar and it's instantly accepted, and it's like rolling a
snowball that gets bigger and bigger until you can't

1035

tell what it is any more. You've got to go off at

tangents. Things have got to go off a bit."

I'M NOT LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE

RAY DAVIES suffers from the Woody Allen
syndrome: he is a man who has been a major
success for more than half his life and perpetually
depicts himself as a fumbler. He is a lanky,
broadshouldered six-footer-plus who depicts
himself as one of life's 'before' pictures ("I know
what I look like, but inside I'm really five foot four
and nine stone"). He considers life and happiness
so transient that the only things he could cling to
were the artefacts of an invented past. He is a
raging extrovert on stage and a shy loner with a
melancholy grin to himself. He eats either perpetual
health food or perpetual junk food. The day it all got
too much and he announced his retirement at an
open-air gig in White City, the PA failed and less
than a tenth of the audience heard or understood
his outburst. He's the rock and roller who demands
"Give me life on the road" with one breath and
praises virginity, sobriety and Village Greens with
the other.

What constitutes happiness?

"Timing. Knowing that you're in the right place at the
right time and everything's happening as it should
and maybe progressing a little bit."
And learning?
"Maybe it's realising that you didn't have to learn
anything, that it's that easy. Maybe realising that
things are that easy all along, and the rest is
bullshit. Work. That sounds phony, but...work.
Finishing a good job. One thing I learned when I
was painting and drawing which is helping me
now is to use the materials at your disposal,
whether it's less or more than what I had. If I sold
fewer records I could touch on subjects that would
be a little bit risky if I had to worry about offending
the BBC. So the decline of The Kinks has liberated
me as a writer, but I won't let (the success of this
album) influence what I do next.

Ray Davies is anarchy with order. Like all the

contradictions which both make him Ray Davies
and prevent him from enjoying it, it's as close a
companion as the tracheotomy scar at the base of
his throat, as the lopsided grin as the sensibility
that makes him, alone among his Beatlestone
contemporaries, as vital and moving a performer
and writer in '79 as he was in '64. All the
contradictions, all the little things that make up the
big things, the things you have to live with and
without...

"I never thought I had anything anyway. I always

consider that if I have something today I might not
have it tomorrow. That's probably why I don't enjoy
life as I should. That milkshake could be my last.
"I have this horror listening to stories about
refugees after the war, who thought they were
happy and then it was all taken away from them.
That's just something I live with all the time. I just
think you've got to forget what you had and do
something else today, because today is the only
shot you've got. Maybe you can plan something
better for next week, because that's forever...next
week."

ALL DAY AND ALL OF THE NIGHT

Charles Shaar Murray, 1979

How can you reconcile a desire for massive,

apocalyptic change with a desire for absolute safety
and security?

Ray Davies Unravels The Kinks

Bill Holdship, Creem, December 1981

"Well...it's a cop-out. Maybe they should bring in a

rule that you can only make three records. Well, I've
made about 20 albums and I want to turn myself
upside down now. I've started to do that. I'd like to
do something more radical with our work. I'm
accepting that things must change. I like a bit of
champagne especially with my Guinness but
cod roe and brown ale are all right. It's just a matter
of coming to terms with it. I think people have to
have goals, to work toward things without getting
put off, and that's what I'm trying to do in my work
and my career and my life.

"I THINK ROCK music is just as important as

painting." Ray Davies musician, poet, humorist,
social critic and leader of one of the world's oldest
rock bands is sitting in his Detroit hotel room,
puffing a cigar, and contemplating just how
seriously rock 'n' roll should be taken.
His stance isn't that surprising, since many people
have suggested over the years that Waterloo
Sunset one of the Kinks' numerous masterpieces
is beautiful and vivid enough to be a painting as
well as a pop song. If rock is indeed a serious art
form, then Ray Davies has given the world some of
its most wonderful works.

"Realising your situation or my situation, accepting

it and then building on it. Using it as a platform.

1036

As far back as the British Invasion, Ray Davies

wasn't your typical rock 'n' roll star. Unlike his
English counterparts who based their appeal on
cockiness or terminal cuteness, Davies never
seemed totally comfortable in the role. It was
strange to hear his shy, insecure voice projecting
anthems of unrequited love over what was the
wildest, rawest music anyone had ever heard in
1964. You Really Got Me and the tunes that
followed planted a seed that would eventually
spawn heavy metal, as well as four-chord punk
rock, making the Kinks a major influence on the
popular music of our time. Van Halen and the
Pretenders probably wouldn't argue with that.
Neither would Ian Hunter, David Bowie, Sly Stone,
the Jam, the Knack, the Romantics, Robert Palmer,
the Stone City Band or Peggy Lee, all of whom
have recorded songs originally written for the Kinks.
More importantly, most of the band's early records
sound as fresh and exciting today as they did in the
mid-60's, living up to the often overused
classifications of timeless and legendary music.

of environment one often romanticizes!) Above all,

Ray has always championed the underdogs and
misfits of a capitalist society the ones that never
had a chance with a compassion and tender
understanding that rivals Charles Dickens.
Following the ban, the Kinks scored big in America
again with the sexually ambiguous (could it have
foreshadowed "glitter" rock?) Lola which reached
the Top 10 in 1970 and an album that attacked
the pop music industry at a time when the Clash
was still a gleam in Joe Strummer's eye. Soon after,
Ray committed virtual commercial suicide by
releasing a series of theatrical rock presentations
which flopped miserably (although this is one and
perhaps the only Kinks fan who will argue that
Schoolboys In Disgrace stands with some of the
band's best work). During the mid-70's, the Kinks
staged a phenomenal comeback by signing with a
new label and proving that they were still a dynamic
live act. Both Sleepwalker and Misfits entered the
Top 40, followed by the one that really did it for the
Kinks, Low Budget. The latter album went to #9 on
the American charts, the band's biggest success
since their Greatest Hits package from the You
Really Got Me era.

Unfortunately, the Kinks were banned from America

over a union dispute during the years 1965 through
'69. As a result, America forgot the band, totally
missing what might be called the Kinks "golden
era," when Ray Davies created some of the most
beautiful rock songs ever put on vinyl. The British
press and several enlightened American critics
began applying the term "genius" to the Kinks with
the release of albums like Face To Face,
Something Else and The Village Green
Preservation Society all featuring pop melodies
that easily compare with anything Lennon and
McCartney were writing at the time. Apart from his
skills as a tunesmith, Ray had also grown as a
lyricist, using pop songs as social essays or satires,
and revealing a highly complex mind behind the
Kinks.

Of course, Low Budget was unquestionably an

American album, and Ray Davies now seemed to
be chronicling the decay of America in much the
same way he depicted the decline of the British
Empire on Arthur. Unfortunately, Low Budget
seemed to lack all subtlety which had once been
one of the Kinks' strongest assets. Numbers like A
Gallon Of Gas and Catch Me Now I'm Falling
(which was embarrassing in its "borrowing" of the
riff from Jumpin' Jack Flash) were much too topical
to be timeless. The subsequent tour was extremely
disappointing; the Kinks appeared to be just
another heavy metal band with nothing very
important to say and a touch of nostalgia thrown in
for good measure. Ray seemed a parody of his
former self onstage, and the Kinks' new fans
(complete with "Fuck Iran" banners) loved every
minute of it.

The Kinks' special magic has always been the

contradictions Ray Davies embodies and deals with
in his songs. Ray is an existentialist ("What are we
living for?" he asked on Dead End Street; "If life's
for livin', what's livin' for?" on Oklahoma, U.S.A.,
and "You can't tell me what I'm livin' for" on
Education), yet he is also a humanist who glorifies
and celebrates some of life's most simple, mundane
pleasures. He has been both an optimist and
fatalist, sometimes in the same song. Some .of his
best numbers have combined black humor with
sincere sentimentality. In fact, the way he mixes the
ugliness of reality with the beauty of romance is
probably only comparable to Lou Reed's best
material. (Just what an incredible romantic he is
can't be fully appreciated until one actually sees
London's drab Waterloo station which he
immortalized in Waterloo Sunset hardly the type

Despite its deceptive title, the new Give The People

What They Want is the best Kinks album in years. A
concept album of sorts, it focuses on the world's
current emotional/psychological landscape and is
not a very pleasant record. Murder, sexual
perversion, rape, the corrupt media, paranoia,
emotional battlefields, domestic violence, divorce
and loneliness: Davies leaves no stone unturned.
And yet just like the old days, he concludes the
album with Better Things, a song so optimistic and
romantic it would sound corny if it wasn't so
obviously sincere and heartfelt.

1037

Better Things and Art Lover are two of the most

beautiful songs Ray's written since his '64-'69
"golden era," while A Little Bit Of Abuse and Yo-Yo
are a glorious return to the classic Kink pop
melodies. And songs like Add It Up, Back To Front
or the title cut rock almost as hard as those killer
fuzztone anthems of '64 and '65. Dave Davies'
buzzsaw guitar is still closer to heavy metal than
anything else, but it's melodic heavy metal with a
purpose. The more and more I listen to Give The
People What They Want, the more and more I love
it.

real con. And good shows were being dropped from

TV. I've just written an outline, and I hope we're
going to get some money from RCA to do a
videodisc because its a media-based album.
And entertainment is being used in the same way,
like in the title song where it says the Roman
promoters ran out of ideas bringing in audiences, so
they thought it was a good idea to throw Christians
to the lions. It applies to a lot of different things. It's
kind of my anti-music business thing; my in-joke
about certain promoters because promoters are
always moaning about their expenses and
advertising. There was a verse that I cut out of the
song that goes: "The French Revolution was a
crazy scene/All those aristocrats getting
guillotined/The promoters cleaned up/The expenses
were low/An execution costs nothing/It's a
wonderful show." So it's a lot of different
ingredients, but in no way is it "Hey! Show Biz! The
Kinks giving the people what they want." It's antithat if anything.

Compared to the last tour, the Kinks' current show

is a vast improvement, due mainly to the strength of
their new material. The crowd in Detroit (a lot of
whom sat in the rain) greeted the Kinks with a
hysteria that resembled what the band experienced
in 1964-66. (Listen to 1967's The Live Kinks for
reference!) Teenaged girls jumped onstage at
various times during the show to hug and kiss Ray,
interesting since the Kinks are probably now older
as a band than a good deal of their audiences is in
age. In fact, a lot of the Kinks' current fans probably
have parents who were digging the same band on
Hullabaloo and Shindig 17 years ago.

I really want to get the point across that it's not the
Kinks giving the people what they want and that's
just show biz, folks, because that is not the intention
behind this album. It's anti-media, in a sense: the
lengths people will go to see riots, see murder,
snuff movies on television to get higher ratings.
That's really what it's all about. Like the Yorkshire
Ripper [Peter Sutcliffe] in England got the highest
ratings. It was on the news all the time. Or this
Chapman guy. The guy that shot the Pope is the
one who initially inspired the song Killer's Eyes. It
happened while we were on tour in England. I saw
that guy's face in the paper, and it just wrote the
song for me. His face. There was a quote in the
story from his mother, and halfway through the
song, I sort of take the role of the parent. I saw
Peter Sutcliffe's parents doing an interview on TV,
and they were as confused and baffled as anybody
else. They just didn't know that they had this
monster living with them. But then I would have
liked to have written another song because I'd like
to have known what made Peter Sutcliffe what he
was. He might have had a bad sex life at home. He
probably did.

Ray Davies must also be pleased with Give The

People What They Want, since he's currently giving
his first American interviews in several years. The
man who once sang "You'll never penetrate me" is a
fascinating interview subject. Several days prior to
this one, he told the Chicago Tribune: "I find
interviews very painful experiences. You want to be
truthful, so it's a self-examining thing. Like talking to
a psychiatrist, really." That explains it better than I
ever could, and it's probably the only real
introduction this interview needs.
Condensed below, a conversation between Ray,
Kinks manager Eliot Abbott, and from CREEM
Dave DiMartino and myself, following the band's
recent performance.
Giving people what they want. How does that apply
to your new music? Are you giving people what
they want?

Is the message a cynical one?

RAY DAVIES: Something I really deplore about the

title of the album is that people might say, "Hey,
here are the Kinks giving the people what they
want." The real inspiration for the title came from
working In America when I was writing Low Budget,
and being exposed to the media and watching TV
24 hours a day. Watching all those shows like
That's Incredible where they use ordinary people.
What happens is the comsumer is being used to
entertain, to get high ratings, to sell products to
consumers. It was going around in a circle. That's a

Now, tell me what your definition of the word

"cynical" is.
Well, I guess a cynic would be someone who looks
at the dark side of things. Cynical would be
disillusioned.

1038

I was always told that cynicism was the lowest form

of comedy, the lowest form of humor. Cynical
humor. I would say that my humor is black humor,
not cynical humor. You can't be cynical about
someone trying to shoot the pope or strangling girls
in Bradford.

For the first four years of our career, we didn't hear

what we were playing because of the screaming.
It was a different world in America because of that
silly ban that had been imposed on us, and we'd
been unable to take advantage of the Woodstock
thing and all the new things that happened inbetween. The only guy that gave the Kinks any
credit at the time because Led Zeppelin and other
groups like that would come over and say, "Oh
yeah, the Kinks are fucked" but the only guy that
gave us any credit was Jimi Hendrix. He'd come
over and say, "Yeah, the Kinks do write good stuff."
I remember doing a show in England called Top Of
The Pops. He was doing Purple Haze, and we
were doing Waterloo Sunset. He came over
afterwards and said he really liked my song, and
got a hold of my guitar. It's one of the big thrills in
my life that Jimi Hendrix got a hold of my acoustic
guitar and started playing it. I rate him as one of the
greatest guitarists. Not a great technician, but he
just used it as a weapon. What was the question?

I'd really like to get a dictionary and look up what

those words mean because I think we all have
differnt meanings for the word cynicism. Because I
think overall it means a bad thing, an unpleasant
thing. So until I have a definition of it, I really don't
want to use the word. I don't feel I'm a cynic. I'm an
optimist, always an optimist. There's no cynicism or
bitterness in my work, I don't think. If I use
bitterness, I use it as a send-up to the song or to
the character in the song.
Better Things which concludes the album and
which you introduced tonight as a "Kinks" song is
very optimistic. This comes at the end of an album
that basically says things are bad. It's like a
complete reversal.

Well, the basic question was that there was a gap

there where the Kinks didn't seem be a real
performing band...

That song was written in 1979, and it was turned

down for Low Budget because the band couldn't get
it together. It was recorded as a joke at the end of a
demo session, and it turned out to be one of the
best tracks on the album, I think.

That's because we were totally floored by all the

new technology around us. I saw those monitors,
and Bill Graham came onstage and said: "Now, I'd
like to introduce one of the great bands of the world,
the Kinks." We went on and didn't know what we
were doing! All we knew were the hits we'd had in
England. We'd just made Arthur, which the critics
really acclaimed a great album, and we only played
one song from it. We should have come over and
done it as a show.

What makes it more of a "Kinks song" than some of

the other ones. Was it relevant that you introduced
it as a "Kinks song"?
It's got a musical phrase in it that makes it a song
like Days. It's just going up the scale, but when I
reach F sharp, instead of going to a B seven, I go to
an F sharp major. It's just a change, a musical trick.
But I really like the song, Better Things. It gives me
hope. And after a song like A Little Bit Of Abuse,
you need some hope.

Those were legendary days as far as reports about

the Kinks go. The reports were that the Kinks were
out front hitting each other, falling all over the
stage...

So do you consider yourself a romantic?

Well, there was one classic night in Washington,

D.C. I'm not sure where we were playing. I think we
played Washington J.F.K. Anyway, the Kinks had a
really big following in Washington among the
senators and other people who worked for the
government, and they were going to take us to the
White House after the show. And that night, we had
one of the biggest punchouts ever onstage. What
happened, I think, is my brother Dave is oversensitive to other people's emotions, and the
keyboard player, Gosling, was fatally pissed out of
his head that night. We were doing Celluloid
Heroes, and Gosling actually fell asleep. His head
fell on the keyboard, so Dave ran over and kicked
him. Mick Avory, the drummer, looked at Dave and
said: "What the fuck are you doing?" Dave spat at

Yes. Still.
You seem to be very much a performing band now.
There was once a time in Detroit...
I smashed the door down that night. I was really
angry because I thought it was totally wrong. You
see, we came back to America on that tour after
having 16 hits all over the world, and we had to
start at the bottom because things had changed in
America. I got onstage at the Fillmore East for our
first concert, and I saw monitors. I'd never seen a
monitor before in my life! At least not a stage one.

1039

Mick. Mick threw a cymbal at Dave. They all walked

off, and left me singing Celluloid Heroes. I said to
the audience: "I just can't work with these guys
anymore." So all the undersecretaries and senators'
friends left, and we didn't get to the White House
that night. That's typical of the way we were
because there was a lot of hatred in the band that I
was unaware of. I think it was partly because of
those silly concept albums, I should have done
them without the Kinks. Except for Arthur. I think
that one stands out. The other ones were like
experimental theatre rock boring, yawn.

It is. Do you realize that it sort of prophesized

what's going on in this country right now with Jerry
Falwell and the Moral Majority?
Yeah. There's a show I want to do one day maybe
I shouldn't tell you this I want to do a show like
that religious channel. I don't know whether that guy
is crying or laughing when people come on and
confess that they've met God. He says: "Oh, I know,
I know." (Puts hands over face, and makes a
combination sound of laughter and sobbing.] What's
his name? Jim something? I want to do a show
based on that. Because I don't like it. It's like Give
The People What They Want taking advantage of
people. Weak people. There are a lot of lonely
people in the world. I'm lonely. But for two hours a
night, I'm a human being. I just said to Elliot in the
car on the way back: "I'm dreading the next 24hours." Because I can't cope with myself, and I'm
too tired to sit down and write a song. I just can't
wait to get to Kalamazoo and do the next gig.

It's interesting that you see it that way. Maybe with

the new videodisc you're trying to get from RCA...
That is going to be sensational. It's going to be a
killer. It's going to be great. What I'm using you
know that little intro we've got at the beginning of
the show? That's going to be part of the disc. I'm
using the thing of the deejay the guy who's
missing as a very important part of the story
because he's pissed off at the way the media is run,
the way people tell him how to play records. He's
being hyped-up, and he's had enough of it and can't
take it anymore. He disappears. It's all going to be a
show. I'm not saying that this album is a concept
album. It's still a load of songs put together, but I
think the videodisc will be a good concept, and I'd
like to try it.

Let's talk about Art Lover. That song is ambiguous

in the same way that Lola was. At first, it sounds
like it might be about some sort of pervert, but I
think there's a lot more going on there.
I had great trouble when I first ran through that song
in the studio with the guys. I gave them a chord
sheet, and they were really pissed off by this time
because we'd already done something like 15
tracks. They said, "Oh fuck. He's not going to do
another track!" And I said, "Just play the chords." I
looked at their faces when we did the playback.
First of all, they were just worried about what they
were playing. The second playback, they listened to
the words, and they looked like "What the fuck's he
writing about?" I originally had put in a line that said
something like "Sunday parents with their kinds
knowing they're just alone" which made it, obvious
that it was about someone who was divorced and
only had his kid on a Sunday. So I left it out
because I wanted to leave the song ambiguous. I
think ambiguity is a good tool, a good weapon I
used it in songs like Waterloo Sunset. And I think it
just about works because it says "I'm not a flasher
in a raincoat." One of the reasons they're not
putting it out as a single in England is because the
BBC has said there's a flasher in a raincoat, but it
says "I'm not a flasher." So it does sound like a
pervert to begin with, but I think it does work in the
end and you realize what the song's about.

It'll be interesting to compare it to Preservation and

the other concept things.
No, because this will be on TV. You see, there was
no way we could do Preservation and Soap Opera
effectively because people were buying tickets to
see the Kinks. It wasn't Soap Opera starring the
Kinks. It was the Kinks presenting Soap Opera. We
had a tough time staging that.
I was listening to Preservation Act II several weeks
ago.
Oh? How was it?
It was good.
I haven't listened to it for five years. I can't listen to
it all the way through because I don't think I went all
the way with it.

It's a good song. It's a sad song. And I'd love it to be

a single. I wouldn't care if it bombed and died a
death because I believe in that song so much.

I was particularly taken by Shepherds Of The

Nation.
That's a great song.

1040

There seems to be some of your old themes or

images in the song. Sunny afternoon, children, a
river...

I'll tell you something about Jimmy Page. Jimmy

Page thinks he was the first person in the world to
ever put a B string where a G string should be. And
for me, that's his only claim to fame. Other than
that, I think he's an asshole. You see, when there
was a new pop group like the Kinks, you got all
sorts of people coming to the sessions and wanting
to sit in. There were a lot of groups going around at
the time the Yardbirds, the Kinks, the Rolling
Stones and nobody had really cracked with a sort
of R&B number one record. The songs were always
sort of like the Beatles. When we first wanted to do
a record, we couldn't get a recording gig. We were
turned down by Decca, Parlophone, EMI and even
Brian Epstein came to see us play and turned us
down. So I started writing songs like You Really
Got Me, and I think there was a sheer jealousy that
we did it first. Because we weren't a great group
untidy and we were considered maybe a bit of a
joke. But for some reason, I'd just had dinner,
shepherd's pie, at my sister's house, and I sat down
at the piano and played da, da, da, da, da. The
funny thing is it was influenced by Mose Allison
more than anybody else. And I think there was a lot
of bad feeling. I remember we went to clubs like the
Marquee, and those bands wouldn't talk to us
because we did it first

But it's part of my life. I do go jogging in Regent's

Park. When I'm in New York, I go in Central Park.
Running is an important part of my life. In fact, I
think running has saved my life. I've been laid-up
twice on this tour, and had to have injections to go
onstage because my voice is completely gone and
everything. The doctor examining me said the only
good thing about me is my heart; I have an athlete's
heart. It saves me. So I do go running in the park,
and I do see these things. I do see little people
feeding the ducks. And on Sunday it's different
because you can see these sad people trying for
one day to make it a special event for their kids.
And the kids are bored because they know the
parents are putting on an act. I think that's the
saddest thing in the world.
ELLIOT ABBOT: It's a rough song for parents.
RAY: It's a rough song for anybody. It's a rough
song for ducks.
A trivia question that nobody's been able to point
out in any rock magazine: I Go To Sleep that the
Pretenders do on their new album. Was that written
for the Applejacks?

You must know the story of You Really Got Me. It

was recorded first at Pye with a producer who made
it sound like Phil Spector, and there was no way
that I was going to let them put it out. I said I'd leave
the music business first because I'd never write
another song like it. In the end, they gave us 200
pounds which is like 400 bucks to re-record it.
We went into a cheap little studio, and on the
session was Mick Avory on drums, Dave Davies
playing lead guitar playing a Harmony guitar
which was like a cheap version of a Gibson I was
playing a Maton which is a cheap version of a
Harmony. I had a Wallace amplifier which was
custom built. Dave was using a Vox and a little six
watt pre-amp with knitting needles stuck in it. We
had Arthur Greenslade a session pianist on
piano, and a guy named Vic who was doubling my
part because I was singing lead. So there were
three guitars and a piano doing the riff. And for all I
know, Jimmy Page must have been having dinner
with his mother that night.

No. That was about the fourth song I ever wrote. I

made a demo for the publisher and he sent it to, I
think, Mary Wells and Peggy Lee. Peggy Lee
recorded it.
Didn't Cher also record it?
I heard that she did, but I never heard her version.
From what I hear, I didn't miss much. Peggy Lee's
version was brilliant. But Chrissie's version is great.
The Pretenders did Stop Your Sobbing, and that's
with the same publisher so he sent them a few
more of my songs. She really liked that one,
thought it was great. The Kinks have never
performed it. There is an original demo of me doing
it. Very bad tracking, but it's going around London
selling at a very high price.

Jimmy Page and a lot of other people subsequently

came to our sessions when we became hot, and I
think he played rhythm 12-string on I'm A Lover,
Not A Fighter, and he played tambourine on Long
Tall Shorty. Jon Lord, the organist of Deep Purple,
played organ on Bald Headed Woman. The
curious thing is I wrote a song called Revenge
which had a riff like You Really Got Me. Our
publisher at the time was a man named Larry Page.

While we're on the subject of trivia, why don't we

clear up one of the biggest rumors about the Kinks.
There's been a lot of arguments between rock
fans...
About Jimmy Page playing those early leads?
Yeah.

1041

To get a part of the action this was a real con trick

he registered the song as a co-composer, and he
wasn't even on the session for the demo. So maybe
the fact that Larry Page was credited as cocomposer of Revenge adds some substantial
evidence to Jimmy Page's claim.

And those people in Rock 'N' Roll Fantasy it

helps people get through their life. I said tonight:
"Here's a song for a waitress. This is for a queer.
Here's a song for a closet queen" or whatever.
Everybody's got to have some kind of identification
with something. When I first started out, I used to
walk around Muswell Hill and say: "I don't relate to
any of these people. I've got to get out of here." My
way out was through music and art. It's the whole
thing in England the only way to get out is to be a
coal miner or a football player. That's the way it was
in the 40's and 50's. Now it's rock music. That's why
you get bands like Madness going straight from
school and becoming rock musicians. Because
there's no other way for them. They can't get jobs.
But rock music has given them an understanding
and a way of expressing themselves. I think it
should be taught in schools.

I remember Page coming to one of our sessions

when we were recording All Day And All Of The
Night. We had to record that song at 10 o'clock in
the morning because we had a gig that night. It was
done in three hours. Page was doing a session in
the other studio, and he came in to hear Dave's
solo, and he laughed and he snickered. And now he
says that he played it! So I think he's an asshole,
and he can put all the curses he wants on me
because I know I'm right and he's wrong. He's an
asshole. Dave is a great guitar player. He's got his
limitations, but he's never been given justice for
doing that. He made that when he was 16-yearsold. He created a sound, and after that came Jimi
Hendrix and all the fuzz boxes.

It's a way of expression for people who before

would have just been lumbered in factory jobs, and
that would have been the end. It would be like the
rough going in Eraserhead. Nothing. And even if
these kids make one album or one song, they've
made a mark on the world and said something.
That's what was the great thing about 1977 and
new wave music since then. It might not be the best
music. The best music was written a hundred years
ago or nearly a hundred years ago. But I'm talking
about expressionism. You'll notice that
expressionistic art is becoming popular again. I
think it's all collective. So in the sense of a guy
listening to music on his stereo to keep alive, to
give him the will to get up in the morning, I think it is
important. That it is as important as the news.

How long do you think the Kinks can continue as a

band?
Let's put it like this. I don't think there's any end to
what we can do. I don't want to end up in a Holiday
Inn. I'd rather sweep the streets because I'd be
better at that. I'd be more artistic at that anyway.
That's the last thing I want to do cabaret and all
that bullshit. But I like to feel that every show is the
last one we're going to do because that gives us the
fire.
How seriously do you think rock 'n' roll should be
taken?

And it's got to stop all this. [He points out the,
window.] Eventually people are going to get fed up
with what's happening to America and England. The
Skinheads have got their music in England. I think
there are elements in that, though I hate to say
the word subversive elements. They're using a lot
of innocent people. It's great in England, though.
We get a lot of Mod kids and Skinheads at our gigs
because the Jam like us.

How seriously should it be taken? As seriously as

the CBS News. Because there's a lot of junk said in
rock 'n' roll there's a lot of junk lyrics but there's
a lot of great lyrics and a lot of great music as well.
I think what's happened it's got to be taken a bit
seriously because it's become this huge industry.
There's, so much at stake. You wouldn't believe the
wheeling and dealing that's going on to get us to
play with the Rolling Stones. I think it really is a big
business, and I came into it just to play music. The
big companies have got their schedules, they've got
their quotas, they've got their money allocated to
artists, and it's all very important. It's also a big
industry for the government. In the 60's, it was the
only thing England had going for it. That's why the
Beatles got the MBE. Rock music is really one of
our biggest exports. So it's got to be taken a bit
serious.

They do a good version of David Watts.

It's wonderful. They're getting into our other songs
because of that one, and they realize that there is
another world apart from that horrible, blank
concrete world that's out there the Eraserhead
world. That's why music is so good right now. And
that's why rock music is more now than a 19-yearold kid playing to a blonde. That's why you get guys
over 30 playing rock music to express themselves.
And that's why you have 16-year-old kids playing
rock music as well.

1042

Further and deeper inside the building is a games

room and bar which once housed a club,
unfortunately closed after a certain amount of
rowdiness. Ray started getting telephone calls
across the Atlantic, asking him to sort out
particularly recalcitrant customers.

Bill Holdship, 1981

Kinks Ray & Dave Talk To Chris Welch
Chris Welch, International Musician, 1 December
1981

The band's original drummer Mick Avory appeared

momentarily during our guided tour, looking very
suntanned and fit after a holiday, which he claimed
he needed after their last American tour. The band's
present bass player is Jim Rodford and they have
added keyboard played Ian Gibbons.

HEART THAT NEW BAND THE KINKS?

That's how they like to think of themselves. And
their fans feel much the same. They have only
vague memories of that raunchy little R&B group
that stumbled warily into the Sixties.

Dave is particularly excited about the way The

Kinks have established themselves as a band
which can be accepted by new young audiences,
and not just a dwindling hard core of old faithfuls.
Their last US tour had lasted ten weeks and built on
the impact made by their1980 breakthrough, when
they released their One For The Road double
album.

Most of their fans weren't even born when records

like You Really Got Me and Tired Of Waiting For
You were chasing up the charts, and helping to
establish Ray Davies as one of rock's most
promising writers.
Since then the band has experienced a checquered
history, and faced fickle hearts and fluctuating
fortunes. Now they are enjoying an unprecedented
boom, particularly in America, where they played
New York's Madison Square Garden this year,
astonishingly enough for the first time.

"We played Madison Square for the first time

ever. Which was quite...nice." Dave grinned at the
understatement. "We made our breakthrough with
that album Low Budget which turned things around
for us, after slogging for years."

Regeneration was wrought by their decision to cut

out the frills, play their hits and tour as hard as they
could. They've swept away theatrics and concept
albums and, says Ray Davies: "We are all much
happier now."

"We've always had a cult following in the States

anyway, but it's only recently, after the last two
years that we've got really big crowds, from 14 to 30
year olds. It's been quite a cross-section of people.
The 14 year olds think we are a new band! Ray
even introduces You Really Got Me as a song that
was made famous by Van Halen. Some of the
young kids don't go back much further than that.
We've been going a long time. What is it 17
years? I think we started six months before The
Who..."

Respect between the brothers Ray and Dave has

provided the basis for longevity. They have
doubtless had their arguments over the years, and
they maintain separate identities, in their roles as
lead guitarist and composer. But teamwork has held
The Kinks together and also enabled them to set up
the famous Konk Studio, in Hornsey, which serves
as the group's London HQ, and provides a service
to others.

Did Dave think the band sounded better now than it

did in the ancient, early days?
"Nah!", smiled Dave. "Actually, it's sounding better
now than it has for a long, long time. We've been
through a lot of diversions, and used a lot of
different musicians over the years."

Ray and Dave were in residence one sunny

October afternoon to show IM around the studio
and talk about their changes and prospects.

During the mid Seventies they lost keyboard and

bass players and switched from RCA to Arista. It
was all part of a process of making the band tighter,
more basic Rock 'n' Roll unit. "We went back to the
roots," says Dave. "The concept album period was
interesting but because of our limited budget, we
felt we should get back to fundamental Rock."

The studio is housed in a large, rambling house

built into the side of a hill, which accounts for some
interesting passage ways and odd shaped rooms.
The control room is comfortable and impressive
with a large new desk which had to be installed
through the windows. The studio has been home to
many celebrated clients, as well as the Kinks who
recorded their last album Give The People What
They Want there with Ray producing.

Which was their last 'experimental' album?

"I think all of them were!" laughed Dave. "But we did

1043

try to fuse theatrical ideas with Rock 'n' Roll, and

that was interesting, but it got on my wick a bit,
doing it. At least the live performances did. There
were so many people flying about on stage. I
enjoyed it for a while, but thought it was getting
away from what we were supposed to be doing.
Now we feel, particularly in America, that we are a
four year old band."

modified. "I really like the sound, but I'm having the
fretboard altered as I didn't like the action. It's a
really good guitar though, one of the best new ones
in a long time. It looks a bit silly, like the old Burns
shape."

The Kinks did feel it was like starting over again, but
they had the advantage of hindsight and experience
to guide them, which they lacked when first coping
with the complexities and treacheries of the music
business.

"Artisan means a skilled craftsman, doesn't it?" said

Dave. "I'm not so sure about that! Not in my case. I
don't have any trouble remembering tunes on
stage. it's trying to forget them, that's the problem. I
do try and put new things into the old tunes and try
and change them a bit. Otherwise I think I'd go
potty!"

Dave uses a Gibson Artisan guitar on stage which

he says is like a Custom Les Paul.

"When we were kids, none of us really knew what

we were doing. We woke up one day and we were
playing! It was really creative because of that. We
were carried along on a euphoric wave of
'newness.'

Dave disarmingly refers to this art of improvisation

as 'fucking about a bit', which is not quite the
phrase Segovia would have chosen, but it
emphasised his desire not to slavishly reproduce
every song note for note.

"It was only towards the end of the Sixties that

people started to think about their work more
seriously, hence the Sgt. Peppers and all that.
Initially the music was very explosive and
spontaneous. That's what we have tried to create
with our live shows. They are special to us and it's
difficult to keep a certain kind of excitement going,
but I think we have done that now."

"It's bad enough in the studio when you have to

work on the same song for three or four hours. You
start copying yourself and that defeats the object
really. Music must have rules and regulations but I
don't want to be stifled."
Was there any one particular Kinks classic that
Dave gets fed up with playing?
"All of them!" he announces cheerfully. "I hate
rehearsal most of all. But you have to do it, to get
the cobwebs out and get used to each other again.
Mind you, we don't get much of a lay off now. We
are pretty much a hard working road band. It's
surprising how much you can forget in the
arrangements after a while off the road, but nine
times out of ten it comes together."

Dave the rocker is convinced that 'live' shows are

really what it's all about, and that has probably lead
to some disputes over the years with Ray, whose
writing ambitions have lead him to seek different
areas of fulfillment.
Dave is a self-taught guitarist who loves his
instruments and grabs every chance he can to play.
In fact he announced that he had not played a
guitar for three days which seemed to him a quite
shocking lapse.
"I got back from touring and had to pick up a guitar
again. I've got a 1954 Tele that I don't take on the
road with me and it was great to pick it up and start
playing. I don't like to practice a lot like scales. I
used to practise them, but now I just play around.
I've got a little Peavey amp which I use at home."

Brother Ray has an excellent memory for all their

back catalogue of tunes but Dave can still find
difficulty just remembering the running order for the
set. In the middle of a show, just when the
excitement is mounting and the fans are cheering,
Dave's memory goes blank and he yells to Mick or
the bass player: "What are we supposed to be
doing next?"

Dave carries a cassette player with him to put down

ideas. He talks and screams into it. often while
driving around in traffic in the West End. His mind
begins to race with the enforced idleness, and
snatches of song burst upon his lips, disturbing for
neighbouring drivers and passing pedestrians.

On stage Dave uses a Mesa Boogie amp and

Roland speakers and he says the 100 watt Mesa
Boogie head is "really pokey". He used to use
another make of amp but complained they were
always going wrong, either valves or speakers
packing up on him in the most embarassing places.

He doesn't boast a huge collection of guitars, but he

has just bought a Gibson Victory, which he is having

1044

"The speakers would be really driving and at their

best, but you'd know in ten days' time they go. I had
capacitors burning out all sorts of peculiar things.

Dave is glad that the Seventies snob element has

gone out of British pop music.
"I couldn't relate to the techno flash bands. Bands
were doing all that stuff when we were still tripping
over our guitar leads. I was still trying to get the act
together! We feel much more at home now and
more creative too."

"But I really like the Mesa Boogie, in fact I've got

two of them. I don't go for distortion necessarily, I
suppose my sound is a different kind of distortion,
it's a much warmer and authentic valve sound.
Transistors tend to sound like fuzz boxes and I can't
relate to them. Sometimes I use feedback, but it
can be a bloody nuisance. I used that on a couple
of our early records, by accident! Everybody says
'yeah, sounds great. Leave it in!' I still use feedback
some nights. Depends what sort of mood I'm in.
Some nights it's just a din, while other nights it
sounds great."

Did fans expect The Kinks to be violent on stage?

After all they came up in the era of whips, kinkiness
and guitar smashing. Dave looked puzzled and
slightly astonished.
"Violence?" he said, as if he could hardly believe his
ears. "We just want people to enjoy themselves. In
the early Seventies we didn't mean very much in
England anymore and we knew that we had to build
it all up again. We had spent sometime always
being out of our heads. Then one day we woke up
with a ridiculous hang over and a gap in the
memory of years. When we had those first hit
records, we got paid weekly. On Friday night I'd go
out with 350 in my pocket. I'd go to a club and
drink it all away and never thought about having an
accountant. Then came all the bills and I didn't have
any money. I suppose that's when we became more
economically aware."

Dave avoids gadgets, although a few years ago he

went through a phase of trying echo units, flangers
etc but found they got in his way. He prefers to keep
his experimentation in the playing rather than the
hardware. He admits it is hard to keep on top with
his playing, night after night on the road, especially
when exhausted from all the travelling.
"Five minutes before we go on stage, I get geared
up for action, and it's always exciting once the
audience starts to react."
Away from the road he likes to listen to all kinds of
music and has recently started to take interest in
Irish jigs, and Country and Western. He has also
been tempted to form his own breakaway pub band,
and he's been talking about the idea with friends in
New York.

Dave thinks the burst of New Wave punk rock in

1977 actually helped The Kinks, the Who and the
Stones, even though such groups were often the
targets for unprecedented abuse.
"There was a similar energy in the music. We could
relate to it!"

"I may do a few low key gigs over there for fun. I'll
have to do it quick. If I think about it, I'll never do it.
I'll book the gigs first, and then get the band
together!"

Down stairs in the control room Ray Davies

appeared, looking smart, neat and with that familiar
slightly harassed look recalling the often moody and
unhappy Kink of yesteryear. But today Ray is more
contented and fulfilled than he was during the first
onslaught of his success as a composer of such
classic singles as Sunny Afternoon, Waterloo
Sunset and Days.

He'd like the chance to play some different material

and has long nurtured an idea to revive an old
Eddie Cochran song called My Way, full of male
chauvinist lyrics. Strangely enough he doesn't listen
to a lot of other guitar players and the artist who
impresses him most at the moment is Toyah. He
just likes the atmosphere she generates.

Ray expressed pride in the technical facilities his

studio has to offer, but was also disposed to talk
about his own project and feelings as The Kinks
forged ahead into the new decade. Ray was still
feeling a mite jet lagged, but he has to go back to
America soon to raise money to make a film of the
group's album. It was due to have been released in
August but has now been put back to January. He
wants to get some video equipment installed in
Konk. He is fairly horrified by the high rates that
most video studios charge.

"She's great fun to watch. It's bizarre. We spend

half the year in the States where all the music is
determined by the programme directors and tends
to sound similar. Here there is so much variety. We
are not very productive, but we are very inventive.
London has so many cultures compressed
together."

1045

"I ended up renting three-quarter inch machines

and editing stuff in my flat. It saved a lot of money.
There are so many video studios springing up and
I'd like to have a good sound and video studio
combined."

Ray says he'll need to take a good three months off

to do his Channel Four project. He will write, shoot
and record the sound for what will be an album as
well as a TV show.
"I don't really want to call it a film or an album. It's
just using all the facilities and effects available. I
don't know what I'll call it, until I've finished it. It has
a story line but it's very loose..." He was being
cagey, obviously to avoid committing himself.

He realised that rock is becoming closely allied to

video production, and noticed it particularly on
returning to England.
"I heard a lot of rock records which I thought
sounded really naff, and then people said 'Ah, but
wait 'till you see the video!' I think it's beginning to
influence the way people write. Everything sounds
like a Casio machine! You know, those little toys. So
what's going to happen? I know video is important,
but it's got to have music and some good tunes."

"I just wish that somehow it was cheaper to put it all

together!" He shook his head and looked mournful.
The 'show', if that is indeed the right word for Ray's
mysterious idea, will be co-financed by Channel
Four and an American company, and if there are
enough good songs, a record company will be
involved as well.

Ray has a couple of big projects lined up the

video for the album, but also a show or 'concept' for
Britain's new Channel 4 TV station.

"Everybody says 'gotta get a video' because it has

worked so fantastically well for groups like Ultravox
and the Ants. But not every band's material lends
itself to video. It's the one field in the entertainment
industry that isn't feeling the pinch. They are
working at it all the time."

"I submitted an idea and they are quite keen on it.

I'd still like to do things with English finance, but it's
more and more difficult."

He discussed the impact of video discs as well and

I wondered if it would all go the way of
quadrophonic sound, the great white elephant of
the Seventies, along with cartridges and in-car
gramophones.

In America a record company will spend 20,000

dollars on a video for a single and that was
recorded as quite a low figure.
"I think the Ultravox one cost much more. It's now
getting like making a movie. The record itself might
have only cost a day in the studio a thousand quid
or something. It's funny to think You Really Got
Me, the actual finished record, was made for a few
hundred pounds. Now the cost of studio time is
astronomical. But if you DON'T charge a
competitive rate, people think the studio can't be
any good!"

"It's funny when I was at RCA Records they wanted

me to make a quadrophonic album and write songs
specifically for that, and they were so up on it, they
even gave me a machine. Then it just fizzled out. It
was just a gimmick. But this control room was
designed for Quad. We had the four speakers and
the desk was right in the middle, so we decided to
keep it stereo."

Ray spoke whilst wearing two hats, in his role as

studio owner and as a paying customer. He dashes
back and forth across the Atlantic, mixing albums,
worrying about videos and keeping The kinks on the
road. Sometimes, he says he fancies just getting
away from it all and "reading a few good books."

The Konk Studio was long a dream project for the

Kinks and they opened it for the public around
1976. Before that it had been a facility exclusively
for the Kinks. In recent months they have been
busy updating their equipment.
"This used to be a biscuit storage company. We got
the house next door and expanded into the factory.
That's why it's a strange L-shaped building on four
levels. We are on a corner and on a hill as well.
We've got another basement below us, where we
have room to put in...I dunno...an echo chamber or
something."

"I need time to think about writing," said Ray. "You

can get bogged down in technology. There is a new
machine on the market every week, and the others
are constantly being updated. I have to stay at
home reading manuals just to keep up with it. At the
same time I've got to try and be creative. What with
touring and recording and all the other bullshit I
have to deal with, and being around here to make
decisions, there's no time to do creative things. I get
about one tenth of the year for writing, and that's
not enough."

Ray says it wasn't so much a dream, as a necessity

to have a place where he could go in and work
every day. But now it had turned into a business

1046

and paradoxically, there was no time for him to use

the studio.

in every sense, in arrangement, writing and less

dressing. A lot of the demo tapes we do in here are
very exciting. You have energy, dynamics and
sound because it is done straight onto tape. I have
refused to use our computer because I felt it was
taking away my rights as a musician!"

"So I still do most of my work away from here and

only come in specifically to record, and maybe hear
odd demos."

Ray recalled the many groups who are pleased with

their first single, usually made in three hours and
then go in to make their first album and hate the
sound. They had lost it all in the overdubbing.

The studio has been in heavy demand. They

changed the desk, half way through making their
album.
"We had to live with the change over, because we
had to finish the record and were booked for a three
month tour. Then after that it went a bit quiet. It
goes in waves, like most studios. When we wanted
to come back to do more work, we found it was all
booked out. Then of course there is a recession, in
studios generally because the prices are so high.
There are a lot of smaller studios offering deals to
people, especially further out of London. Central
London rates are astronomical, like 80 an hour,
which is a lot of money."

Ray admits there is one track on the album Give

The People What They Want called Around The
Dial which couldn't have been done without
computer assistance. The song is about going
round a radio dial looking for a good station. They
did it with a transistor radio and synthesiser
overdubs.
"It would have been impossible to do without the
computer. So in a sense, I fear that I will be taken
over by it. That's why I'm afraid of it. It will influence
the way I write. Then I would lose discipline and
become lazy."

The Konk Studio charges 40 an hour and an extra

10 an hour for Necam mixdown. Overtime rates
are applicable after 6 pm weekdays and throughout
Saturdays. A full computer mixdown is available in
the control room, and it presents an eerie sight
when the sliders are put on a pre-programmed
'exercise' and start sliding up and down without
human attention.

Ray likes to jot down notes for song ideas, but

suffered a tragic loss recently.
"I lost all my note books. They were with my
American manager for safe keeping. And his house
got burgled, so I lost the lot. I'm trying to find
another method of storing ideas. In fact it was
actually a book I was writing."

The Neve control console offers 40 input channels

and 32 output channels feeding 24 track Studer
machines. Full 'off line' facilities are available,
including parametric equalisation, real time control,
Dolby noise reduction and compression and
limiting. The JBL monitor speakers are set in huge
concrete plinths.

On top of this disaster, Ray finds inspiration in

England hard to come by as everybody here seems
so depressed. How did this contrast with his
memories of happier times in the Sixties?

The studio is designed to have designated areas for

different instruments. There is a large Yamaha
grand piano, and a Hammond organ, and the
acoustic character of the different parts of the studio
can be quickly altered.

"Well I was never very happy in the Sixties. You met

me. I was never happy. I felt more liberated at the
end of the Seventies than I was at any time in the
Sixties. I felt it was a bit of a con, all that thing about
the New World, everybody getting a good deal, and
the working classes taking over. It was all bullshit.
Well, that's my theory. I didn't like what was going
down."

"I'm a bit fussy when it comes to recording," says

Ray. "I believe that every time you play a tape you
lose quality. It becomes bassy and you lose top. So
my idea is to record the back track on one machine
and then copy a rough mix onto the other machine.
It's an old trick really. You don't play the back track,
you just use the copy."

"The one good thing that came out of it was that

Britain became known for its Rock music, and
people still look to us in music. I didn't share the
optimism of the Sixties. In fact I thought that was
the decline...the end. It was the last gasp of the
Empire. But even today, wherever you go in the
world, people still want to hear about English music
from our creative side. Our ideas are still good.

"This whole thing started in the Seventies of putting

down a back track and then doing hundreds and
hundreds of overdubs when mixing becomes a
nightmare. Now I think there will be more economy

1047

"But I thought that the early Seventies were the

most boring times musically. There were some good
technicians and musicians around, but there was no
inspiration. It was all energy and no light. It was just
a phase I suppose. You have to experience it,
before everyone realises how bad it is.

we never recorded it. We often have four or five

tracks left over after making an album, in a half
finished state. I always say, that if I didn't have to
rush off on tour after finishing an album, I could do
some really good writing, when I'm all geared up to
studio work and composing."

"We have had downs and ups, but I've just tried to
keep writing songs. Technically I'm not a good writer
and I'm still learning. I stopped being a musician
when I became a writer. There is nothing I love
more than sitting down and playing the guitar or
piano. That for me is recreation. But when I write a
song, the last thing I think about is an instrument. I'll
jot the chords down on a piece of paper, and write
with the aid of a piano, but I'm not a great player in
any sense. I have got touch. I play synthesiser on
the opening to our album, and the right things seem
to happen.

Ray does most of his writing on the backs of old

envelopes and letters, any scraps that come to
hand. He collects them all up and puts them into
song form. It's an unsatisfactory system in many
ways, witness the loss of his book, and he yearns to
be a 'tidy' writer. But he doesn't want to be known
as a composer who takes the world's burdens and
puts them on his back.
"That image got a little bit out of hand. I was
labelled that for a while. The Samual Pepys of Pop.
I have a theory of writing political songs. You can't
write a song that says 'the bomb was falling, the
people were dying.' But a painter can be inspired
and paint something like 'Guernica'. He's taking an
event, translating it and making it an artistic
statement. Not just reporting. The same should
apply in music as in painting. All the really great
composers use images as a springboard, like
Mahler and Beethoven!

"The Kinks feel much better in the Eighties and this

is the happiest band we've had and certainly the
most exciting, and I hope, the most successful! It's
got a few years left in it."
Did he expect he would still be charging round the
country tour, after all these years?"
"No!" he protested. "I must be allowed to write, or I'll
go mad. There are lots of things I want to try. And
there is the studio to think about, which ultimately I
want to make the best in London and anywhere
else."

"Some of the best songs were written during The

Depression in the Twenties. But they weren't about
being out of work. They were things like Stormy
Weather. You've got to have more than just a note
book. You have to go further. That's why there are
artists, and that's why there are interior decorators! I
have been guilty of writing songs that could come
straight from the headlines of a newspaper.

He explained that when people rent Konk, they rent

the whole building including the recreation area,
bar/kitchen and snooker room and offices.

"I like to use lots of different influences. I collect

newspapers, watch TV and go to films. I remember
being in New York and writing a song called Catch
Me Now I'm Falling. I wanted a lead-in line. I went
to the supermarket to do some shopping, and
somebody said a chance remark, and that was it
the line for the song. That's what's good about New
York. People are so open and there are so many
loonies. Everybody has got their act so together
that they shout from the street corners. Good for me
because I'm a really vague, lazy person. You've
gotta be on the ball and state your case. No room
for mumbling. The cab drivers will say, 'If you
wanna go somewhere, you've got to have an
address,' and that in itself is a great line for a song."

"It's really good for bands to come and do albums

here. We've had Tom Robinson, Robin Trower and
Jack Bruce, and the Bay City Rollers, oh and Ike
Turner did some things here."
He hasn't had the Pretenders in, but he heard the
back track to their new version of his old song I Go
To Sleep, and thought it sounded "highly
professional."
Ray is rather pleased at the attention his older
songs have been getting from the new bands, and
he discovered that Chrissie Hynde began playing
Stop Your Sobbing when she bought her first Kinks
album. I Go To Sleep was sent to her by the
publisher, and they had been playing it on stage,
long before Ray met them.

The Kinks have quite a lot more work lined up.

Dave is planning another solo album, which Ray
may assist on, and The Kinks are also expected to
go to Australia and Japan.

"It was one of the first songs I ever wrote. The Kinks
were looking for material when we'd just come off a
tour. I started writing that before we had a hit. In fact

1048

"And at some point it would be great to put an

album out in England and be here to promote it,"
says Ray. He also wants to do some independent
production with different groups next year.

delight in the computer controlled sliders. Ray

asked him to show us the works.
"The desk was originally built for Utopia studios and
our maintainance man, John Timms designed this
desk when he was working for them, so he's rather
glad that it's here. It has forty input channels and 32
outputs. You can record sixteen tracks at once and
it's a very flexible desk. We hope to go 46 track
soon and I think the desk will be able to handle it.

How did he think other bands viewed The Kinks at

this stage in their development?
"I don't know how bands that have come up in the
last three months see us, because four or five new
ones have happened while we were away. But
because we have never really been Rock
superstars, we never felt purged or put down by any
new bands. There was no resentment there, and
there's no threat. The Kinks have been lucky. We
were judged on the songs, rather than the way we
looked, and how long we've done it. New bands like
The Jam and Pretenders like us for our songs. I am
surprised that one of Paul Weller's favorite songs is
Waterloo Sunset and they recorded David Watt.
We always take new bands on the road with us,
whenever we can, like Nine Below Zero. It's a good
experience for them."

"We have two reverb plates which are kept out in

the hallway because they are very sensitive. They
consist of a huge sheet of metal with a transducer
in the middle which excited the plate, and there are
two more transducers towards the edge for stereo.
It synthesizes the sound of a room. We also have a
digital harmonizer for pitch changing.
"We originally had the studio monitor speakers on
wooden plinths which created acoustic problems so
that's why we mounted them in solid concrete. We
put the speakers in place and poured concrete
around them. They are JBL 4350s. We'd have to
completely destroy them to get them out!"

Ray met Paul Weller back stage at a pop festival

about three years ago and says he'd like to mix
more with other groups.

The studio is equipped with silent air conditioning

which it is claimed is absolutely necessary in the
windowless conditions. The build-up of heat could
cause musicians and engineers to fall asleep on
long sessions.

"But I'm quite secluded, and don't really go out that

much. I used to go out to parties and boozing, but I
don't do much of that anymore. I do go to the opera
a lot, because I live near Lincoln Center in New
York."

"We have a Necam mixing system, the only one

with servo-assisted faders," said Ben, taking us on
a tour of the studio. This proved quite hazardous as
I fell down an old ducting hole which has been
covered up with carpet. Dave Davies who
witnessed my descent explained that it was really a
trapdoor to get rid of unwelcome guests.

He remains committed to pop music but admits:

"You can never quite recapture that moment when
we first made it in pop. It'll never be the same as
that. We get moments on some nights, but overall,
it's never the same. As a band, this is the best we
have ever had. Why am I still doing it? Because
rock made me want to dance, made me excited and
wanted to get involved. And of course it was a
communicator."

The Konk rates seem surprisingly low. Said Ben: "At

the moment it is forty pounds an hour which is
ridiculously cheap and is well below most other
places. We are thinking of a 1982 price range and
we'll put it up soon, so if anybody wants to take
advantage of 40 an hour, they've got until the end
of the year!"

There was a time when Ray suddenly announced,

from the stage during a concert, that he was going
to break up the band. What happened?
"Yeah, I did that. It was time for a drastic re-think.
But if I didn't play in The Kinks, I think I'd have to
form another band and just turn up and play
somewhere. And I have to keep writing songs. I
always work better when I've got somebody to write
for and have a character in mind. But I can't write
songs for God. Only Bach could do that. He put that
at the bottom of each piece."

Chris Welch, 1981

Kinks: A Sad Kommentary
John Mendelssohn, Creem, August 1983
ASSUMING THAT A healthy percentage of it carried
falsified ID, the average age of the audience at this
year's Los Angeles Kinks concert might have been

Ben Fenner is the Konk Studio engineer, a cheerful

and enthusiastic young man who takes particular

1049

20. But the average IQ must have been three or

four times that.

Waterloo Sunset in the gorgeousness of its choral

ooh-ing.

Behold The Kinks' new konstituency.

There'd been a time too when the old chap hadn't

just adored the group's music, but also felt the most
intense affinity to the guy who wrote and sang it.

They littered the parking lot with shattered liquor

bottles, did the members of this audience, and filled
the restroom sinks with puke. Having apparently
partied with all their might on the way to the
Fabulous Forum, the home of the Los Angeles
Lakers and Kings, a lot of them lay moaning and
mumbling in the aisles once they finally got there.

Five years after he barely avoided crashing his car

on one of lower Sunset Blvd's more treacherous
curves, he found himself doing much freelance
writing for The Kinks' record company, largely on
the basis of the rapturous things he'd writen about
them in his college newspaper.

The average age of the audience at this year's Los

Angeles Kinks concert having been 20 means that
its average member wasn't yet old enough for
nursery school when You Really Got Me came out,
and was in about the third grade when Lola set a
shocked world to trying to figure out whether its
heroine were really its hero.

A woman he'd loved had broken his heart a couple

of months before, and it hadn't yet shown signs of
recovering. In one of the self-torturing gestures that
characterized that period of his squandered youth,
he'd moved into that part of his city in which there
was always something there to remind him.

But at least one member of the Forum audience

that night the one in orange velour tie was old
enough to have been a Kinks fan from the night
during Christmas vacation in 1964 when You Really
Got Me got him so excited when it came on his car
radio for the first time that he nearly made a
complete mess of one of lower Sunset Blvd.'s more
treacherous curves, and consequently nearly didn't:
report back for the rest of his senior year, graduate
without honors (how could he continue to
overachieve in the classrooms of his high school
when there was a British Invasion raging outside?),
and grow up to be the rock critic the West Coast
most loved to loathe.

Having rigged his phone so that he could make

calls, but not receive them, he went days without
speaking to anyone, days just watching the inmates
of the convalescent hospital across the walk for
hours on end from his second-story window. Days
just wandering, as though invisible, among the
human debris that littered the beachfront 30
seconds to the west. Whole days under
headphones, listening five and six times in a row
(thank you for the daze) to Tommy and The
Stooges and especially The Kinks' Arthur that
astonishing collection of songs about the
frustrations of English working class life that Davies
sang with sufficient passion and rage to make one
who'd never even been to England, and knew
nothing of class, tremble with indignation.

For that old chap, who'd adored The Kinks for

seven of the best years of his life (and who, in his
30s, had developed a penchant for the
melodramatic turn of phrase), the concert was sort
of an Altamont of the soul.

There'd been no more agonizingly lonely and

purposeless a time in the Kinks fan's life. So when
The Company flew him to Manhattan to greet The
Kinks and convey to them how pleased it was that
they'd deigned to tour American markets for the first
time in four years, it seemed to him, with his flair for
self-dramatization, to be saving his life.

In his day, the old chap had been famous for his
love of The Kinks. That he was much more famous
for his love of The Kinks than he was for his own
music did indeed frustrate him. But he took
consolation in the feeling that there was scarcely a
more wonderful group in rock with which to be so
relentlessly associated. They were alternately funny
and touching, ever tuneful, and their lyrics explored
a constellation of concerns social ecology, if you
will that no other group had ever thought to.

He clung to his friendship with Ray Davies as

though to a life preserver in a furious sea. As
demanding of attention as the most neurotic
groupie, starstruck beyond any recognition of
propriety, he could hardly be pried from the Davies
side, even when it came time, for instance, for the
group to go gladhand local program directors.
There was even an embarrassing confrontation with
The Company's L.A. promotion man.

And they made such exquisite noises. For instance,

people invariably think of The Beach Boys when the
subject of pop harmony singing comes up, but
nothing they ever recorded approached The Kinks'

Davies himself, two years the fan's senior, but wiser

by several eons, seemed to recognize that he'd

1050

somehow been stuck with the job of making his

fan's life worth living, but uttered not a syllable of
protest, was never anything but patient and
magnanimous. Indeed, it was he, to whose comfort
both its combatants were ostensibly committed,
who defused The Confrontation in a way that
spared the fan what might have been a fatal
amount of embarrassment.

of thing means he doesn't understand rock 'n' roll

anymore.)
Playing in arenas which God had intended for
basketball and Journey, they felt compelled to crank
up the volume and sustain on their guitar amps to
the point at which they remained distinguishable
from other favorites of the circuit mostly by virtue of
neither Ray nor Brother Dave having
the...awesome...chops that are the arena genre's
stock in trade.

This was no ordinary rock star.

When he'd come to The Company's Burbank offices
earlier in the year, Ray had worn an orange velour
tie of which he was clearly fond. And only fittingly,
thought his fan, who was convinced that in his
entire lifetime he'd seen no more wonderful a
garment.

They were ordinary rock stars. And less The Kinks

anymore than XTC were.
The fan in the orange velour tie was as saddened
by their Forum show as those around him
especially the conscious ones seemed to be
gladdened by it. He'd never felt older than he did as
he made his way through the shattered Jack
Daniels bottles and back to his car. On whose radio
he never seems to hear anything quite as exciting
these days.

It took Davies about five seconds, once he realized

how his fan loved it, to make him a gift of it.
This was no ordinary rock star.
The friendship dissipated shortly thereafter, but the
fan's love for the group endured even after Davies
ceased to be rock's most melodic humanist a
dealer in the most extraordinarily touching,
compassionate songs and became instead a
writer of tedious laments about the life of the touring
musician, and then an indefatigable
rockoperamonger. The fan's love endured in the
face of these appalling developments because no
one else in rock had ever seemed more his
audience's friend onstage than Ray Davies, nor any
group, in an age of ever greater fascination with
technology and technique, more blissfully near to
chaos from first bar to last than The Kinks, those
wonderful slobs of drum and fretboard.

John Mendelssohn, 1983

The Kinks: Kinks, Kinda Kinks, The Kinks
Kontroversy and Face To Face
Charles Shaar Murray, NME, 1984
NOT THAT any of this is actually important, but the
kurrent kinks reissue programme abounds with
small ironies.
First of all, Pye the company with whom the
Kinks kommenced their recording kareer have
now merged with RCA, to whom Ray Davies and
his associates fled after it became apparent that
Pye were more concerned with banging out cheapo
Marble Arch kompilations than fostering the band's
kontemporary work. Secondly, the fact that these
early Kinks albums their first four, dating from the
period 1964-6 have been reissued is less
remarkable than the fact that they were originally
deleted in the first place, since only the Beatles, the
Stones and the Who kould truly be said to have
outranked The Kinks in the original Britrock league
tables.

But they got greedy. They wanted a hit so bad that

they made a disco record. They wanted a hit so bad
that they cannibalized their own repertoire (as in the
woeful Destroyer). They wanted a hit so bad that
they cannibalized others' repertoires (as in the
woeful Catch Me Now I'm Falling, the only notable
thing about which is how brazenly it appropriates
the riff of Jumpin' Jack Flash).
They got no hit, but after Van Halen launched
themselves with You Really Got Me, they came to
be perceived as sufficiently...awesome...by
association to quit playing venues where one could
feel the warmth of Ray Davies's (it's pronounced
"Davis") personality even from the cheap seats, and
to set up shop in the sorts of venues to which their
fans are admitted only after goons from local
college athletic teams pat them down for weapons.
(The old fan often wonders if his resenting that sort

The albums in question chart the kourse of the

Kinks' development from a noisy, hilariously
ramshackle R&B group hammering out kovers of
standard Berry, Diddley and Motown numbers
alongside the occasional original komposition to
one of the most innovative and influential groups of
their day. Duff British R&B is, of kourse, timeless,
but when the Kinks tackled material like 'Beautiful

1051

Delilah' (sweet as apple pah!) or 'Dancing In The

Street', they neither reproduced the energies of the
original versions like say the Animals, nor
kreated a new music out of an old one like the
Stones or the Yardbirds, but instead merely
established their distance from that music.

to surf the legends around the US stadium circuit,

basking in the admiration and fiscal tributes of both
their comfortably grown-up original fans and a new
generation of teens and twenties who have been
trained, through the good offices of Classic Rock
radio, to respect their elders.

On the first album, the way a song like 'Stop Your

Sobbing' as lately immortalized by La Hynde
krashes in on the heels of a succession of rickety
Berry borrowings demonstrates with telling
efficiency that Ray had considerably more up his
sleeve than contemporaries like Gerry And The
Pacemakers and the Fourmost.

The Beatles are, of course, long gone; the Beach

Boys are a mere empty shell; the Yardbirds didn't
even see out the '60's before mutating all ripped
seams and green skin, like Bill Bixby becoming Lou
Ferrigno in a re-run of The Incredible Hulk into
Led Zeppelin; and only the mentally ill could give a
damn what happened to Freddie and the Dreamers.

By the time Face To Face arrived, Ray Davies had

attained some level of kontrol over his muse: the
flights of casual, diffident brilliance had become the
rule rather than the exception. And the
documentation of his development as a songwriter
isn't even komplete on these albums: there were all
the singles and the EPs like Kwiet Kinks as well
with songs like 'Well Respected Man' included.

Meanwhile, the Kinks never went away. Or maybe

despite their glittering string of hits and Ray Davies'
entirely justified renown as a Great British
Songwriter (just below Lennon and McCartney, just
above Pete Townshend or Jagger and Richards)
The Kinks never quite arrived.
"The reason we chose the name The Kinks," muses
Raymond Douglas Davies, "is that it only had five
letters and it fitted on the billboards." He pauses
before continuing, in a tone suffused with ironic
melancholy. "I've always hated the name. I
remember a man named Patrick Doncaster, who
used to write for the Daily Mirror, who said that
there was a new group out, and they had good
records and everything, but unfortunately they're
called The Kinks. It's unfortunate for them, because
the name is really gonna do them in. And I think it
was a bad choice in the long term; in the short term,
we were at the bottom of the bill on a show and
there were five other acts on, and even though we
were bottom of the bill, our name still looked big.
That was the whole idea of it."

Virtually everything on these albums has been

available for years on collections like Golden Hour
Of The Kinks Vols 1 & 2 and such, which compress
the tracks so viciously that most of 'em sound even
weedier than they did at the time. Purists and
nostalgists will, however, be delighted at the
opportunity to kollect the set in the original
packaging, though it would be nice to have 'em at
1964-6 prices as well (1.62 an album, anyone?
Sigh).
Owing to the high proportion of grade Z R&B on the
first two albums, The Kinks Kontroversy and Face
To Face unquestionably have the edge on musical
merit as opposed to curiosity value, but anyone
young and wealthy enough to want to investigate
what the Kinks sounded like in the gulp mod
era should approach, albeit cautiously, and any
authentic '60s kids who had their kopies nicked or
scratched beyond redemption at parties should
welcome the opportunity to replenish their supplies.

Well, The Who went one better because their name

only had three letters.
"They always went one better than me. Than us."
How... unfortunate.

Where have all the good times gone, anyway?

The improbable saga of The Kinks spans a full

quarter-century of conflicts, traumas and tears
before bedtime; of defeat grimly snatched from the
jaws of seemingly inevitable victory; of Ray Davies's
well-nigh ceaseless struggle to overcome the
advantages of his own colossal talent. Managers,
publishers and record companies have staggered,
bloody and bemused, into the wings, telling tales of
drunkenness and cruelty. The other heroes of the
British Invasion went to the States and cleaned up;
The Kinks crossed the pond and fucked up; vitally
important late '60's showcase gigs were sabotaged

Charles Shaar Murray, 1984

The Kinks: Tales of Drunkenness and Cruelty
Charles Shaar Murray, Q, September 1989
REAL LIVE EARLY '60's beat combos don't just
grow on trees. As the greenhouse summer of '89
wears on, The Who and The Rolling Stones have
reassembled the Diaspora of their constituent parts

1052

by over-refreshment and under-rehearsal. Their

arch-rival London art-school post-R&B rockers The
Who may have trashed instruments on stage, The
Kinks sometimes trashed each other; one never-tobe-forgotten-mid-'60's Cardiff gig, drummer Mick
Avory (only recently departed from the ranks)
attempted to maim his fellow founder-member,
Ray's lead-guitarist kid brother Dave Davies, by
cutting his head open with a hi-hat cymbal stand.
Punk rock or what?

Until, that is, they responded to the New Wave

challenge by cranking up their amps, returning to
arena-rock basics and finally making a convincing
dent in the American market, which returned the
compliment by gathering the veteran British
eccentrics to their collective bosom. But though The
Kinks American dalliance revitalized their careers
and produced at least two songs their 1984 hit
'Come Dancing', and Ray's scene-stealing 'Quiet
Life', a highpoint of Julian Temple's Absolute
Beginners which were the equal of all but the very
best of their '60's classics, disappointing sales of
their 1986 album Think Visual have worn the gilt of
that particular gingerbread-burger.

Yet the chaos and mayhem was always

counterpointed by the miniaturist delicacy of Ray
Davies' sentimental, nostalgic social-realism; an
almost unparalleled catalogue of songs with an
emotional range exemplified by the two most recent
covers from his catalogue: The Stranglers' grungy,
guitar-mauling 'All Day and All of the Night', and
Kirsty McColl's eerie, affectless version of the
exquisite, yearning 'Days'. They may have been the
most inept and unconvincing blues band spawned
from the Great British R&B Boom, but no one who
consumed pop in the '60's could forget the
heartbreaking urban-pastoral visions like 'Waterloo
Sunset', 'Autumn Almanac', 'Shangri-La' or 'Dead
End Street'; or uproarious, plank-spanking rave-ups
like and 'Till the End of the Day'; hole-in-one social
satires like (which, unforgettably rhymed 'Goes to
the regatta' with 'dyin' to get at her') and 'Sunny
Afternoon'; or goofball shaggy-dog stories like
'Apeman' and 'Lola'; let alone just plain great songs
like 'Set Me Free', 'Tired of Waiting', 'Wonderboy',
'See My Friends' and 'Days'. The Davies songbook
has been raided by the likes of David Bowie
('Where Have All the Good Times Gone'), The Jam
('David Watts'), Van Halen ('You Really Got Me',
'Where Have All the Good Times Gone') and The
Pretenders ('Stop Your Sobbin'', 'I Go To Sleep'),
Pete Townshend considers Ray Davies to have
been the greatest British pop songwriter of the '60's,
and he's probably right.

So, what did happen to the Kinks?

It is not so much a Sunny Afternoon as a Rainy
Morning over North London, complete with a
squalling storm which provides the rough equivalent
of a needlepoint spray of fresh sweat. Inside Konk
Studios, a square grey concrete thing just a Les
Paul's throw from Hornsey Station, Ray Davies is
climbing the stairs to the cramped attic room
crammed with recording equipment including a
small DAT recorder where he produces his
demos. Down below, the main studio is being
readied for the afternoon's client, and, in another
room, the current Kinks rhythm section of bassist
Jim Rodford and drummer Bob Henrit (both exmembers of Argent, trivia buffs) are rehearsing up
the new songs for the next spate of live concers. At
45, Ray Davies looks uncommonly spry and
youthful; he seems five years younger than Pete
Townshend, 10 years younger than Keith Richards
and at least 20 years younger than Van Morrison.
He wears a yellow T-shirt with DAVIES emblazoned
on the front in stick-on letters, and he is using his
DAT machine to record our conversation. He is
considering the preparation of his memoirs, and he
finds that he is most eloquent in conversation with
others. Or maybe he just doesn't want to be
misquoted.

The Kinks spent most of the 70's turning their

shows into massive dramatic extravaganzas
designed to promote concept albums
Preservation Acts I and II, Soap Opera and
Schoolboys in Disgrace sufficiently ambitious to
make the bombastic brain-children of the man
Townshend seem like Kylie Minogue singles by
comparison; Ray diverted any surplus energy into
the attempted launch of his own Konk label, with an
artists' roster that included Cafe Society (featuring a
young Tom Robinson, with whom a spectacular
falling-out soon ensued) and Claire Hamil. Konk
Records failed Ray Davie's talents as a
businessman are only slightly more impressive than
Donald Trump's skills as a songwriter and, more
significantly, The Kinks stopped having hits.

So, does Ray Davies consider The Kinks the band

who are still here and still successful despite doing
everything wrong?
"Well, I'm still here, but we're not particularly
successful in the world of Good Morning Britain, or
whatever it's called, or in the press or in the media.
But we go out and play concerts and there's a hard
body of fans there that happens to turn up. I dread
going on tour. We played a couple of dates here
last summer and it was pitiful. It had only been
advertised a week before and it was the height of
summer...but it was typical of the way we are, I
remember us going on tour when we had a Number
1, and we had about 10 people in the audience. It

1053

happens that way. Or we'll have terrible press or no

press and we'll do a warm-up gig somewhere and
it'll be packed, so you never know what to expect.
And I think that was true of us, as well. People for a
while didn't know what to expect from us."

"And I found myself confronted with frightfully welleducated interviewers, people from The Observer
actually reading things into my songs that I hadn't
intended. Until a smart girl called Janet Maslin
came along and pointed out in the New York Times
that I write from an unconscious stream of thought
and it bypasses any kind of analysis that I might do.
So then I went through a stage of trying to analyse
what I was doing and play it by their game, and that
didn't work and the music became pretentious and I
did. Not me," he adds hastily, "but 'I' through my
work, because my work was me. So you have to
find yourself, and you fail, and you find yourself. I
remember the keyboard player of The Mojos, who
were above us on our first tour, and they had a hit
called 'Everything's All Right', and he said, I'm only
going to stay in this business as long as we keep
going up, because I don't think I can think the
downs. And when they went down, and he's an
accountant now, being very successful. But we
went down several times, and I kept coming back.

Except that, on their day, they could be either

hideously or hilariously inappropriate and
unpredictable. Haven't they spent 25 years
positively avoiding success?
"I tell you what it was. We'd had, I think, three
Number 1s and a Top 10 in six months, right? The
first one was in September (1964) and the following
February I sat down and said, I can't do this
anymore. We were going to Southampton to do a
television program, and we were like celebrities
enough to be presenting awards to people, and I
said, I won't stand for this shit anymore. I don't want
to do it. I've just had enough of doing publicity. I'm
not very good with the press and I don't like my
pictures in the paper. I'd said that I thought I could
sing 'You Really Got Me' better than Frank Sinatra,
and somebody asked, Who is this guy who thinks
he can sing better than Sinatra? I'd had all the
praise for the first three records and I was getting
the backlash and I didn't want to do it anymore.
Now our press guy at the time was Brian
Sommerville, a very strict guy who'd done the
Beatles. He'd manipulated the press on that very
famous Beatles night when they'd done the
Palladium ("rattle your jewellery"), and he turned
round and said, Don't be stupid. You're doing this
job; you're either in the business or out of it. And I
said I wanted to be out of it, and I didn't do press for
a long time, and maybe that's why I've had a mixed
reception...press people think I'm difficult."

"And I often wonder why. Am I a liar? Am I just

pretending to be an artist? Have I got this silly
studio which by chance happens to be half a mile
away from the art college that rejected me, but I
wanted to change mid-course and do a film and
theater. They said, You're doing fine art now, and if
you want to change you'll have to go to another
college and lose your grants. Am I trying to get back
at that? Or was it my dream to have a studio and
recording complex where performers can be free
from the restrictions and the rip-off of record
companies that we had when we were getting three
per cent and paying 40 per cent to managers? So
I started Konk and what happened? Old Tom
Robinson started slagging me off in the press like I
had become everything I'd fought against. You
know what I mean? I don't think there's any way
out. Artists need authority, or someone who
resembles the benefactors and patrons of old, to
fight against. Like going back to the Medicis and the
people who supported Rembrandt.

But it's not just the press...

"My secretary thinks I'm difficult."
You've reduced successive waves of managers to
despair, checking themselves into clinics...

"We became successful before the market research

got involved with record companies, before it was
really an industry. It was Louis Benjamin down at
ATV who happened to have Pye Records as a
subsidiary. I was with Mo Ostin, who ran WEA, the
day the music industry got bigger than the film
industry. The sheets had just come in, and the
record division had made more money for that
quarter than the film division. We'd just had 'Lola',
which was a big, big hit, and my then manager sat
down to negotiate my worth, and I asked just one
question. I said, Can you tell me how many artists
you have on your roster? And they didn't know,
because there were so many. So I backed off. And

"I think they have gotten what's theirs, quite frankly.

Same as I got what was mine. There's a wonderful
line in Godfather II when my favorite actor Lee
Strasberg is talking to Al Pacino and telling him the
story of Moe Greene who founded that city what's
it called? Las Vegas. Moe had a dream. And he
says, 'Moe got his and that's the rules we play.
That's the game we play, and that's the life we
chose.' I don't think any of my managers checked
into a clinic, though I think they ought to have done.
I was the one that ended up in a clinic.

1054

what did I do? I went to RCA, where they had even

more people."

experience. They would have been smuggled out in

an ambulance by Norman Rossington and whisked
on to a train where they would've sung a song to
two dolly-birds. It was things like that which caused
a lot of insecurity with the other guys, and the
famous fights started between Dave and Mick. The
famous Mick attempted murder on Dave...in front of
five thousand witnesses."

If time travel was a reality, and the mature, worldlywise Ray Davies of today could whizz back to 1964
and murmur words of wisdom in the ear of his
petulant, fractious younger self, what would he tell
himself?

Way back in prehistory, Ray Davies wasn't the

central figure of The Kinks. Originally, the group had
been the brainchild of Dave Davies, three years
Ray's junior, who had the longest hair, wore the
wildest clothes and was the first to root out the John
Lee Hooker and Howlin' Wolf records which were
the undeniable badge of hipness in the early '60's.
The long-running fraternal wrangling between Los
Bros Davies has been the most constant element in
the tragi-comic soap opera of the Kinks. "I was the
rhythm guitarist in The Kinks. Dave did the singing
because he was the prettiest and looked more like
The Rolling Stones than I did. I was a very good
rhythm guitarist.

"I wouldn't tell him anything. I'd find out what ideas
he had, and I'd take them. I don't think I would have
listened, quite frankly, if the older me was giving me
advice. No, I'd say, Get a lawyer, get laid and wise
up. Get drunk...do anything to delay a decision. Live
a bit. But there was no time because I knew I had to
be successful with 'You Really Got Me', or I would
never do anything. So we took bad deals. We knew
they were bad, we knew we were getting screwed,
but we just had to take the chance that we had.. We
were just at the end of the era of the Larry Parnesstyle manager, who had total control. And I didn't
realize until about four years ago, when I had a brief
period of being managed by Larry Page, who'd
managed us originally, and I realized that he had to
have total control, because he came from that era.
Whereas people like (Pretender's manager) Dave
Hill and (Elvis Costello's manager) Jake Riviera
were like an arm of the band, and they would take
that to the record company, and the record
company would then serve the band."

He had the best haircut in British rock for a while.

"For a while, yeah. You should see it now! The
saddest day for me was when Mick left. Dave and
Mick just couldn't get along. There were terrible
fights, and I got to the point where I couldn't cope
with it any more. Push came to shove, and to avoid
an argument I couldn't face...we were doing a track
called 'Good Day', and I couldn't face having Mick
and Dave in the studio, so I did it with a drum
machine. Dave said he wanted to replace Mick, and
Mick had an important sound. Mick wasn't a great
drummer, but he was a jazz drummer same
school, same era as Charlie Watts. I took Mick out,
and we got very, very drunk. We were in Guildford,
and after about five pints of this wonderful scrumpy,
Mick said if any other band offered him a tour, he
wouldn't take it, because he didn't want to tour. And
I remember him getting the train back because he
was banned from driving; it was a very bad year for
Mick and he walked to the station and
disappeared into the mist. I'd never fired anyone
before. When someone in the nucleus of the band
goes, I get upset... but now I'm used to people
leaving me, I expect it every day."

Yet no matter how badly served The Kinks may

have been by their management and labels, they
were still their worst enemies. The onstage fights,
the walkouts..."It was a few guys who'd been
nobodies a few months before. We didn't go
through what The Beatles had gone through in
Hamburg, we didn't hang around as a band and live
as a band. I went straight from college into the
band; I was a nobody, then I was successful. It was
not being able to grow up. Judy Garland is an
extreme example of someone who wasn't able to
grow up properly. My ideal version of me is like a
jazz guitar player. That's how I got started; going to
the clubs. No singing, just sitting in a corner playing
the guitar like Tal Farlowe; walking home to
Highgate from Soho and arriving home at five in the
morning for college at nine. I was happy doing that;
then something triggered me to be successful. We
didn't have a chance to evolve or mature as
people...

The essential Kinks, though, are Los Bros Davies;

without Dave it would simply be Ray Davies and the
others. "It was like that on the soundtrack of Return
To Waterloo. Dave refused to play and so it had to
be 'Ray Davies and members of the Kinks'. If he
had worked with me on it, it would have been a
great record, but he let me down."

"I remember we did a concert in Denmark and there

was a riot at the gig. The police were beating the
kids up and the kids smashed the theater up, and
they locked us up in a room. The people were very
abusive to us as if they thought we'd brought the
devil with us. It was very frightening, but if it had
happened to the Beatles it would've been a fun

1055

Ray Davies displays a fist with a knuckle squashed

down below its fellows; he acquired this through
thumping a wall as an alternative to thumping Dave
during one of the more fraught sessions for the new
album. Rock's most famous fraternal row still
continues, and there will be no end to it this side to
the end of the Kinks. Though if the new album does
not achieve the success which Davies craves as a
validation of his very existence, that may well be the
final outcome. Maybe, says Ray, the end of the
band would be the making of the 42-year old kid
brother. Maybe. After all, he hates the name. He
even hates the name 'Ray Davies', though he
says, sketching in the air 'it's quite good name
graphically, I suppose."

you haven't got it any more you realize how lucky

you were to have it."
As ever, Ray Davies complains; as ever, he mourns
what he complained about as soon as it's pulled
down, because what replaces it will be even worse.
The eternal nostalgic grouser, he still hymns the
good old days. So, Ray, when was it good?
"I'll tell you when it was good. When I was walking
down the road with Michelle Gross, whose dad
owned the sweetshop. She was about a foot taller
than I was and she had her arm around me and I
said, "God, if I can stay with this girl forever I can
have all the sweets I ever want.' That was when it
was good."

The latest Kinks album, U.K. Jive, is recorded,

mixed and being readied for release (naturally, the
tune that inspired the whole album entitled 'Million
Pound Semi-Detached' isn't on the record); but
Davies has more non-Kinks projects on the go than
ever before. Eighty Days, a musical based on the
novel by Jules Verne which Davies wrote with
playwright Barrie (The Long Good Friday) Keefe,
has already had a moderately successful stage run
in California and may well move to Broadway in the
near future. Breakfast In Berlin, a semiautobiographical sequel to his TV film Return to
Waterloo based on events leading up to the recent
death of his mother and featuring some of the
songs from the new album, is in the preparatory
stages; and he is having talks with Sue Mingus,
widow of the great bassist and composer Charles
Mingus, about a "modest documentary" film based
on her husband's life, So why does he still need the
Kinks?

I bet you mourned the pound note when it went out.

"I've still got some!" But if the coin is replaced by
the ECU, you'll probably start missing those. "I hate
pound coins. They're only good for parking
meters...and I hate driving."
Looking back over a quarter-century of The Kinks,
Ray Davies is proudest, he says, of the intro to 'You
Really Got Me' and the lyrics of 'Come Dancing'.
Depending on the public reaction to U.K. Jive, The
Kinks could coast the baby-boom back into the big
league, or they could fade out with a final whimper.
Whatever happens, Ray Davies probably won't be
ready for it.
Charles Shaar Murray, 1989
The Kinks

"I've got to do these little things, otherwise I won't

be happy playing with the band. If the Mingus thing
doesn't happen I'll find something else, but I've
always been at my best when I've come off
something else and then make a record. This has
been tough for me, because I had to make this
record, but I was sick for a while last year and there
was a chance that we'd never tour again anyway. I
had a circulatory problem, I had stomach pains and
pains in my arm...I remember Dave coming to see
me. Actually, he didn't visit me in the hospital.
Nobody came! But he let me know through
somebody else that if I wanted to quit he would
understand and we could call it a day. The Who say
they're going to quit and nobody believes them; we
say we're gonna tour and nobody believes us.

Ira Robbins, Hall of Fame, 14 November 1989

In a packed concert hall somewhere, a delighted
audience sings "L!-O!-L!-A!, Lola!" at full power
while the song's author watches silently from the
stage.
Far away in a suburban basement, a couple of kids
with guitars slam out a clumsy 'You Really Got Me',
fantasizing about rock stardom while joyfully
revelling in the elemental power of those familiar
chords.
On her first trip to London, an American fan walks
across Waterloo Bridge at sunset, staring at the
Thames, wistfully imagining the faces of Terry and
Julie.

"I think it's a combination of not wanting to pull the

plug and realizing why I wanted to be successful;
because there was no other way for me. There's
that double-edge; you hate what you do but when

The Kinks. The dynamic brotherhood of Raymond

Douglas Davies and David Russell Gordon Davies;
lofty artistic dreams set against earthy guitar-

1056

playing energy. Thus volatile combination has

constantly courted danger, yet has also produced a
huge quanitity of unmistakable musical brilliance
that resonates with power and personality.

material. His attention to "the immense smallness of

life" and delight in the ordinary (who else would
write a satirical ode to tea?), however, went against
the popular grain. The gentle, occasionally nostalgic
sound of 'Mr. Pleasant', 'Wonder Boy' and others
also helped guide them away from a career based
simply around spectacular singles.

In the twenty-six years since four Londoners

ceased to be the Ravens and made an inauspicious
recording debut with an unconvincing version of
'Long Tall Sally', the Kinks and their music have
meant different things to millions of people. But one
thing the name invariably calls to mind is a stack of
classic British Invasion hits, from the universal
proto-metal romantic angst of 'You Really Got Me',
'All Day and All of the Night' and 'Tired of Waiting for
You' to the trenchant Carnaby Street character
studies, 'A Well Respected Man' and 'Dedicated
Follower of Fashion.'

After Something Else by the Kinks, characterized by

biographer Jon Savage as "a patchwork quilt of the
old upper-class Kinks of 1966, the crystalline pop
group of 1967 and the whimsy that was to follow in
1968", the Kinks turned to albums as their prime
forum. (Which is not to say that brilliant singles
witness 'Father Christmas', 'Juke Box Music',
'Superman' and 'Come Dancing' haven't
continued to pop up over the succeeding two
decades.)

As audibly obvious as it was, Dave Davies' trendsetting overdrive guitar sound was not the Kinks'
only influence on other art-school bands of the day.
Pete Townshend freely acknowledges their broad
impact (incidentally, Shel Talmy, who produced the
Kinks and the Who, persuaded both to record his
'Bald Headed Woman'); Jimi Hendrix, the Small
Faces and musicians who embraced Indian music
after 1965's droney but sitar-free 'See My Friends'
are also in the Kinks' debt.

One of the first fruits of that shift was The Kinks Are
the Village Green Preservation Society (1968), a
valentine to the good old days that blithely rejected
the future-fever then gripping the known universe.
(Ruing the present is a common Davies theme,
from 'Where Have All the Good Times Gone?' to
'20th Century Man.') From there, the Kinks went on
to make such magical records as Arthur (or the
Decline and Fall of the British Empire) (1969), Lola
versus Powerman and the Moneygoround Part One
(1970) and Muswell Hillbillies (1971). Constantly
innovating (consider that 'King Kong' preceded T.
Rex, and that Ray sang 'Apeman' in a Jamaican lilt
long before music from that part of the world
became fashionable) yet remaining uniquely
themselves, the Kinks defined themselves with little
concern for pop fads or fashion. While other groups
joined the rock aristocracy, assembled towering
amplifier stacks and unleashed a belligerent,
rebellious spirit, the Kinks clung to their pacific
guns, allowing only the quiet anguish of doubt and
dislocation to grip their lyrics.

Unlike many of their peers, the Kinks easily outlived

the beat era, adapting quickly to the greater
challenges that lay ahead of them. As that brief
musical explosion faded away, Ray Davies'
creativity flowered into more accomplished, mature
songs. A seamless transition from crash-and-burn
rock'n'roll aggression to sensitive (never
sentimental) introspection demonstrated the band's
developing stylistic capacity and outlined the
potential extent of Ray's compositional talent.
While rock stars in the late '60s played huge
festivals and envisioned a global youth culture built
around music, psychedelics, good karma and
inchoate rebellion, the Kinks kept their feet on the
ground English ground, if you please viewing
the world as an intriguing collection of individuals,
young and old. Defying the prevalent we-are-onelet's-take-it-to-the-streets spirit, the Kinks savored
the past and the personal in such absolute
masterpieces as 'Waterloo Sunset', 'Autumn
Almanac', 'Days' and 'Shangri-La.' (When politics
did enter Kinks songs in 'Sunny Afternoon', for
instance it was likely to be masked in subtle irony
or broadly aimed, as in 'Here Come the People in
Grey', at society's party poopers.)

Confronted with such courageous artistic

independence, America responded with a long
commercial yawn. Between 1967 and 1976, the
only Kinks album to make a significant chart
showing in the United States was Lola versus
Powerman (briefly reaching No. 35 in Billboard),
carried aloft by the Kinks' lone Top 40 single of that
decade, the provocatively ambiguous 'Lola'.
In the meantime, however, a disastrous four-year
ban (the result of a minor dispute with a promoter
and the American Federation of Musicians) on
playing in the U.S. was lifted in 1969, and the
Davies brothers, with drummer Mick Avory, and
John Dalton in place of original bassist Pete Quaife,
began building the Kinks' reputation for marvelous
(if occasionally ramshackle) live performances.

Always older in spirit than his contemporaries, Ray

Davies expressed an admiration for Cole Porter and
Irving Berlin which infused the Kinks' subsequent

1057

As a monumental decade gave way to a much less

explosive one, constant touring turned great songs
(e.g., 'Victoria', 'Lola', 'Top of the Pops', 'Skin and
Bone' and 'Alcohol') into concert standards. Again
armed with a faithful and growing audience
dedicated followers of the Kinks have always been
a likable genus unto themselves the Kinks
delivered the album that at once ended and
reviewed an important segment of their oeuvre:
Everybody's in Showbiz, two rambunctious live
sides and an album of new gems, including the
profoundly moving anthem to fame and loss,
'Celluloid Heroes'.

"I'm pleased for the people who believed in me all

along. It's nice for them to know that their faith
wasn't misplaced."
What more can we do. God save the Kinks.

*
RAY DAVIES ON SONGWRITING
"I've only written about 200 good songs", reckons
Ray Davies. "The rest are B-sides." His comments
about some of the former:

The next four studio records took an even further

step away from crass commercialism: ambitious,
inconsistently rewarding theatrical concept albums
Preservation Act I and II, Soap Opera and
Schoolboys in Disgrace that also formed the basis
of their mid-'70s stage shows. It wasn't until a
change of direction and label brought them to
Sleepwalker (followed by Misfits, Low Budget, One
for the Road, Give the People What They Want and
State of Confusion, all of which rocked the charts)
that they again fell in step with a sizable portion of
popular taste.

"When I first had some notoriety in London, I was

forced to have a party. I had a big fight with a
famous fashion designer because she said my
trousers weren't the latest. Rather than get angry, I
wrote 'Dedicated Follower of Fashion'. I was thrilled
when I heard that Noel Coward liked it.
"I tried to sing about issues of the time in 'Dead End
Street'. We were condemned a bit in England for
putting that out, but it was a hit. The promo clip got
banned. People didn't think a rock band should
make real commentaries.

While the Kinks continued to move forward through

the late '70s (continuing up to 1989's release, UK
Jive), a new generation found inspiration in the
band's early days. The Jam, Madness and other
mod-minded new wavers embraced aspects of the
Kinks' music, their foppish style of dress and their
lyrical focus on British culture. The Pretenders'
career-launcher was a cover of Ray's 'Stop Your
Sobbing'; Van Halen's debut ripped 'You Really Got
Me' from the past into the heavy metal present.

"I Go to Sleep' was written for Peggy Lee. I was

just a kid when I wrote that, so it can be excused.
"Sitting in My Hotel' is one of my favorite balladtype songs. It could have been a big hit for an MOR
artist, but I use a lot of London slang in it. I couldn't
imagine Andy Williams singing it.
"It would make me proud to hear Frank Sinatra
singing 'Waterloo Sunset'. That song came to me in
a dream. I woke up singing it in my sleep.

Having survived and remained active without major

interruption for longer than any '60s band other than
the Rolling Stones (and that lot takes far more time
between records and tours), the Kinks have gone
from hitmakers to cult figures and back again.
Although arena-scale megastardom has eluded
them, the Kinks are a genuine rock'n'roll institution,
and an amazingly productive one at that. With
asterisks for the underrated Dave Davies' three solo
records and Ray's Return to Waterloo movie and
soundtrack LP, only a handful of years since 1964
have come and gone without benefit of a new Kinks
album.

"I had writing block for a week once, and my

managers got panicky. They got Mort Shuman,
whom I admired, up to see me. We went out and
got drunk. He gave me a pep talk and I went home
and wrote 'Til the End of the Day'. That was the first
time somebody gave me confidence in my work.
"Someone from the Cure said in an interview that if
'You Really Got Me' came out now people wouldn't
play it because of the quality of the sound. But I
fought really hard to get the sound like that. I
wanted to get the sound that I heard on my
transistor radio.

Being elected to the Rock'n'Roll Hall of Fame, Ray

says, "is really nice, because the Kinks have always
been outsiders. I'm an outsider. To be accepted into
something is quite unique for us.

"Sexual ambiguity interests me. I used to go to this

club in Paris. One time my manager was dancing
with this beautiful black girl who turned out to be a

1058

guy in drag. He didn't realize it until about six in the

morning, when the stubble started showing. I wrote
'Lola' about a year afterwards.'

Castle Communications now own all the groups

1964-1971 Pye material (Reprise in the US) and
have been attempting to reissue those albums in
their original formats, same track-listings, same
sleeves etc, all a snip at 5.49. The Kinks (1964)
and Kinda Kinks (1965), the bands first two
albums, are among them, but you may prefer to
hunt down a gold, two-on-one package released by
Mobile Fidelity (UDCD 679), which reputedly boasts
better sound than the Castle versions though,
strangely, on this made for the hi-fi trade affair, the
first album is reproduced in stereo and the second
in mono.

"We'd just returned from America and I'd been

working non-stop, so they sent me for a holiday in
Torquay, which is very comfortable, middle class. It
was a wonderful old hotel, full of successful people.
It was the first time outside of touring with the
band that I had encountered that lifestyle. I felt
completely out of place. People were asking me to
play golf and stuff, so I wrote 'A Well Respected
Man'."

Sonically, few of the early Kinks albums are prizegrabbers, while Castles version of Lola Versus
Powerman and The Moneygoround, Part One
has not been greeted wholeheartedly by the
cognoscenti because, as Kinks Fan Club Secretary
Bill Orton explains" "There are several little things
missing the intro into 'Top Of The Pops' and other
guitar lines. In fact, this is something that happens
right across the series, though Lola Versus
Powerman is one of the worst in this respect."

Ira Robbins, 1989

The Kinks
Fred Dellar, Mojo, March 1997
Every month we navigate the highwater marks,
rapids and stagnant ponds of a prolific artists
CD output, so you dont have to. We begin
with...

Castle, for their part, are aware of such problems

and, with the help of Ray Davies, are currently
planning a series of remastered reissues. "Its the
first time Ray himself has been involved in the
reissue of this material," claims Castle.

THE URGE TO REISSUE KINKS MATERIAL LONG

predates the advent of the CD. So many retreads of
their hits have been issued over the years through
myriad licensing deals, that it has had the effect of
obscuring The Kinks true progression. Hardly
anyone regards Kinks albums in the way they do
Beatles or Stones long-players. Yet they made
some crackers. (Though it must be said that Pyes
A&R practices didnt encourage their acts to pay as
much attention to album-making as to singles.)
Then theres the bands long and complex post-Pye
career. Theres plenty of good music too. Its a
vicious circle. So badly served has their legacy
been that its no wonder people opt for the hits
packages, thereby reiterating the notion that thats
all there is to Klass-A Kinks.

Others in this series are The Kinks Kontroversy

(1965), Face To Face (1966), Live At Kelvin Hall
(1967), Something Else (1967), The Kinks Are
The Village Green Preservation Society (1968),
Arthur (1969), and Percy (1971). From 1972 they
were signed to RCA (1972-76), Arista (1977-84),
London (1985-92) Columbia (1993) and Grapevine
(1994), and though seven Kinks albums charted in
the US in the 70s and 80s, the last British LP to the
chart was Something Else. This explains why so
little post-Pye material is presently unavailable on
CD in the UK.

Lets assume you still want the hits. Polydor have

released a compilation entitled Definitive
Collection a 26-tracker that basically contains the
prime 60s chart-botherers along with a smidgen of
post-Pye stuff such as 'Come Dancing' and 'Dont
Forget To Dance'. But at 15.49 it offers little
competition to Castles Complete Collection, a 25tracker comprised entirely of the Pye classics but
retailing for just 6.99. Kinks Remastered, a 60track 3-CD slip-case set, is astonishing value at
12.99 and offers enhanced sound, though little in
the way of luxury packaging. The main drawback is
that some essential cuts are missing, no 'Days',
'Plastic Man' or 'Victoria'.

Happily, the bands RCA material Muswell

Hillbillies (1971), Everybodys In Showbiz,
Everybodys A Star (1972), Preservation Acts
1&2 (1973/74), Soap Opera and Schoolboys In
Disgrace (1975) has been reissued caringly by
US Rhino, while sundry items from the rest of The
Kinks catalogue are still available, albeit often on
import labels.
Fred Dellar, 1997
Ten Questions for Ray Davies
Chris Ingham, Mojo, April 1997

1059

What's happening in Kink land?

influence the song. There's an element of

pretending things are happening to someone else in
everything I do, really.

To The Bone is a new semi-Unplugged Kinks

double live album originally done for my own
archival purposes, four years ago. We'd done a
really tough world tour and didn't know if the band
would actually play together again. Pleased with it.
I've also been doing my solo show with readings
from my book X-Ray, Kinks songs helping the
narrative along.

Why do you write songs?

It's an interesting way of putting down thoughts. I
had insomnia when I was a child and I think it's
simply because I heard that jazz musicians stayed
up all night composing, I thought, That's a good
thing to do. When people said, "Why don't you
sleep?" I could say, "Because I'm a songwriter." It
so happens I did well, but I like to think that if The
Kinks hadn't been and I'd become a painter or
worked in Sainsbury's, I still would have written
Waterloo Sunset.

Is it a challenge sorting through your catalogue,

deciding what to dust off?
The problem is sorting out what drove me to write
any given song. A lot of my inspirations are
momentary, impressions of people and things. I
have to try and find the original mindset, get back
inside the song. A lot of what I write is
psychological, it seems like face value but it isn't. In
discovering songwriting over the years, I was
discovering my own psyche. We did Do You
Remember Walter for To The Bone, only me and
Dave played on the original recording, hadn't played
it since. Nice to get that on. I've thought of doing an
evening of the neglected corners of the work. I call
that my work, not The Kinks' work, that's the
problem with it.

Why did you agree to lead a course on

songwriting?
I thought at least I could give a little of my
experience. I had no idea if I knew anything that
other people didn't know. It turns out that people
know anyway, they just want reassurance that
they're not going mad. That's something that's
disappearing from the music business. There was a
time when a publisher would sit down with an artist,
you would have to sit and play your songs before
they would sign you. Now it's just another way of
collecting money. So often A&R are just interested
in drum samples, not songs. In the '70s, I moved to
New York so I could walk down from my apartment
to Clive Davis's [head of Arista] office on 57th St.
and play him tunes. I got feedback, it was great

Your singing style is variously cool British pop,

Jamaican patois, rock bellow, upper-crust fey
cabaret, hillbilly twang. Why the disguises?
The songs are cast. I put myself into roles for some
of these songs. It happens, it's inevitable with what I
do. People have called me an actor but that's
because they can't categorise it. I am the tool of the
song, not the other way round. I guess some actors
can play Hamlet the way they play Shane, but I
don't. As an artist, I'm anonymous behind the work
and I quite enjoy that. It enables me to do more, to
stretch within a song.

You've done the vast majority of your writing

alone. Does it ever get lonely?
You need contact. I had lunch with my publisher
once in New York, went back, wrote three songs, all
pretty good. The secret is knowing when to break
off, get in contact. I've just been for a walk around
Crouch End, to see what people are like again. I
don't like being left alone to write an album. I like a
record company to say, "This is what we want."
What worries me is that most of these people don't
know what they want. You make 15 demos and the
president of the company says, "Nah, it's not what
we're after." What they should say is what they
bloody well want to begin with. But that's the story
of my life and of every kid who goes into a record
company. Don't do it.

You wrote X-Ray (The Unauthorised

Autobiography) from the point of view of a
young journalist interviewing you in the future.
Why the distance from first person narrative?
I thought it was the only way to do justice to the
band, to me, the background, I suppose the mental
state. Unemployable art student, six months later
under a microscope, it put me under a lot of duress.
It was the only way I could come to terms with the
psychological part of the book. The book is based in
my psyche. A lot of the underworld of the journalist
is basically how I felt, still do. It's my parallel world
that works with me. I couldn't have written a normal
book, that's the way I am. I'm quite a cryptic person,
I communicate in code most of the time. If there's
something that upsets me and something has to be
done, I'll put it on hold for a week or two, until I'm
ready to deal with it. And if I'm writing a song, it'll

Are you disappointed with the relative obscurity

of your attempts at song cycles like Arthur and
Preservation?
No, they were workshop productions, work in
progress. Also RCA didn't understand what I was
doing. They should have come on board, toured the
workshop production, modifying it, refining it,
investing in it. One of them actually said to me,
"We're not in the talent business." I'm not quite sure

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what that meant. Dare I say I was 20 years ahead

of them. Maybe I should have waited and made
regular albums but I think I would have gone mad. I
may have been mad anyway. The only reason I
wanted to go on was to make those shows. I've still
got this wish to do Preservation well. The albums
stand up, but they're a bit odd. I showed a film of
the Schoolboys In Disgrace (1975) show to a
theatre director in New York and he said, "You were
doing this then?" It was fringe theatre rather than
rock opera. When people see the film of Soap
Opera (1974), their jaws drop.

Muswell Hill, where he was born some fifty years

ago and for which some of his best songs have
done the seeemingly impossible - made it
legendary, like 'Penny Lane' or 'Route 66.' (Myth
hits, I suppose you'd call them.) "In my songs I
return to the very things I always didn't want to be.
You celebrate by getting away."
The news was conveyed by Julie, his longtime PA.
In a hurry and black high heels, she bustled in from
the bedroom part of the suite to the business part
and said: "Ray! They're giving you an award tonight.
I just heard. For two million plays. Of 'You Really
Got Me.' On American radio." That was his first hit,
with the Kinks, in 1964 when he was just twenty
years old - its sound was the foundation moment of
heavy metal.

In the late '70s, The Kinks seemed to reinvent

themselves as a kick-ass arena rock band,
perhaps neglecting some of the subtler aspects
of their art along the way. Are you aware of
that?
Yeah, post-punk. We concentrated on making
records that were more accessible for record
buyers. Ironically, that coincided with us going into
larger auditoriums. It was a concerted effort by
manager and record company to do that and we
bought into that theory, partly to get back the time
we'd missed in America in the early days by being
banned. Turned it on its head. Oddly, Clive Davis
didn't want Come Dancing to be a Top 10 hit. He
saw us as an AOR crossover act. We should have
been on Atlantic at that time. We would have sold
10 times as many records.

Then Julie hustled out again. As she went, Ray

said, "Oh." It was a voice of experience, free of
bitterness but a little resigned - the sound of having
learned things you'd rather have remained ignorant
about. Then, as Julie reached the doorway, he
added something: "I don't have the jacket, you
know." Julie turned back and said: "I know." It was
the voice of a mother dealing with a child who - in
the words of my grandmother - has his nerves too
close to the surface.
"I always feel older than I am," said Ray a little later,
amping up his words with a little camp weariness.
Not for him the ageing calisthenics of Mick Jagger
or the hair terror of Elton John. Ray Davies, 53,
greeted middle age like an old friend. He's felt that
way since his early teens. It was first pointed out to
him by someone he calls 'the woman in Pembridge
Villas' - Miss Blair was her name. 'You. Look. So.
Old!' she told him. He was thirteen, she was a
psychiatrist of sorts, based in Notting Hill Gate, and
he had every reason to look that way. What had
happened to him that year is what had brought him
to Miss Blair's.

The Kinks seems to have been a hip name to

drop as an influence for a while now. Do you
enjoy that?
It's flattering. All right, we've made a few key
records but sometimes when people can't put their
finger on describing something, they'll say "Oh, The
Kinks". When bands have something in them that's
a little bit off-centre, experimental-garage-artschool-type bands, they say they like The Kinks.
Not so much because they've heard every one of
our records, but maybe they recognise the outsider
spirit. At least we've fulfilled some sort of role.

On June 21, 1957, the day of his thirteenth birthday,

his beloved elder sister Rene had given him a
guitar. "I played one song for her before she went
out." It was from the musical Oklahoma! Rene went
to the Lyceum Ballroom and while the band were
playing a song from Oklahoma!, she collapsed and
died, of a broken heart - literally, it was rheumatic.

Chris Ingham, 1997

Ray Davies
Peter Silverton, Sunday Telegraph, 23 November
1997

Metaphorically, Ray's heart did the same. A fierce

Arsenal fan now awash in grief, he took to injuring
himself, taking a hammer from his father's shed and
bashing his shins till they bled. A few months later
he injured his back badly in a football accident.
"Losing the captaincy, the number four shirt, that
was also a blow." This led him to Miss Blair's - a
story he has recounted in X-Ray, his 'unauthorised

When the news reached him, Ray Davies was

sitting on the floor.
His grey-shirted back, propped against a chintzy
armchair in the Mark Twain Suite of the Langham
Hotel, was turned on Regent's Park and all points
north, including the dreary north London suburb

1061

autobiography' - and a recognition of his abiding

'sense of apartness'. It's still there. "I'm not
different," he says, scratching his forehead. "Just
apart."

improvement in prose-handling to his first, the

'unauthorised autobiography'.
He spoke from the floor up, his back pushed into
the armchair. "I don't trust armchairs to sit in," he
said - a direct legacy of his 39-year-old spinal injury.
It happened on a rainy day - the ball was coming in
high and fast. As captain he was on the post, ready
to intercept. "I went up, came down and hit the post
full on." Back then, goalposts were square and
dangerous. "It was a really bad injury. I bled
internally." What was the exact damage? "I was told
I had a 'bad back', nothing more detailed than that.
The doctor said that I shouldn't worry, it would go
away, to rest and not play sport for a year. Of
course, being thirteen, I ignored that. So threequarters of my back doesn't function at all well. I'm
not a cripple but the particular damage is not great
for playing the piano, typing or working a computer."
Three basic tasks for a songwriter, of course.

The odd thing, given his intelligence and powers of

observation, is that he never linked his sister's
death with the 'unfocussed' teenager he became.
The man with the acute eye behind Waterloo
Sunset only saw the connection for the first time
earlier this year, when fans who'd read X-Ray
pointed it out to him. "Now I see that the trauma of
your sister dying on your thirteenth birthday is
obvious. But I'd always thought that surely it should
be something more monumental than your sister's
death to make you that withdrawn. Clearly I couldn't
cope. Death scares people and when you're young
you're not meant to be an official mourner so my
brother Dave and I were kept away from the
funeral. Maybe it would have been better if we'd
been there."

At 19, as he was about to become a pop star - 'All

Day And All Of The Night' and all of that - he saw
not one but three specialists about his back, an
Englishman, an American and a South African.
'Pills,' advised the American. 'Operate,' counselled
the South African. 'Leave it. It might go away,' said
the Englishman. Ray smiles at the thought that
each nation acted according to type.

Maybe the events of 1957 also stand behind the

famously odd imbalance of the Ray and Dave
partnership - professionally perfect, personally
appalling. It's a story of fights, spittings, and insults.
Currently, Dave is on his uppers and living in Ray's
house in Highgate - while Ray is living at his other
house in Surrey. "I don't see him. So we get on
great," says Ray. Sometimes they sound more like
twins than brothers, locked together with suffocating
intensity, each doubtful of where he ends and the
other begins.

In his twenties, he was prescribed painkillers of

such ferocity that he more or less became a junkie.
"It was hard getting off them. I found drinking real
ale helped. People don't realise how much they
drink to get rid of pain. They think they're getting
high when really they're just getting rid of the pain."

They were two of eight children - the other six were

all girls. So when the younger Dave came along,
that was another trauma. Little Ray was no longer
the prince - which has left him with an ambivalent
attitude towards attention. Like any performer, he
craves it, only fully coming to life when bathed in it.
Yet he is also genuinely wary of it. Listen to the
story of his 'suicide attempt'. It was the early 1970s.
His first wife had left him, taking their two young
girls. "I was emotionally run-down." There was an
overdose and a hospitalisation. Sometimes he has
described it as suicide, other times as an accident.
Always he is uncomfortable with the idea of drawing
attention to himself, yet willing to acknowledge its
possibility. "I have this theory that people who want
to commit suicide manage it. And I didn't. Calling it
a suicide attempt makes me look like a 'survivor'. It
was a mishap, let's call it that. If I did talk about it as
a suicide attempt it was like boasting about it in the
pub so everyone will buy you a pint."

His 'breakthrough' came sixteen or seventeen years

ago. His back began to improve when he "stopped
running. It was too jarring on the legs - even on
grass, it's not good. Instead I go to the gymnasium
where I have an organised way of working out." It's
a "very aerobic" daily programme, involving 75 situps and utilising weights to work on "all the
essential parts" he needs to work on. "It's only 35
minutes. The other people at the gymnasium laugh
at me, saying you can't get anywhere in such a
short time. But..." He shrugs and pushes his back
into the chair.
"I find sofas particularly awkward. When I lived with
Chris, we didn't have any chairs." Gossip has
always had it that that chairlessness was less a
result of policy than of furniture-breaking rows:
Chris was his name for Chrissie Hynde, the pop
singer whose first record was a version of one of his
songs, who became his lover around the turn of the
eighties and who gave him his third daughter - there
were two by his first marriage, to a Lithuanian

He talked quietly, carefully, picking away at words

till he found the right meaning - as you'd expect of
someone whose second book, a collection of
stories entitled Waterloo Sunset, shows a marked

1062

named Rasa, though none by his second union, to

a teacher in Muswell Hill or by his current nonmarriage to Pat Crosby, an Irish ballet dancer.

Take a look at that face, the face of Ray Davies, it's

the classic Dickensian mug, the face of a silent
movie comedian, a vaudevillian, a vagabond
philosopher. Everything's a little bit off-kilter here.
That ragged, quizzical smile the very incarnation
of wryness, slyness and wistful melancholy. You
know what kind of songs it would write, a face like
that? Whimsical songs, would you say? Drenchedin-irony songs about gardening, ceramic ducks,
Alice-in-Wonderland cats, playing cricket in the rain.
And, you might add, great bushels of rock operas
about suburban English life.

As a child he dreamed of sporting triumphs. The

back injury put paid to that. "I just wanted to be
good at something. And with the sporting edge
barred, I went into songwriting." A recent,
unreleased song, 'Student Of The Game,' relinks
him with that sporting life. Drawing on his long term
Arsenal-fan experience of the subtle delights of the
0-0 draw, it was written for Ian Wright - not that the
Arsenal and England striker even knows about it. "I
know he likes rap and is proud to be black so I
wrote something a bit like Shaft - I figured he'd do a
Curtis Mayfield-type song really well."

As for Ray, just one of the lads, right? A feckless,

foppish fellow, a cockney dandy, the artful dodger of
Brit rock. But the charming, whimsical fellow of
countless interviews and stage pratfalls can't be the
whole story. He's well-known as a tyrant in the
studio, for one thing. And what about all those nutty
operas, one after the other, in the early '70s,
conceived, written, produced and performed by
Raymond Douglas Davies (and all the characters in
'em pretty much Ray, too)? You can just picture him
up there in his semi-detached row house in Muswell
Hill, raging on, with sublime disregard for the
exasperation of his bandmates, the outrage of his
record label or the howling of critics. It's exactly this
sort of perverse behaviour that has always
endeared him to us.

Maybe Ian Wright will one day hear it and sing it.
Probably not. But the story is very Ray Davies,
blessed with wry humour and an easily denied hint
of a put-on. We are, after all, discussing a man who
no longer even answers to his own name. He
changed it by deed poll to Raymond Douglas about
15 years ago, "to avoid a journalist" and, full of
regret, has been trying to get back to his original
name ever since. He says.
I first met Ray Davies when that was still his name.
It was just about my first professional assignment,
more than twenty years ago. How do you feel? I
asked, full of youthful spit and cliche. "Fine, apart
from this dry patch below my eye," he said - at a
time I now know he was in staggering agony from
his back injury.

The Kinks being yer kwintessential kult band (the keffect is mandatory), it should come as no surprise
that a number of their fans should hold in high
esteem some of the group's least commercially
successful records:the late '60s concept albums,
Arthur, Village Green Preservation Society, Muswell
Hillbillies, and the critically reviled Preservation Act
1 & 2, A Soap Opera and Schoolboys in Disgrace.
Arthur and Village Green and Muswell Hillbillies are
acknowledged masterpieces, but no one, outside of
the dedicated followers' brigade, would deny that
the Kinks' rock operas of the early '70s are
seriously flawed. Still, the Kinks' imperfections on
stage infighting, whimsicality and willfulness are
an essential part of their appeal, and, because they
have all recently been re-released by
Velvel/Records you are offered, unenlightened
reader, a chance to appreciate these longneglected works of Kinks past.

"I'm contrary," he says now - from the back-easing

comfort of a Langham Hotel floor. "That's why
people think I'm eccentric. I laughed all the way
through The Shining. I laugh at inappropriate times.
I see darkness when it should be light."
At the end of our meeting, he guided me out with
great courtesy. We walked straight past the door
through which I'd entered the suite. When we
reached the next door, he held it open, shook my
hand and gestured me through. I walked right into
the bathroom. "Very clever," I laughed. He shrugged
and laughed. Julie laughed too.
I've still no idea whether it was a considered gag or
an eccentric mistake. And nor, judging by her eyes,
despite all those years of working for Ray, did Julie.

A Kinky Kronicle
Since Brit Invasion rock is not yet taught in schools
(won't be long, lads, mark my words!), I will fill you
in on the peregrinations of the pre-operatic Kinks.
The Kinks became the Kinks in 1963, when the
nineteen-year-old Ray Davies and his half-brother
(sixteen-year-old Dave Davies) thought up this

Peter Silverton, 1997

The Kinks : Remembrance Of Kinks Past
David Dalton, Gadfly, March 1999

1063

saucy new name for their group, the Ravens (Peter

Quaife, bass; Mick Avery, drums).

Village Green, he began creating full-blown

documentaries of North London suburban life and
all things English and on the edge of extinction. Ray
once remarked that the decline of the British Empire
could adequately be dealt with in one fifteen-minute
song. In a slightly less presumptuous manner, he
preserved its waning days in one 45-minute album,
Arthur. Here, with an entomologist's zeal, he
recorded the habits and mores of the mothlike
denizens of his beloved Muswell Hill. It is a
poignant, evocative study of these exotically drab
specimens dreaming their magnificently dull
dreams. "Greyness," Ray once said, "is beauty in
boredom."

Having single-handedly invented heavy metal rock

with their 1964 hit 'You Really Got Me' (and its
follow-up, 'All Day and All of the Night'), the next
year the Kinks did one of their periodic 180-degree
mood swings. Newly devoted fans were alternately
bemused, irritated and delighted when, in late 1965,
the group released the first in a series of social
documentaries; 'A Well Respected Man' was
delivered in a vocal style as dry as a glass of sherry.
(The stop-and-go vocals of 'You Really Got Me'
were devised by Kinks producer Shel Talmy, to
compensate for Ray's quavering delivery.) Ray
Davies once described his elusive, wispy vocal
quality thus: "I once made a drawing of my voice on
'Sunny Afternoon.' It was a leaf with a very thick
black outline a big blob in the background the
leaf just cutting through it."

Arthur, the soundtrack for an abandoned Granada

TV drama, is the saga of a carpet-layer, Arthur
Morgan, and his family, who live out their comfy,
cozy life in a house called "Shangrila" all the
houses have names because they all look the same
with the telly, slippers, gooseberry tart picnics
and chintzy Cinderella snobbery ("She Bought a
Hat Like Princess Marina"). Although Arthur is a
biting satire of bourgeois pretensions and smug
self-satisfaction, Ray Davies remains a
compassionate chronicler, as in the heartwrenching "Every Mother's Son" where he sings,
"Some mother's son lies in a field/ But in his
mother's eyes, he looks the same/ As the day he
went away." In a curious blend of tenderness and
irony, he identifies with his creatures, as if slipping
secretly inside them to discover their "small quiet
radiance."

It was with their late '60s songs that the Kinks' lead
singer and song writer, Ray Davies, found his voice
and brought the Kinks to their second and most
critically acclaimed style, as the vaudevillian
historians of rock. 'A Well Respected Man' made it
into the top twenty, as did its sequel, 'A Dedicated
Follower of Fashion', (a little bit of mod mockery at
the expense of London's trends). Their reflective
and resigned river reverie 'Sunny Afternoon' got
them their third number-one single in England. For
some reason, many of their other extraordinary
songs from this period, 'Dead End Street', 'Waterloo
Sunset' (inspired by Terence Stamp and Julie
Christie in the 1967 film Far From the Madding
Crowd) and 'Days', made little impression on the
charts.

The Kinks might have been credited with creating

the first rock opera had not fate (and the craven
cowardice of Granada TV) intervened. Although it
exists only on record, Arthur is still a wonderfully
evocative portrait of waning, genteel British life.
Arthur came out one month after Tommy. They're
very different kettles of fish; Arthur acts as counter
point to the Who blockbuster. It's as if the humdrum,
molelike lives of the characters in Arthur provoked
the violent, autistic or double-schizoid adolescents
of the Who's Tommy and Quadrophenia.

Davies had perfected a new type of pop song the

poignant, mocking vignette and on the Kinks'
1966 albums Face to Face and Something Else,
Ray began painting tonal watercolors of suburban
British life that are masterpieces of concision and
atmosphere.
In their sensitive, sensual deja vu vignettes, the
Kinks seemed as interested in preserving the
absurd delusions they sang about as in mocking
them. Their lyrics, lucidly flickering in the declining
rays of the British Empire, have an edgy autumnal
iridescence. They were also the prototypes of Kinks
to come.

Once he had dumped Shel Talmy, Ray could

indulge himself in wry reverie to his heart's content.
Village Green came out in 1968, smack in the
middle of the psychedelic anschluss, making the
originality of his eccentric focus all the more
astonishing. Of Ray's unfashionable wistfulness,
one critic wrote that he was, "A genuine and brilliant
neurotic in a landscape of sham psychotics."

Landscape with Plaid Slippers

Village Green is saturated with nostalgia for a

vanishing world. Understated, bittersweet songs
embrace lost values as Ray's quavering voice
hovers over the simple pleasures and tribal

Ray had for some time been a subtle director of

three-minute movies ("I think of myself like an
independent filmmaker"), and with Arthur and

1064

customs of North London middle-class life and the

fading glory of the British Empire. The mundane life
of a small English town had never been so
exquisitely captured or so celebrated in slices of
life ('People Take Pictures of Each Other') and
yearning for lost innocence ('Do You Remember
Walter?') and days gone by ('Last of the SteamPowered Trains').

on Brit rock, the manic tongue in cheek flash of the

music hall allows the expression of feelings through
fictional characters in a light-hearted manner,
implying you don't really care at all about subjects
that actually obsess you.
There are two ways to go about writing a rock
opera: (1) Write a bunch of catchy rock songs and
then (try and) construct some sort of storyline that
hooks them all together (Tommy). Any old story will
do it doesn't really matter that the plot makes no
sense (Tommy, but more especially the Who's urrock opera, A Quick One While He's Away). The
important thing is that the audience leave the
theatre thrashing air guitars (and of course go out
and buy the double album); (2) Construct a wellthought out plot and then (try and) write songs to fit
into it. The second option sounds the better idea but
it really isn't. Rock is intuitive stuff, and too much
cogitation is its ruination. I feel a song coming on.)
What Ray did was to take the second option step
too far (especially in Preservation Act 2). But back
to your seats the curtain is rising.

Village Green is (very) loosely based on Dylan

Thomas's Under Milk Wood and in this sense it's a
sort of children's storybook set to music, complete
with cartoon characters like Johnny Thunder, the
funny "Wicked Annabella" and the Alice-inWonderland kinktoon, "Phenomenal Cat."
Having painted his touching sketches of post-war
British society with irony, elegiac affection and
muted rage, Ray, in his late twenties, got political.
"My ongoing theme is about the control of the
masses by the dictatorship of the media," said Red
Ray. (His aversion to tyranny apparently didn't apply
to Ray's growing despotic rule over the Kinks,
however.) His blossoming paranoia about the
government, bureaucracy, the media and realestate developers led him away from the sly ironies
and compassionate taxonomy of English middleclass life to a flaming agit-prop opera, a full-fledged
musical sprawling over three albums and one of
rock's magnificent follies.

The Kinks Go Kountry

"After 1973 I became a different person really," Ray
says, with classic Brit understatement. He had, in
fact, turned into a perfect maniac. Photographs of
him in his long overcoat and baleful gaze suggest a
brooding Napoleon at the battle of Waterloo.
Overnight he'd turned into a raving rock Rossini.
Operamania, mate! The seeds of this fixation could
be said to have begun with the concept album
Muswell Hillbillies (1971), an exuberant synthesis of
English middle-class themes to a Memphis blues,
New Orleans jazz and country sound track. It was a
great good-time rant on themes sociological and
political: bureaucracy, progress, disintegration of
the family, urban renewal, working-class life as in
Arthur, but much bleaker), jail, alcoholism and
"Acute Paranoid Schizophrenia Blues."

What's Opera, Doc ?

The rock opera is the product of the Brit art school
bands of the '60s. The term "rock opera" has just
the right ring of mock grandiosity to it. What are
really rock musicals are called rock operas to
distinguish them from rock musicals like Hair and
Jesus Christ Superstar, written by professional
songwriters to cash in on the youth market.
At some point, the ambitious little rock auteur grows
impatient with creating silly pop songs. He yearns to
create something monumental. Or at least longer.
The first stage of rock megalomania is the concept
album. Initially, LPs were just a bunch of tracks
thrown together to cash in on a hit single. With the
coming of FM radio, groups began thinking in terms
of theme albums: Rubber Soul and Pet Sounds
(Sgt. Pepper being the big daddy of them all). But
it's still just a bloody record, innit? Richard Wagner
being the secret ideal of over weening rock stars,
our ambitious little maestros set their sights on
begetting a Gesamtkunstwerk, the total work of art.
Hence rock opera.

About the time the Kinks moved into opera, Ray,

with theocratic conviction, proclaimed, "Most artists
are happy just make another album; I wanted to
create another world." He already had. What he
seems to have had in mind was a storyline into
which he could place the teeming characters who
lived inside his head. And in Preservation Act 1, out
poured a cast of wonderful, sharply drawn
characters all aspects of Ray more or less.
You can listen to Preservation Act 1 without
following the plot at all (don't worry, we'll get around
to in it in Act 2). All you need to know is that it's a
1984-ish manipulated-proles drama in the Kinks'
high satirical mode, in which the incumbent dictator,

The form was natural, considering the immense

influence of the music hall (vaudeville, essentially)

1065

Mr. Flash, a corrupt but endearing crook, is pitted

against the emotionless, repressive Mr. Black.

the Village. Mr. Flash, a ruthless, corrupt, realestate baron along with his spivs and floozies
has seized control of the government. The villagers
(you know, from Village Green) are dissatisfied and
foolishly seek a new saviour in Mr. Black, a
repressive conservative ("Down with nudity, breasts
that are bare, and pubic hair"). He has a monstrous
vision of a society "improved" by a fiendish form of
mind control (the Cleansing Ceremony) devised by
the eugenics-obsessed Mad Scientist that involves
a brainwashing helmet. Flash, too late, finds his
soul, and he and his cronies are eventually turned
into robots, the ideal citizens in Mr. Black's new
society. The Tramp is forced to undergo the
treatment, too, and thus his loss of individuality is
complete. (Some might see in this the kleansing of
the Kinks, a band, by this time, little more than
puppets carrying out Ray's ever-more-grandiose
schemes.)

"I've always enjoyed writing to a different character.

It allows me to say what is true." A specialty of
cockney logic, this. The Tramp is an unambiguously
romantic version of himself, but so is Flash (played
on stage with fiendish panache by Ray Davies a
flashy art deco coat-of-many-colors). There's a spot
of the chiding, puritanical Mr. Black in Ray, too, not
to mention Belle. And let's not forget the Vicar and
the Mad Scientist.
Preservation Act 1 is just the first phase of Ray's
opera follies, and on the surface it's still pretty much
a typical Kinks album: great songs sung from the
viewpoints of different characters. The Tramp sings
both the poignant 'Sweet Lady Genevieve' and the
lay-about reverie 'Sitting in the Midday Sun'; the
retro rocker Johnny Thunder belts out 'One of the
Survivors'; the Vicar delivers a silly-mid-on sermon
'Cricket'; Flash and his cronies sing the Whoish
'Demolition'; and the Tramp nostalgically ponders
'Where Are They Now?' (a list of missing-in-action
post war Brit working class heroes: Mary Quant,
Christine Keeler, Charlie Bubbles, John Osborne,
Teds, Mods and Rockers). The fact that the best
songs have little or nothing to do with the plot
should have told Ray something but....

It's not a bad plot, as rock operas go, the best part
being that it doesn't compromise itself with some
contrived, morally uplifting resolution (like some
rock operas we could name). Things just get worse
and worse (innit the truth, though? especially as
regards them bloody politicians), and a wonderfully
bang-up Kurt-Weillian black humour conclusion it is.
It ends spectacularly badly for all concerned. The
uncompromising satirist in Davies won't give even
his hero a happy ending. Still, it's hard to
understand how a subtle caricaturist like Ray could
have lost his sense of touch. Where is that poetic
eye that was cast on everyday lives in Village
Green? We miss the idiosyncratic loopiness, the
quirkiness and plaintive reflections. It's as if Ray
made a plan and followed it how un-Kinklike! The
only thing I can think of is that our hero must have
been on drugs. (There are scenes in emergency
rooms in X-Ray with nurses requesting autographs
that might suggest it was perhaps all due to selfmedication.)

Preservation Act 2 (1974) resolves the bitter rivalry

between the corrupt politician Flash and the
socialist reformer Mr. Black, with dire
consequences. Contrary to the carping of the
critics, there are some pretty good songs on Act 2:
the Stonesish rocker 'Money Talks', the caroling
mocker 'Shepherds of the Nation', the '20s jazz
quaverer 'Mirror of Love', the characterassassinating 'He's Evil', the Kurt Weilish 'Scum of
the Earth', the nostalgic 'Nothing Lasts Forever' and
the Andrews Sistersish 'Scrap Heap City'. But on
the whole the narrative drive is too unnuanced, and
punctuation of the songs with BBC-like news
bulletins filling you in on the plot doesn't help.

Preservation's relentless explication drove critics

into towering rages they still haven't forgiven
Davies for it. "Ray hasn't figured out the best way to
write a musical is to write good songs," one of the
kinder critics suggested, "not songs that just move
the plot along." The more merciless said that there
wasn't one good song on the whole damn double
album. My suggestion is to listen to this double
album (now on one CD) as you would Peter and
the Wolf. As a story, as a rock audio book set to
music. Just don't expect any rock anthems.

You could be kind and say that Preservation Act 2 is

a prophetically paranoid tale that toys with our
concepts of good and evil (true), but the effect of
listening to the two-CD set is somewhat like getting
on a train driven by a speed-freak engineer who
won't let you get off until he's good and ready
and insists on singing you his entire story. The
central problem with Preservation Act 2 is not that it
is so single-mindedly plotted, it's that the whole plot
is sunk into every song. You don't need a libretto to
follow the story, it's all s-p-e-l-l-e-d out.

Ray, it turned out, was pretty good at constructing

plots. Too good. The plots became a nutty sort of
monorail once he hopped on that train, he forgot
what he was really good at. Still, you don't want to

Here's the Preservation storyline in a nutshell: The

Tramp, a wandering Everyman (i.e., Ray) returns to

1066

be too hard on Ray. Maybe, as he says, it's a work

in progress.

melodrama about a shepherd's pie ('You Make It All

Worth While') and on to various absurdist period
pieces like the thumping 'Nutty Ducks on the Wall':
"My baby's got the most deplorable taste. Woo,
woo, woo. I can sit through gossip and soap opera
shows, but those ducks on the wall have got to go!"

"Yes, I'll sit back and listen and get the feeling it isn't
quite finished yet." To my mind, it's already a little
too finished. One expects more shagginess from
Ray, more shaggy-dogness, even.
On completion of Preservation 2 in 1974, the Kinks
toured with an elaborately mounted ninety-minute
stage show in which Ray and the bandmates, plus
some sidemen and female backup singers (who
took on various identities to portray the characters)
performed the opera from start to finish. This was
really a sight to see, and it's a shame it was never
filmed.

Soap Opera is rock seen as theatrical inanity in the

context of sub- urban life its foibles affectionately
viewed with transcendent surrealism reminiscent of
the paintings of Rene Magritte. "The romantic
become cynical side of Ray," says Dave.
Schoolboys in Disgrace (1975) serves rather as a
theme on which to hang songs that are in
themselves more Kinkslike than arias in an actual
grand rock opera: more rock-oriented, gutsier, with
a guitar-based melancholy. It's billed as a prequel to
Preservation Act 1 (Mr. Flash appears in it as a
randy school outcast), but it's just as much a
disguised autobiography of Dave Davies, the Kinks'
wild man and guitar wizard, and as such it released
energies long missing in the band. If anything, it is a
prequel to the Kinks' return to arena rock on their
1977 album, Sleepwalker. There are even some
catchy rockers here 'I'm in Disgrace', the Whoish
'The Hard Way', the Bandlike 'Last Assembly' and
the almost sincere 'No More Looking Back'.

Because of its complex narrative and obvious lack

of pop singles, Act 2 didn't do that well. But did the
mixed reception deter maestro Ray one iota from
his chosen path? Of course not! The following year
he created two more rock operas. Take that!
From Solipsism to Infantile Regression
With A Soap Opera (1975), we are back in
Kinkdom. This is a cute idea, with all the mockery
and send-ups we expect from the Kinks. It's more of
a concept album than an opera a collection of
individual songs with introductory (and hilarious)
dialogue. The plot, such as it is, is rudimentary; a
Bowie-esque superstar descends on a suburban
household and changes places with an average
bloke by the name of Norman. It's cute and funny, a
rock fairy tale of switched identities and a satirical
barb aimed at the inflated rock- wankers of the early
'70s Messrs. Eiton John, Rod Stewart, Bowie,
Jagger, et al, who pompously strutted about arena
stages with inflatable penises and such. The satire
evidently doesn't involve Ray's condescending
conceit an Olympian rock god living the average
fan's life in a little house on a corner, the moral
being that no amount of rock-star prancing can
equal the dramas in an average bloke's life. Nice of
you, Dave, a rock star, to make this ever-so-subtle
point. Ray's runaway solipsism the notion that
everything and everybody is in your own mind is
now consummate. He's star and fan.

Schoolboys, on the face of it, would seem a perfect

theme for two cases of arrested development like
Ray and Dave Davies, and it was, according to Ray,
"a meditation on the loss of youthful innocence."
But there's a bit too much nostalgia for their early
educational experiences. A little Matt-GroeningSchool-is-Hell cynicism might have helped.
Ray is a fiendish social satirist, and there are a lot
of wickedly Dickensian caricatures and great ideas
in these operas (and even some good songs). Still,
you didn't want to see the Kinks pursue this
indefinitely. The band that had virtually invented
heavy metal had somehow turned into a sociophilosophical jazz/theatre ensemble. By 1975, Ray
had been consumed by his troupe of characters.
The Kinks as a band were slowly becoming
invisible, disappearing into Ray's multiplying alter
egos, reduced to homunculi who carried out King
Ray's grandiose ideas.

"I thought it was an exercise in Ray's disappearing

up his own arse," said the typically direct Dave
Davies.

And in Konklusion
It's rock theater at its most eccentric, personal and
autobiographical, loaded with great songs from the
opening 'Starmaker' riff (based on the Kinksinspired Who song, 'I Can't Explain') to the
commuter's nightmare of 'Rush Hour Blues', the

After Schoolboys, the Kinks supposedly renounced

concept albums and rock operas forever (and if you
believe that). On to hard rock city and then the
stripped-down post-punk quartet of their late '70s

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comeback album, Low Budget, and the reflective

mood of Think Visual (1986).

approach to life and all-told dog's leg journey have

been an inspiration to us all these years, and
because, as Dave says, "Nobody else in rock in the
early '70s was doing anything as daring or as silly."

But visions of the old paint and the motley began to

come back when Ray started writing his
autobiography, X-Ray (An Unauthorized
Autobiography), in the early '90s. Schizobiography
might be more to the point. In X-Ray, an Orwellian
corporation in the future sends a reporter back to
North London to seek out the ageing Ray Davies
and get him to set the record straight. Good luck!

David Dalton, 1999

The Kinks: Hellfire Club
Johnny Black, Mojo, September 2000

X-Ray led to the utterly charming touring musical

autobiography, 20th Century Man/Storyteller, in
which Ray mixes remembrance of Kinks past with
acoustic versions of the band's classics (with Pete
Matison on guitar).

Their innocent exterior concealed a story of

murder, family feuds and skullduggery. But
between the fights and disasters, the Kinks cut
some of the finest records of their era. Ray,
Dave, Mick and Pete talk Johnny Black through
their stormy '60s.

It wasn't long before thoughts of things theatrical

began to arise again in Ray's head, prompted
perhaps by the Boston performance of Preservation
Act 2 in October of 1998 (they'd done Part I in
1993). There was (the perennial) talk of a movie
version, but then has Ray actually finished fiddling
with it? Of course, he hasn't.

It was a dark and stormy night. A car speeding four

grim-faced young Englishmen towards Springfield,
Illinois, sliced through the humid heat. Rolls of
thunder crashed above their heads. Sudden stabs
of lightning bleached their faces white as zombies,
but not one of them suspected that they would
spend their night in THE HOUSE OF DEATH!

"It's kind of my lost lifelong project, the thing that I

constantly find myself going back to," he explains.
"Just like Rembrandt kept painting his self-portrait.
It's about lost innocence and lost friendship, and
things that can never be recaptured, which are
subjects that have always interested me. When we
were originally doing it, somebody came up to me
and said. It's a mess,' and I said, 'Yeah, isn't it
great?' It's a real work-in-progress."

"We had a gig at the Illinois State Armoury," recalls

The Kinks' bassist Pete Quaife. "And the local
promoter who was looking after us turned out to be
real greaseball. He was polite enough, but a
greaseball nonetheless. After the gigs, he invites us
back to his house. Says he's got some people
coming round and he's got some booze, so we say,
OK. We get there, and the place has an awful,
sickly smell about it. But he's our promoter, so we
stay there, drinking, 'til about 3 am. When we
decide to go he gets upset, says can't a couple of
us stay? By now we were beginning to get a bit
antsy about this guy, so we took off to the hotel and
that was the last we saw of him."

I wouldn't count on seeing Preservation Act in your

video store anytime soon. Still, this isn't the end of
maestro Raymond Douglas Davies, operamaniac. I
forgot to mention that Ray wrote and directed
Return to Waterloo for the BBC in 1983. I will,
however, pass lightly over his 1971 soundtrack for
Percy, a movie about a penis implant.

But it wasn't the last they heard. Over 10 years

later, the Kinks learned that the police had dug up
corpses of 33 young men in the basement and
garden of their greaseball host, the serial killer John
Wayne Gacy. "We could have ended up as
mementoes bricked up in his walls," says Quaife,
still wincing at the thought.

Will we see the Kinks on Broadway? The Who have

been muckin' about on stage long enough. There
are rumours of a Broadway show called Come
Dancing (after their 1983 hit of the same name from
State of Confusion), an intimate and cinematic
memoir of Ray's older sister going out on dates to
dancehall in the mode of Arthur and Village Green.

The gothic nightmares that usually happen only to

friends of friends in urban myths heads slashed
open by razor-sharp instruments of terror, orgies of
meaningless violence, young innocents trapped by
webs of Machiavellian intrigue were the stuff of
daily routine for Ray and Dave Davies, the brothers
at the heart of the Kinks. And it started early.

From Arthur to Schoolboys, Kinks rock operas can

be seen as all part of a Muswell Hill ring cycle.
Whatever the charts, critics or disenchanted fans
thought of them at the time, it's an amazing body of
work that deserves a serious re-listen Because
their quirky falling-apartness, garage-band

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It's not recorder whether there was a storm of

preternatural ferocity over Denmark Terrace, Fortis
Green on June 21, 1944 the night Raymond
Douglas Davies entered the world but, Hell's
teeth, there should have been. The first boy born to
a family of six girls, baby Ray was cocooned by
their affection until February 3, 1947, when his
brother Dave popped into the world. From that
moment, Ray was no longer the centre of his doting
sisters' universe, and he knew it.

lucky punch. He fell and hit his head on the corner

of the piano. He was lying on the floor with his eyes
shut and I thought he was dead. I bent over him, to
see if he was breathing, and his eyes suddenly
flashed open and his fist hit me right in the face. I
think that says a lot, about how he could wait for the
right moment to hit back."
One light that shone throughout the Davies boys'
life was the love of music. The family and relatives
enjoyed regular post-pub Saturday night gettogethers. "Mum used to sing when she'd had a few
drinks," recalls Dave fondly, "and my dad used to
dance." The sisters, too, contributed to the lads'
musical education, playing popular records and
teaching them a few piano chords. Of all the sisters,
though, Rene was the one who truly recognized
and nurtured Ray's talents.

The Davies family was large and poor. The house,

in a run-down area of Muswell Hill, was too small.
At the head of the family was Fred, a gardener by
trade and a womaniser by habit. Usually to be
found down the pub, he has been described by his
son Dave as "a bastard to my mother". That mother,
Annie, stoically ignored Fred's philandering and
struggled to keep her eight kids fed, clothed,
amused and under some semblance of control. It
wasn't easy.

Getting close enough to find out what makes Ray or

Dave tick has never been easy but, in the late '60s,
the director/broadcaster Ned Sherrin became a
dearly valued friend to both. "There's always a
watershed in people's lives that affects their work,"
said Sherrin in 1996, "and in Dave and Ray's case it
was the death of their elder sister Rene."

There was beautiful little Peggy, hit by a stolen lorry

which left her with a damaged arm and impaired
hearing. There was fragile Rene, born with a heart
problem and later married to an abusive husband.
Ray, highly intelligent and able to sing before he
could talk, exhibited disturbing emotional traits. And,
like his dad, Dave had a wild streak that would lead
to his expulsion from the local secondary modern
after being caught in the long grass of Hampstead
Heath during school hours with a compliant young
lady.

Ray recalls how "my oldest sister went to live in

Canada, and when she came to visit she brought
back rock'n'roll music, Elvis Presley and things like
that." Dave goes further, explaining that "Rene was
the most artistic one in the family. And she was a
really a good pianist. When she came back to
England to live, she taught Ray to play the piano,
and she gave me mum the money to get Ray's first
guitar. She died, because of her heart problems, on
Ray's birthday the very day he was to be given
the guitar, so that brought up all sorts of mixed
emotions. Ned's right, that was important."

As the sisters grew older, married and moved out,

the boys found sanctuary from the turbulent family
home whenever trouble loomed. Ray lived with his
sister Rose for much of his youth, while Dave
farmed himself out to Dolly for much of the time. It
would be difficult to overstate how important the
sisters, older and wiser, were to the brothers.

But, as Sherrin had noted, Rene's death affected

Dave as well. "I was 11 years old, and I remember
my dad was crying and I felt like I had to be strong.
So that made me feel like I'd grown-up. Like I was a
grown up."

But Ray's simmering resentment of Dave grew

daily. It was while running out of the house to
escape the presence of his sibling that Ray fell and
smashed his front teeth, leaving behind the crooked
smile he still bears. By the age of 11, Ray was a
seriously troubled loner sleepwalking, skipping
school, showing little emotion except in extreme
outbursts attending regular psychiatric sessions,
and briefly, a school for disturbed children.

Outside the troubled family home, the music that

sustained the boys was beginning to play a bigger
role in their lives. "Ray and myself were in the same
music class at William Grimshaw School, in
Creighton Avenue, Muswell Hill," recalls Pete
Quaife. "One day the teacher asked if anyone could
play an instrument. I said, Yeah, I play guitar. I
couldn't, but I owned a big, horrible Futurama, so
half the story was true. Then Ray put his hand up.
Cocky bastard. So the next week we brought our
guitars and I played something by the Shadows."

Dave acknowledges that the rivalry goes back a

long way. Much of it was the normal healthy
aggression of brothers playing table-tennis or
squabbling for control of the record player. Other
incidents, though, had darker resonances. "When I
was 11, and Ray would be 13, we used to box. We
were having a lark around, and I caught him with a

1069

Then Ray stepped forward with his Spanish

acoustic and delivered a note-perfect finger-style
rendition of Malaguena. Quaife felt instantly outclassed. Rounding up a bunch of likely suspects,
including Dave, whom Quaife hadn't previously
known, they set about rehearsing at the home of
drummer John Start. "We quickly realized that none
of us could sing," notes Quaife, "so we got this guy
in from school, Rod Stewart. He was on the football
team, and he and Ray were both very competitive
and hated each other. Another reason it didn't work
out was because we were trying to do Big Bill
Broonzy-style blues, but Rod was into upbeat pop,
like Eddie Cochran. I believe he moved on to
another career!"

confidence to stay up there for half an hour," Wace

told Johnny Rogan in 1984. "It was mainly for a
particular social circle."

So, at the school dance in late 1961, they were

obliged to take turns handling vocal duties on
standards like 'Greenback Dollar' and 'Johnny B.
Goode', while fleshing the set out with instrumentals
including 'Perfidia', 'Apache' and 'Wheels'. "After
that we were very popular," says Quaife. "Not that
we were particularly good, but we were four boys
from that school playing on that stage." The group
continued and, for a while, Dave Davies felt that he
and his brother were getting along better. "Music
actually brought Ray and I together. During that
time, and right through the Ravens era before we
became The Kinks, we were very supportive of
each other."

It was now 1963. The Beatles were in full flow and

the Rolling Stones were beginning to make an
impact. Although Wace and Collins had no
knowledge whatsoever of music industry
management, they could see that big money was
there for the earning. They formed a management
company, Boscobel, signed up their Muswell Hill
quarter and, in so doing, sealed the fate of Ray
Davies.

Even so, after a gig at which Wace was roundly

booed off, it became evident that the creative liaison
was not going to gel. However, unwilling to let a
source of easy funds slip through his fingers, Ray
suggested that Wave might like to stay on as
manager. They had reverted to the Ravens moniker
by the time Wace brought in his stockbroker chum
Grenville Collins, as co-manager, on the basis that
Collins would make 50 percent of his annual profits
available in return for a percentage of the band's
earnings.

"We were still so young that our parents had to sign

the contract for us," points our Ray. "And, of course,
they never read it. It included a clause that gave
Boscobel the right to assign part of their
management duties to anybody they wanted. And
that clause eventually caused us no end of grief"

For the next 18 months, regular paid bookings at a

Crouch End school supplemented their
unpredictable income from weddings, receptions
and youth clubs until they landed a gig at "a place
called Toc H on Pages Lane in Muswell Hill. We just
ripped the house down that night, playing a very
deep, driving backbeat blues, very loud, very hard,
very fast. That was a bit of a turning point."

Although the Davies brothers' affection for Wace

and Collins remains undimmed, it wasn't long
before the working relationship hit rocky ground At a
gig in Lewisham, where the band were being paid
5 each, Mickey Willett learned that the fee for the
gig had been 64, so the management was
pocketing a significantly heftier 44. "I told Ray and
Dave about this and they were up in arms," said
Willett later. "That was the start of the rot." For his
trouble, Willett found himself ejected from the
Ravens. The super-smooth Wace and Collins had
convinced the brothers that the outspoken drummer
was a thorn in their flesh. "When I confronted Ray,"
claimed Willett, "he got upset and said, 'To be
honest, Mike, I don't want you to go, but what can I
do?'" Not for the last time, Davies Sr seems to have
been twisting a painful situation to create the
illusion that he was the one suffering.

By now, inspired by the Vincent Price horror movie

The Raven, they had become the Ravens, but they
were The Bo Weevils by the time they attracted the
attention of Robert Wace. The band's then
drummer, Mickey Willett, had encountered Wace in
a pub and the pair fell to talking about rock music.
"Robert fancied himself as a singer," says Dave
Davies, "and wanted a band to back him at posh
society dances, where he could pick up
debutantes." Despite the gap between the band's
working class origins and Wace's aristocratic
background, Dave took to him. "He wasn't a bad
vocalist, kind of a mixture of Noel Coward and
Buddy Holly, cute in a silly way."

In accordance with the troublesome clause in their

contract, and aware that their lack of music
business experience was a considerable handicap,
Wace and Collins approached Larry Page, boss of
Denmark Productions, asking him to join the
management team. A one-time EMI Records
packer, Page had previously enjoyed a brief career

Gigs would start with The Bo Weevils charging

through their energetic R&B repertoire, after which
Wace would flounce on and deliver four markedly
more pop-oriented hits." I didn't have enough

1070

as a '50s pop idol, but when that failed he made the

transition to management. His uncommon
entrepreneurial flair attracted the attention of Ed
Kassner, whose Kassner Music owned 'Rock
Around the Clock' among its many copyrights. Page
was made general manager of Kassner Music and
set up with his own management company,
Denmark Productions.

creative decisions came from us and Robert and

Grenville. Larry would then apply his practical
knowledge to help us put those ideas into practice.
But being of the old school of business, Larry'd say
one thing to your face, then he'd be bad-mouthing
you the next. It creates a lot of negativity, and that's
what eventually led to the management bust-up."
After drummer Mickey Willett has been dumped
John Stewart briefly replaced him but soon proved
unsuitable. Crawdaddy Club regular Mick Avory
responded to an ad "Drummer wanted for smart
go-ahead group" in Melody Maker. Avory, who
had rehearsed with an early incarnation of the
Stones, was put through his paces at the Camden
Head, Islington. "He was the best drummer we'd
seen," admits Dave Davies, "but I didn't really have
a gut feeling that he was the right guy. But the
pressure was mounting to do stuff, but I wasn't
happy with it at the start."

"Denmark Street was the hub of the music

publishing business," explains Page. "Wace and
Collins were working their way round, trying to get a
deal going for the Ravens. I went to see the band at
a pub in Islington. I watched them rehearsing,
playing R&B covers, and I liked the energy. They
weren't writing songs, but I saw their potential to do
the business worldwide. Dave was very striking, for
a start. He was just 15, shoulder-length hair. I
thought it was good that there were two brothers in
the band, but I didn't know then that it was brothers
at war."

Meanwhile, in the vital matter of securing the

Ravens a record deal, Page was making decisive
moves. "I started by going for the biggest
companies, with an international situation. I had a
very good relationship with Dick Rowe at Decca,
but he turned them down because they already had
the Stones. Then I took them to Philips. The A&R
man, Jack Baverstock, sat and listened while he
was reading his paper, then turned them down.
There were only about four significant record
companies and I tried them all. Then I went to Louis
Benjamin at Pye. The deal we got was only two or
three per cent, but when that's the only deal left in
town, you take it."

The tangled contractual web by which the Davies

brothers were already bound pulled its threads
tighter as Boscobel now signed a deal with Page's
company, Denmark Productions, giving it a 10 per
cent stake in the band's recordings and live gigs.
What Wace and Collins didn't grasp was that, as
part of Page's deal with Ed Kassner, the publishing
rights of any artist signed to Denmark Productions
were automatically assigned to Kassner Music
Page could act for the band not only as a manager
but also as their publisher.
Worse, this powerful entrepreneur had a very low
opinion of Wace and Collins. "They were both
dandies. They were each about six foot six and
when you spoke to them they'd stand there in their
500 pinstripe suits, bouncing on the balls of their
feet. They weren't managing. They were investing. I
controlled the band and all they did was take their
share. They had no knowledge whatsoever of the
music business, so whatever I told them to do, they
did." Wace, while not denying his lack of expertise,
begs to differ. "He was never the manager of the
group, although he may like to think of himself as
one."
Dave Davies offers a more balanced perspective:
"Superficially, they were upper class twits, with
these very plummy voices. But there was more than
that to them. Robert used to take the piss out of my
accent. He'd copy the way we spoke, and we'd
copy them. But there was a lot of mutual respect."

Wace, however, was instrumental in putting the next

block into place. Arthur Howes, the man who
booked tours for the Beatles, was perhaps the most
influential concert promoter of the era, and Wace
didn't want to settle for less. "Arthur's favourite
restaurant was The Lotus House on Edgware Road.
Robert had the idea that we should play there on
New Year's Eve of 1963, while Arthur was eating.
They had a little area in the corner where we set up
and played for him. He was one of those guys who
made instant decisions. I like it. I don't like it. Then
he'd be gone. Luckily, he loved us." The Ravens
now had management, publishing, a record deal, a
booking agent and a settled line-up but, with fairly
standard stage gear of leather jackets and long hair,
they lacked an image distinctive enough to set them
apart from either their loveably working class moptop Beatles or the even longer-haired surly Stones.

In Dave's telling, Wace and Colllins recognized the

music had an energy, a life force. They contributed
not just cash but important ideas and influences
which shaped the way the band evolved. "All the

"The image we settled on was all done because of

The Avengers on TV," says Page. "The word 'kinky'
was floating around, and we fixed up a session with
the photographer Bruce Fleming, with whips and

1071

riding crops, which was really just to create a sense

of outrage. I came up with the name, Kinks. Ray
didn't like it. He didn't like it when I tried to get the
gap between his teeth filled in either, but that's just
Ray." While in Paris to see the Beatles at Olympia
on January 17, 1964, Arthur Howes noticed that
their rendition of the Little Richard hit 'Long Tall
Sally' was bringing the house down. At once he
rang Page and instructed him to get the newly rechristened Kinks into Pye's studios to record the
track.

Fortunately, we were miming. I couldn't move

without falling over with the pain."
Asked if he had been aware, in 1964, that Ray was
taking strong painkillers to ward off crippling
backache, Larry Page snorts dismissively. "I was
aware that Ray had a history of mental problems. I
wasn't aware of it right away, but I soon was. But
the painkiller thing Ray would always come up
with some reason not to turn up at shows, so that
would be as feasible as anything." This might be
dismissed as just another of Page's gripes, except
that both Shel Talmy and Pye Records promo man
Johnny Wise, a close friend of Ray's for may years,
deny awareness of Ray's back problems or
painkillers.

The Pye deal, like every contract the band had

signed, came with strings attached. "When I did that
deal," explains Larry Page, "Louis Benjamin said,
'We've got a bit of a problem here. We have done a
deal with an American producer called Shel Talmy.
We'll sign the band but we'd like Talmy to produce,
because we've already paid him money to produce
something, so we have to find acts for him to work
on.' It was a time when anything American was
considered hot. Benjie had done a deal with this
guy and he was determined to get his money's
worth."

Coinciding with the April release of their second

single, 'You Still Want Me', The Kinks were added to
a UK package tour headlined by The Dave Clark
Five. Experienced tour manager Hal Carter was
drafted in by Page for the tour, with a brief to polish
up their somewhat ramshackle stage presentation
and bring it more in line with the elegantly decadent
upper class image that now exuded from their press
photographs. In pursuit of this task, Carter had
occasion to visit the Davies family home and found
it worlds away from the image he was being paid to
bolster. "The house was so crowded that Ray and
Dave slept in the front room, with their amps under
the bed and gear all around them." Roadie Sam
Curtis took away an even more disquieting
impression that, "they came from a very sad home,
in my opinion. I felt uncomfortable sitting down in it."

By his own admission, Talmy was merely a Los

Angeles studio engineer, a likeable rogue who had
bullshitted his way into production jobs in Britain. "I
took some demos to London with me that belonged
to my friend Nick Venet, head of A&R at Capitol
Records. The first person I was directed to was Dick
Rowe at Decca. I went in and reeled off a load of
records that I hadn't done and played Nick's demos.
So Dick Rowe said, 'OK, you can start today.'"
Adding to the many versions of events provided by
Wace, Page and sundry Kinks, Talmy retails a
variation in which he, not Page, landed the Ravens
their Pye deal. "I was standing in Mills Music in
Denmark St. when Robert Wace walked in with the
Ravens under his arm. I heard it and liked it. That
was the first thing I took away from Decca. They'd
already turned down Manfred Mann and Georgie
Fame who I'd brought in. I walked into Pye and got
them a deal." Whoever took them to Pye, Talmy
oversaw the first two unsuccessful Kinks singles,
'Long Tall Sally' and 'You Still Want Me'. To help
push 'Long Tall Sally', Page landed the band an
appearance on the most influential TV pop show of
the day, Ready Steady Go!, on February 3, 1964.
Ray, unfortunately, remembers the show through a
haze of agonizing back pain. "Thank God I don't
have to take very strong pills for it now. It's a
different era we're talking about, when I was ill. If
you had a bad back, they simply put you in a corset
for the rest of your life, hence you lose all control of
your muscles and they seize up. I remember doing
Ready Steady Go! standing bolt upright.

Nevertheless, Carter buckled in and set to work. "I

taught them some stage-craft. Never tell jokes
among yourselves, the audience feels excluded.
Never turn your back on the crowd. How to
introduce a song properly. Ray took it on board,
Dave moaned and bitched all the time."
Carter's most significant contribution came when
Ray played him a song he'd just written. "It was a
six-minute long version of 'You Really Got Me'. I told
him that if he could cut it down to three we might be
able to squeeze it into the live show." Carter saw
very little merit in the song, but he did make a
memorable suggestion. He pointed out that the
opening , "You, you really got me going," was
sexually ambiguous. If they were hoping to attract
teenage female fans, he observed, the first should
be a girl's name or, at the very least, the word 'girl'
itself. Ray changed it.
According to Larry Page, 'You Really Got Me' had
come about after he suggested that Ray should
write a riff-based song in the manner of The
Kingsmen's 'Louie Louie'. Then again, Dave Davies

1072

contends that they already loved 'Louie Louie'

anyway and drew inspiration from it with no coaxing
from Page. The composer himself traces its birth to
an eclectic mixture of Gregorian Chant, musique
concrete and the instrumental hit 'Tequila'.

Hal Carter. "Ray and Dave were completely

different about girls. Dave would shag anything that
still had blood pumping round its veins. Ray was
very shy, not good around women at all. But when I
introduced him to Rasa, he was completely
besotted. It was love at first sight."

Almost the only detail they all agree on is that,

although Shel Talmy's job can't have been made
any easier by the brothers' fist-fights on the studio
floor, his production of the song was a disaster. The
Kinks' original demo featured a distorted, dirty guitar
sound that Dave had achieved by slashing his
speakers with his father's razor blades. Yet, when
Talmy played back the version he'd recorded, what
Dave heard was "a full Phil Spector production,
swamped in echo so you could hardly hear the
guitar. He'd completely missed the point." But Pye's
Louis Benjamin, notoriously careful with money,
was insistent that his pet producer's version was the
one that would be released. "As the band's
manager," remembers Page, "I asked him not to
release it, but he wouldn't listen. So, as the band's
publisher, I told him categorically that he couldn't
release it, because the publisher controls the song."
In this instance, Page's powerful double status
worked to the Kinks' advantage, earning them the
right to re-record the song exactly the way they
wanted it. But before long Ray Davies would realise
that the sword Page wielded could cut both ways.

After knocking a debut album together quickly from

the R&B standards they performed live, the Kinks
found themselves flying first to Australia, then to
America, arriving back in the UK as their third
single, 'Tired Of Waiting For You' became their
second Number 1. The pace was more than Ray
could bear. "We'd had, I think, three Number 1s and
a Top 10 in six months, right? I sat down and said, I
can't do this any more. We were going to
Southampton to do a television programme, and I
didn't go. I said, I won't stand for this shit any more.
I don't want to do it. I've just had enough of doing
publicity. I'm not very good with the press and I
don't like my pictures in the paper."
As 1965 progressed, the Kinks' collective misery
increased in direct proportion to their escalating
success. Pete Quaife recalls a fist-fight erupting in a
limo because he'd inadvertently whistled the first
two bars of a Beatles tune. Hal Carter remembers
that the usual form of address reserved by the
Davies' brothers for Mick Avory the drummer
Dave never really wanted in the band began with
a 'c' and didn't take long to end in a 't'. But two
incidents really characterise the period. First, on
April 9, came a riot at the Tivoli Concert Hall in
Copenhagen. "The police were beating the kids up,"
remembers Ray, "and they locked us up in a room.
The people were very abusive to us, as if they
thought we'd brought the devil with us. It was very
frightening."

Released on August 17, 1964, 'You Really Got Me'

bulleted the Kinks to the top of the UK charts on
September 10, but even as they started to think
about a possible follow-up Dave Davies was
beginning to realise that the fast-lane lifestyle he
was falling into was already becoming a problem.
He woke up one morning with a bruised and
battered girlfriend beside him, to be told that he had
inflicted the damage the night before in a rage
brought on by an excess of drink and pills. He had
no memory of the incident.

Surveying the damage afterwards, Dave was

horrified. "The kids had destroyed everything in this
beautiful old building in the Tivoli Gardens. I was so
saddened and depressed. As Ray and I walked out,
I looked up and the only thing left unsmashed all
of the windows, mirrors and chairs were smashed
was a picture of Jim Reeves." But, being Dave
Davies, an evening of quiet reflection on life's little
ironies was out of the question. He pulled a chick,
drank a bottle of brandy from a pint glass and went
on a personal orgy of destruction that included
smashing a huge ornate mirror over the hotel bar. In
a police cell the following morning, he was woken
by the clipped tones of the unflappable Grenville
Collins: "Come along, David, we're going now.
We've got the NME Poll Winners concert tomorrow."

There was no time to consider the implications,

though, because the Kinks' career had roared into
high gear. 'All Day And All Of The Night' followed
'You Really Got Me' into the Top 5, and was much
more satisfactory experience for all concerned. "If
you play the first two records one after the other,"
says Dave, "'All Day And All Of The Night' has a
dirty, sexy aggression and energy that we didn't get
on 'You Really Got Me' because Shel now had a
template to work with. Shel really did help the music
once he understood it."
In Bradford, South Yorkshire, on December 12, at
the end of a one-week tour with Gene Pitney, Ray
Davies married 17-year-old Lithuanian art student
Rasa Didzipetris. "I'd pulled her from him when he
was looking for shoes in a shop in Sheffield," recalls

Before the month was out, the Kinks set off on

another UK tour, which would make the
psychodramas that had gone before look like

1073

episodes in a prime-time family sitcom. With the

Kinks supported by the Yardbirds and all-girl
American band Goldie And The Gingerbreads, it
started on April 30 with a show at the Adelphi
Cinema, Slough. Bassist Pete Quaife was
congratulating himself on having pulled Goldie,
when the show rolled into Cardiff on May 19.

And it might well have been, if Larry Page hadn't

already negotiated a contract for an American tour.
"It was due to start in three weeks, but the band had
actually broken up. I phoned them up individually
and invited them to my office the following Friday,
not telling them that the other would be there. So
they all arrive and I decide just to steam ahead, not
give them a chance to talk. So I started, Right,
American tour, we open at the Academy Of Music,
New York. I think I must have spieled away for 15
minutes before I stopped and said, Right, any
questions? And Mick said, 'I'm gonna need a new
cymbal, ain't I?'"

"It actually started the night before, in Torquay," he

recalls. "Dave got invited to a party which meant he
would do as many drugs and as much booze as he
could possibly shove down his throat. We decided
we'd better get him back before any damage was
done. So we drive over and literally drag him out.
He was furious. In the car he started fighting with
Ray, and at the hotel he went after the road
manager. Then he attacked the night porter. Mick
and myself decided to get away from it all, because
the guy was going nuts. We ran up the stairs but
Dave came after us wielding a suitcase, which he
threw, hitting Mick on the back, wham! So Mick
turned round and proceeded to thump Dave to
pieces. He was doing a lot of damage, but Dave
was so whacked out he didn't notice."

America was hell. Cardiff had delivered the death

blow and the original incarnation of The Kinks was
now a headless chicken running around only
because it didn't know how to lie down and die. "It
certainly wasn't the American tour we'd been
promised," says Quaife. "We'd had big hits over
there, so it should have been a good tour, and we
started out doing nice big theatres. Then it
degraded into silly little TV shows, smaller venues,
crappier hotels. We played in one Hicksville country
club w

Separate dressing rooms were arranged in Cardiff

the next day to keep the warring factions apart but,
inevitably, they had to meet up on-stage.
"Everything was going fine," says Quaife, "until I
realised just as it happened, that when we finished
'You Really Got Me', Dave had to turn round to Mick
and count in 'Too Much Monkey Business'."

Johnny Black, 2000

Take Me Back to Those Black Hills That I Ain't
Never Seen: The Kinks Invent Alternative
Kountry
Gary Pig Gold, fufkin.com, September 2001

Actually looking into Mick's eyes was more than

Dave could deal with. "I thought he looked like a
real chump," remembers the guitarist. "I looked at
him and I said, Why don't you get your cock out and
play the snare drum with it? It'd probably sound
better. Then I kicked his drums over, walked back to
the mike, and started into the song."

"MUSWELL HILLBILLIES isnt just a better countryrock album than anything by Wilco or Son Volt; Its a
better country-rock album than anything by The
Byrds."
When the esteemed J.R.Taylor first wrote this in the
New York Press awhile back, I couldnt help but
laugh. J.R.s always tossing around outrageous
statements like this, and obviously loves a good
scrape as much as anyone else who chooses to
live or write within the confines of New York
City. But then just the other day, I found myself
listening yet again to that 1971 Kinks klassic in
question and Im certainly not laughing anymore.

Quaife watched in utter disbelief as "Mick spat on

his hands, picked up the cymbal, walked behind
Dave and went ka-wham right across his head.
Dave passed out, blood all over the place. Mick ran
off. Ray was just dumbfounded. The only person
still playing was me. I'm right in the middle of this
chaos, 5,000 people gawping at us, and I'm still
playing my bass. What else could I do?"

Without naming any more names (and believe me, I

could greatly expand on Mr. Taylors little list!), lets
just say that one has to at least question the
musical, and perhaps even socio-geographic,
pedigree behind most of whats today being loosely
labeled "alt.country": To whit, Strip the vast majority
of [insert your current fave raves from the genre
here] straight down, or better still see and hear
[ditto] live on stage some night, and youre likely to

Dave went to hospital, Mick went on the run and

Ray went to pieces. "A moment like that was always
a good opportunity for Ray to emote," says Quaife.
"He ran around shrieking, 'My brother! My brother!
He's killed my little brother.' We all thought that was
the end of the Kinks."

1074

recognize, should you really be hip-honest enough,

little more than just some plain dumb ol r-a-w-k in
the USA with a couple of B-benders and sparkly
shirts (if youre lucky) tossed on top. The Stones
and even the Georgia Satellites, fer Chrissake,
have done it all already all over and over again
and with quite a bit more spit and panache, truth be
told. And lets not even get started with Rank And
File, OK?!

MUSIC on Muswell Hillbillies well! The panoramic

cover shot of five hairy goofs propped up in some
corner pub offers the first clue towards the
treasures enclosed: It is in fact a snap of Our
Heroes in the smoky interior of the Archway Tavern,
where Ray and his family used to spend their
Thursday nights listening to "the worst country and
western band in the world," Davies recalls (who, it
turns out, were from Ireland. An early U2 encounter,
perhaps?) Indeed, the first sound you hear on the
album is the gentle strumblings of an acoustic guitar
teasingly like their aforementioned 'Lola'
monster. However, song number one, '20th Century
Man', soon grows (via a possibly ironic McGuinny
bridge section) into a delicately-layered, full-on
stomp upon the terrors of far "too much
aggravation" out on "the edge of insanity" (as the at
times barely audible vocals screech). Welcome to
the REAL jungle, Apeman!

Cut to: Dry ice and lens balm. Setting the Way Back
machine for November of 1971, the freshlyrevitalized Kinks have just signed a new recording
contract in the wake of their worldwide smash 'Lola'.
Yet who on Earth would have ever expected the
band would - or could deliver such an
understated lil gem as the Muswell Hillbillies album
for their debut platter on none other than Elvis
label? Defiantly out-of-step in its time (like all the
best music, the Kinks especially, seems to be),
Muswell remains remarkable today not only for its
sound ("acoustic ragtime," Ive heard it called), but
for its weird and utterly wunnerful - not to mention
downright clairvoyant under-current of suspicion,
betrayal,
paranoia
and,
yep,
all-purpose
government plots. The Ex-Files? Hah! MH is literally
dripping with deceit, deception, and konspiracies of
each and every stripe, primarily set against the
seedy backdrop of post-World War 2 Britain. It was
in those dank times that the less fortunate amongst
inner-city Londons bombing victims were being
coldly up-ended and up-rooted into the equally
bleak (government-approved) "new-towns" rapidly
springing like weeds atop once-quaint suburbs. Not
coincidentally, most each and every actual Kink
spent their ignoble childhoods amidst such prefab
rabble (for more utterly chilling tales, check out Ray
Davies unauthorized autobiography X-Ray).
Pedigree in spades, in other words.

Rays brother/foil/lead-guitarist-extraordinaire Dave

picks up the tale: "Muswell is a really strange
record, because its so rooted in our London
backgrounds, yet it has all the emotional elements,
and a lot of the instrumentation, of American blues."
Sure enough, 'Holloway Jail', for one, would provide
an ideal candidate for the Man In Blacks very next
opus. (Listening, Mr. Rubin? Just dont invite Tom
Petty to accompany this time though!) It was at this
precise moment that the original Kinks guitar-keysdrums line-up was first augmented by brass and
woodwinds but, most thankfully, NOT in the same
quasi-Memphian fashion as those Stones and other
assorted Mad Frogs and Englishmen. No, Ray just
set up an extra mic in the bathroom, hired three
players to approximate the desperately liquid New
Orleans horn stylings of the Twenties and Thirties,
and deftly turned 'Alcohol' and 'A.S.P. Blues' into
slippery, slidey blues-ups of the lowest odor (
imagine, if you dare, Dr. John directing Side One of
Blonde On Blonde). But then, just when youre
ready to slit your eardrums over the inevitable
cacophony of despair and perfectly bum notes
which abound, a shimmering beauty like 'Oklahoma
USA' comes drifting through the underbrush,
proving - as if any more evidence were needed that Raymond Douglas Davies is without a single
doubt one of rnrs absolutely supreme melodists
ever. Hmmm Can you say "lost art"?

Many of Muswells best songs address more like

CONFRONT this sad, sorry state of affairs ('Here
Come The People In Grey', 'Acute Schizophrenia
Paranoia Blues') and how the once-proud victims
attempt to cope with their sordid new lives and
neighborhoods ('Alcohol," and the early ode to
anorexia 'Skin & Bone'). Like some bleak, David
Lynch-directed spin on their televised namesakes
the Clampetts, Muswell's songs talk of a REAL
social revolution - namely the enforced
displacement of families and the resultant choking
of cultures and ideals - as opposed to the more
globally innocuous, mere Top 40 sloganeering of
'Street Fighting Man' or that 'Hey Jude' B-side then
so en vogue. But really, Ray and his Kinks have
always had a soft spot for societys down-trodden,
abused misfits: they were just far too honest and
pointed in their examinations of same to score
many hit records in the process. And as for the

With all that said, must I really now admit I havent

truly heard a peep that comes remotely close to
approaching the lyrical, musical, and dare I say it
emotional depth of Muswell Hillbillies in most every
alterna-twang twung over the past quarter century
or so? I thought not. Sure, most of todays biggest
and loudest practitioners of insurgentsia may all
duly own and apparently cherish their factory reissues of Sweetheart and Hanks 40 Greatest Hits,

1075

but most everyone else toiling in this particular

musical tarpit at the moment, not to mention each
and every single one of you out there reading this
right now, should without a doubt add AT LEAST
this one Kinks record to their kollection pronto: Life,
as Ray sings herein, may very well be over-rated,
but Muswell Hillbillies most certainly is NOT. Right,
J.R.?

These thoughts are occasioned by the release of

This Is Where I Belong: The Songs of Ray Davies
and the Kinks, an extremely appealing album on
which artists like Fountains of Wayne, Steve
Forbert, Jonathan Richman, Queens of the Stone
Age, Fastball and Ron Sexsmith pay tribute to one
of their heroes. But Davies is a hero who walks on
the ground like the rest of us. He's sold millions of
records and written many hit songs, but, like many
of the artists on This Is Where I Belong, he's still a
cult figure.

Gary Pig Gold, 2001

Ray Davies: Rocking My Life Away

The album also brought to mind an interview I did

with Davies in 1989 when the Kinks were about to
release UK Jive. In typical Kinks fashion, the album
died an immediate commercial death, and the
interview never ran. In a way that's never happened
before or since, I got a call shortly after the
interview was done from Davies' publicist, who had
been present when we spoke. It seems that Davies
had gone back to his apartment and started crying
after we'd finished. For the life of me, I had no idea
why, but I was so spooked that I never listened to
the tape again. Until now.

Anthony DeCurtis, Rolling Stone, 29 March 2002

Lost Davies interview illuminates the
"underrated" Kinks
WHEN I WAS a teenager I had a dream about Ray
Davies. He was walking by himself along Bleecker
Street in Greenwich Village, where I lived at the
time, and I went up and started speaking with him.
It was one of those dreams that was both incredible
and perfectly ordinary. Nobody sprouted wings and
flew above the city. Nobody transformed into a
monster or anything else. Instead, Davies was
simply friendly and gracious. He invited me to join
him at a coffeeshop, and he talked to me about
songwriting, and about writing in general.

After thirteen years, the interview, which took place

at an Italian restaurant on the upper West Side of
Manhattan, seemed much as I had remembered. In
another one-time-only event, Davies had handed
me a "statement" he had written that he wanted me
to read before we started talking. "It's quite
personal," he told me. I turned the tape recorder off
while I read it, and then we started in. He seemed
far more vulnerable than almost any other artist I've
ever spoken to, though he seemed perfectly able to
joke about that aspect of himself. As he talked
about how much the Kinks were fighting during the
making of UK Jive what else is new? he
lamented the role he had to play as peacemaker.
"Hey, I'm an artist, too," he said, with a wistful smile.
"I want to have some tantrums, and I wasn't allowed
to have any."

Walking up to Ray Davies and starting a

conversation is nothing I ever would have done as a
kid in real life even today, after having done
hundreds, maybe even thousands, of interviews, I
still find it hard to introduce myself to a musician I
admire. Living in the Village when I was growing up,
I used to see musicians on the street fairly often
several times a week, for example, I would pass
Frank Zappa on his way to rehearse at the Garrick
Theater (which was also on Bleecker Street) as I
walked home from high school. Apart from maybe
nodding hello, I never said anything.

But that was hardly the most charged subject he

raised. In the mid-Eighties, he said, "a personal
relationship broke up that left me a bit devastated."
He was referring to Chrissie Hynde, with whom he
had had a child. "I was left holding the baby," he
said.

I can see now that the dream meant many different

things, particularly about my desire to become a
writer and my having no idea about how you were
supposed to go about doing that. But it's significant
that it's Ray Davies in the dream not Mick Jagger,
not John Lennon, not even Pete Townshend. That's
because even back in the Sixties when the Kinks
could compete with the Beatles or the Stones on
the charts and were far better known than the
Who they still seemed approachable. They never
seemed like gods, though I'm sure that many times
they longed for the Olympian stature of their rock
rivals.

"I had management that thought I was finished," he

continued. "I had a record company that thought
we'd peaked. I had an ex-girlfriend that thought I
would top myself. But they were wrong. They
underestimated me. I think I've finally come through
all that. Nobody treats me the way those people
treated me and gets away with it. I may seem to be
a sensitive guy and I am a very sensitive guy

1076

but I believe everybody gets theirs eventually, one

way or another."

remote, detached, aloof and rock star-ish. Of

course, in true Kinks fashion, that interview never
ran either.

He also described the Kinks original drummer, Mick

Avery, leaving the band. "That's also when Mick
left," he said of that period in the mid-Eighties. "My
brother made me fire him. Mick and I went out to a
pub in the country where they sell really strong
cider, and we got drunk. Mick had been banned
from driving, so we went on bicycles to this pub in
the middle of nowhere. He said that he'd had
enough. He couldn't stand the fights."

But Davies has always allowed himself to be seen,

faults and all, by his fans and everyone else, and
that humanity is why he and the Kinks have inspired
such devotion. As we were talking in the restaurant
that day, I kept flashing back to my dream.
Suddenly, a woman walked over to Davies, and
said, "Aren't you in the Kinks? Are you Ray Davies?
I can't believe it."

Avery then helped to run the Kinks' studio, Konk. "I

often wonder about him when we're rehearsing in
the main studio, and if you're upstairs you can hear
the band playing," Davies said. "I wonder what he
thinks about. Unfortunately, the last gig Mick played
with us was not happy, because of what I was going
through with Chris. Mick was always my
touchstone. We shared a room together, and we
confided in each other a lot." He paused for a
moment. "I just hope Mick doesn't drift into
ordinariness."

Davies laughed, his eyes twinkled, and he said,

"Neither can I."
And, all these years later, I can't either.
Anthony DeCurtis, 2002

the ANIMALS
Herman's Hermits: Their Greatest
Hits; The Animals: Best Of The
Animals

As for the Kinks themselves, Davies described

them, in a masterpiece of understatement, as
"underrated." He explained further. "Because of the
way we are, we do not capitalize when good things
are happening," he said. "Our timing is pretty bad.
We were unlucky. We were considered the third
stringers of the British Invasion the Beatles, the
Stones and the Kinks... I have no explanations and
no solutions for how my career has gone."

Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, October 1973

YOU KNOW WHAT? People got me all wrong. They

think I'm a fanatic for reissues, getting up on my
soapbox each time a new one comes out to decry
the lack of this, the excess of that, the wrong take
here and the rechanneled stereo there, then
pointing loftily to the ridiculously painstaking
research effort that went into my own work on the
Legendary Masters Series. But they got me pegged
wrong; I'm not a maniac (like the guy I know who's
still waiting for his chance to strangle whoever
compiled that recent Buddy Holly album), I just like
to see things done right.

Still, Davies was about to return to England "to see

if I've got a band, because I want to play. I don't
know what condition they're going to be in." He
hoped that the Kinks would soon be "out there
touring." The old competitive instincts inevitably
began to emerge, as well. "With the old Stones out
there, you don't want to go out and look like a
clown, because they're going to be great," he said,
referring to the fact that the Rolling Stones were
about to do their first tour in eight years. "It's going
to be wonderful to see the old boys out there again.
They've gotten better as they've gotten older. But
whatever they are, they'll be playing Shea Stadium,
and we'll be lucky to sell out Radio City Music Hall."

That's why I'm so pleased with these albums.

They're perfect. It's only about eight years since
most of these songs were hits, which may seem like
a long time to Little Jimmy Osmond, but to most of
us it was just yesterday. Can it really be eight
years? Lessee, there was that dreadful acoustic
and blues era that ended in '72 (which is almost two
years ago, kids) then we had all that San Francisco
slop, and before that the English Invasion! Eight
years? Sure. But not so long ago. In fact a lot of
people still have their favorite Beatle, think the
Yardbirds "went too far", and refuse to take the
Dave Clark Five seriously. Can you imagine a
Legendary Masters album of Freddie & the

I certainly don't mean to make Davies out to be a

pathetic case. He's gone on to do an array of varied
projects since then, and the man is one of the
giants of rock & roll. "I've got big ambitions for a
little guy," he said, and he's realized many of them.
Nor was he always the world's gentlest person. I
interviewed him one more time in 1995 when he
was doing his Storyteller tour, which inspired the
series on VH1. During that interview he was

1077

Dreamers? Nobody would sit still for it, Mersey rock

just isn't old enough to take seriously.

seriously in '66; how about the Blues Project? Know

anybody who still listens to them? But all my friends
listen to Herman's Hermits all the time, when they're
not boppin' the blues. It's fine stuff, their hits all topflight pop songs, their albums full of some
surprisingly raucous rock & roll. And Peter Noone,
he's no fool, he laughs at the dopey nonsense of
I'm Henry VIII, I Am today just as he did then, and
just as he must laugh at this trashy album. But he
shouldn't laugh at himself too much, because he
was and is a fine talent, as this or any other Hermits
album should be sufficient to convince any objective
1973 ear.

But as recycled trash, these are great. The covers

look like a couple of rejects from the "Bosstown
Sound" campaign, all garish dayglo and tacky
collages. The liner notes are (with the exception of
Gloria Stavers' fine essay on Herman) inane,
atrociously written, and weren't even proofread. The
selection of tunes was most likely accomplished by
pinning all the groups' recorded titles on that big
wheel Groucho Marx used to have on "You Bet
Your Life" and spinning it twenty times haphazard
isn't the word.

This is the one to get, though. It has twenty songs,

all classics, all good. It has a psychedelic cover. It
has pictures. It also has a lot of gall asking five
bucks or whatever list is, when you can get all the
original albums (indluding three volumes of
"greatest hits") plus a few Animals, Lovin' Spoonful
and Beacon Street Union albums within a five mile
radius of your house for the same price, and get
some change back too. But therein lies its
irresistible beauty how could anyone not buy such
an album?

The result, of course, is sheer brilliance. Like any

Mamas & Papas anthology, these are records you
don't mind bringing out at a party for people to spill
drinks and stub cigarettes on, while you keep all the
original albums (still only 39 cents at any drugstore
in the country) in the other room. And what could be
more perfect for parties? Not all hits, but all good
sounds, and what inebriated person except maybe
Ken Barnes would ever notice the idiotic omission
of some of the group's most important hits? And
who would care?

Maybe in another tell years, after something

significant has transpired in music to dull our
memories a little, mid-sixties rock will be ready for
the serious, scholarly repackage treatment. But for
now, albums like these and the recent London
reissues of Alan Price and the Zombies, or the
budget Pickwick release of THE LEGEND OF
QUESTION MARK & THE MYSTERlANS are
exactly what we need. A mere reminder that certain
things are still around and, if you get the chance,
still worth hearing.

No doubt it would have been of the utmost

simplicity to sit down and put together an album of
the Animals' greatest hits, and find some old fart to
write a 10,000 word thesis on the genesis of British
R&B. But how much more creative, truly visionary in
fact, to completely ignore Top Ten hits like Don't
Bring Me Down and See See Rider and even (just
to enrage the purists) what many consider the
group's finest recording, Inside Looking Out, opting
instead for assorted B-sides, odd excrescences like
A Girl Named Sandoz and some of the most
pointless blues travesties to be culled from the
group's dozen or so albums.

Greg Shaw, 1973

Back On Stage The Charlton

Heston of Rock

I played these albums daily for a couple of weeks

without even noticing that We Gotta Get Out of This
Place is a completely different take. And the liner
notes, quite rightly, don't even mention it. In fact, it
was probably an unconsconsious mistake by the
tape librarian. There's nothing to listen to, nothing to
discover in this stuff. Only the realization that it
hasn't lost any of its greatness or, for some of us,
that it wasn't so bad after all.

Keith Altham, NME, 2 June 1973

Eric Burdon has been absent from the rock scene

but never gone. Hes made more comebacks
than Jesus... and now hes making another. And
this is THE BIG ONE: Keith Altham reports from
L.A.

Herman's Hermits is a case in point. They were

widely compared with Freddie, and the surest way
to get laughs was to make some remark about the
hot piano in Sea Cruise or the great, arrangement
on I'm into Something Good. Still works, in fact.
But I tell ya, Herman's Hermits hold up a lot better
than Wayne Fontana & the Mindbenders or Billy J.
Kramer or better yet, somebody we all took

THERES SOMETHING both Quixotic and

lemming-like about the man Frank Zappa once wrily
referred to as "the Charlton Heston of rock and roll"
Eric Victor Burdon.
He has been at the heart of so much which has
been significant in the rock culture since he first

1078

thigh-slapped his way onto a Tyneside stage and,

under the influence of record producer Mickie Most,
appeared in the charts singing 'Baby Let me Take
You Home' in 1964 with the Animals.

One marriage and three groups later, the rock

mongrel for whom 'Dont Let Me Be Misunderstood'
should be a signature tune has lost nearly two
stones in weight, has a new golden haired Princess
called Rose for wife, and he is currently turning up
at the sound stage of Far Out Productions on
Sunset Boulevarde in L.A. at the unholy hour of
9.30 a.m. and working through each day until 4 p.m.

Since that time the old rock and roll war-horse has
made more comebacks than Jesus (and look out
brothers and sisters because here he comes
again.)

No I didnt believe it either until I personally

witnessed the materialization each day.

But somehow, just as the Prince is about to re-claim

his castle with the Princess of his choice, he turns
into a frog again.

His new group includes an amazing session

drummer called Alvin Taylor who rumbles like
thunder and lightning behind the bass player Randy
and Aalon a guitarist who has worked
previously with Isaac Hayes and Little Richard.

Burdons a man with a dream and an albatross

about his neck, yet hes provided the inspiration for
three internationally successful bands the
Animals, the New Animals and War.

The band should have lift-off within the next two

months, and for once will not have to contend with a
Burdon inhibited by his past. In addition to new
material they are performing freshly wrapped
versions of his past hits like 'When I Was Young',
'House Of The Rising Sun' and 'Its My Life'.

The original Animals included Chas Chandler on

bass the man who subsequently became Jimi
Hendrixs manager and now manages Slade and
Alan price, who took to his own Set and now
indulges with Georgie Fame.
But it was Burdon who found the time and the heart
to tilt at windmills during the days of flowerpower
and lovenpeace with his self-penned hits like 'San
Franciscan Nights' and 'Monterey', incorporating the
likes of John Weider (guitar), Barry Jenkins (drums),
Vic Briggs (guitar), and Danny McCulloch (bass).

It has been almost two years since Burdon last

appeared in public with War, and now, watching him
go through those same crab-like contortions on
stage and freeing the smog from his lungs, you can
hear where he has been and where he is going.
The Burdon is back again with a simpler home-spun
philosophy.

Other notorieties included organist Dave Rowberry

(who took over from Price in the original band) and
Zoot Money (the phantom of the public bar) who,
God forgive him, Burdon turned into a sort of John
the Baptist figure for the few traumatic months
when he was in the New Animals at Peace And
Love Headquarters in Los Angeles.

"I think maybe I was worrying too much about

perfection before," Eric told me during a rehearsal
break. "Now Im looking for the raw excitement
thats in danger of being lost because of improved
technique.
"The people I most admire today are bands like
Free. Theyve become the kind of band I wanted the
Animals with Dave Rowberry to be. I like Free a lot.
And I listen to Zeppelin and Jimmy Page a lot
because I think he has achieved something with
them that Jagger has managed with the Stones. It
comes from working from one place at one time and
doing it right. The Stones have it down in the same
groove that Chuck Berry once produced.

Of one thing there has never been any doubt in my

mind, and that is that throughout all his
reincarnations the long haired leaping gnome was
always sincere even when he was wrong, he
was sincerely wrong. He has enormous heart
(somehow the word soul has been too often
profaned to apply it to this pugnacious Geordie) and
a sustaining talent that takes him through changing
times.

"One of my problems was that I was British rock

and roll star, and that makes you lazy. You ask any
of them. I had to come down from that Trip. I think I
was bloody horrible."

Its a testimony to his durability that 'House Of The

Rising Sun', which first made the charts some eight
years ago, recently made a short and abortive
return on its re-release. It had only one thing going
for it in terms of the musical standards and
progression that most rock groups have undergone
the voice still sounded as though it had some
inner conviction.

Burdon has been in exile now for over four years

and, human nature being what it is, we have tended
to remember the bad and the ugly aspects of his

1079

infrequent visitations here rather than the good gigs

he played with New Animals and War.

where Hendrix died. I took some LSD and had this

amazing hallucination about Jimi coming down as
an Angel to talk to me.

We remember for example that apparently inane

and pretentious reference to "picking up where
Hendrix left off" that he made on a national TV
show shortly after Jimis death. Perhaps we forget
just how close he was to that situation. Today he is
more objective and less portentous but still
unrepentant over those emotive outbursts.

"My health was in bits and my mental state was

worse. Everything started to get to me, and I really
thought I was going to end up like Jimi. The
groupies around the band, the guys in the band
everything became a nightmare. For the first time in
my life California seemed like home and I just got
on a plane and left. I think I was ashamed to go
home in the state I was in."

"You have to realize that I read Hendrix's suicide

note, and in it he left the message that he was
copping out but that he had a sense of musical
purpose and he did not want it to die with him. He
said: Dont let it die. Someone has to carry on and
make the music live. That was the interpretation I
placed on that note and that was what I tried to tell
people.

Wasnt it possible to pick up the pieces after the

group returned?
"Wed already decided some time previously that
War would eventually be a separate entity," said
Eric. "I just jumped the gun by about six months. I
still have strong writing ties with the band and I
hope to use them in a production for a future album,
but at present they are absorbed by their own
thing."

"Its the attitude and the delivery that I have to carry

on, and I want to emerge in the mainstream of hard
rock and roll eventually because that is what Ive
been working towards. My writing has been geared
to painting musical portraits of people and the
experiences I have passed through in the rock and
roll field.

Why did Burdon drop out of recording for two

years?
"Because the kind of recording company hastles
that Id been going through all my life suddenly
began all over again.

"My dream is still to be able to use audio visual

cinematic techniques to achieve the ultimate in that
area of communication. Maybe its like some people
think Im full of shit, maybe Im insane, but it is still
my dream. I need a dream its not enough to find
yourself comfortable and give up.

"Throughout my career I seem to have been getting

bad deals and the only people who seem to have
got any money from my efforts are the lawyers.
Then I got myself a good manager, only to find
myself in another cock-up with MGM.

"I once had a dream of finding the finest black

musicians in America and putting them into a band
whod become world-beaters. War are a realization
of that dream now.

"They were the reason I was going down the tube

as a human being. I was working like a lunatic to
achieve something worthwhile, and getting stopped
at first base."

"In America now theyve just received five gold

records in nine months a number one album and
a number one single. The World Is A Ghetto. The
new single Cisco Kid was gold fifty minutes after
release. I still have a piece of that group, and if I do
nothing else Ive helped put them where they are."

Burdon alleges: "Records I produced were changed

and albums released in America behind my back
while I was in Britain. Id work weeks on an album
sleeve only to find a different one released from the
one I designed and approved.

To many of us in Britain its still a mystery as to why

Burdon suddenly deserted War on their last British
tour just two years ago, when they were being
hailed as the best band in the land and were about
to play in his home town of Newcastle.

"I felt like I was having my balls chopped off and it

literally drove me crazy. It got so bad that I began
picketing their offices here and marching up and
down outside the building with placards to tell
people what was being done to me. Its only
recently Ive got free again, and felt like working.

"I was really enjoying the first half of that European

tour," recalled Eric. "Germany had been a gas, and
then in Holland I started to take some gear to keep
me high for gigs higher and higher I went. When
we got to London I found myself in the same hotel

"We wanted 14,000 dollars just to finish the movie

we shot of Hendrix and the Experience at their last

1080

date at the Albert Hall and I couldnt get it from

them. I was going crazy crazy for a long time."

Carnival. He also did perceptive interpretations of

Randy Newman songs like Tickle Me and Simon
Smith.

Why is it that Eric seems to get halfway up his

mountain each time and then jumps off. Do they do
any
good,
these
gestures
against
the
establishment? Any good in the final analysis?

Today he works the clubs regularly especially up

North with Georgie 'Clive' Fame, and they do
essentially lightweight rock.

"I couldnt go on if I didnt believe it was. I have to

make sure that the climb is safe next time. That
every foothold is marked. Im not going up until Im
certain I wont break my neck."

Price is paranoid about some of the aspects of his

work as a pop musician. But he compensates with
other avenues of expression, such as the stage
production of Home, for which he wrote all the
music, and the excellent Oh Lucky Man film
soundtrack on which he worked diligently for two
years.

Keith Altham, 1973

Alan Price: That Lucky Old Price

He defends his and Georgie Fame's apparently

middle of the road appeal more on the basis of life
style than musical merit.

Keith Altham, NME, 22 September 1973

THERE'S still much of the flat cap rocker about Alan

Price. At his best he's a kind of cross between
Randy Newman and Jackie Charlton blunt in his
speech and writing to the point of painful honesty.

"There's too much talk about pop music as an art,"

he says. "Stimulating the pleasure centres is still
important. It means just as much if a fella can pull a
chick to your music as it does if he's just sitting
there like a blob and getting stoned out of his face.

Pricey is a Northern mongrel who's been kicked

about by life ever since he lost his father while still a
little lad and was brought up in Jarrow and
Newcastle to the music of brass bands and heavy
industry.

"I found out all about the 'validity' of blues music

very early on in my career with the Animals when
we used to regard people like John Lee Hooker and
Sonny Boy Williamson as sort of gods and their
songs as works of art.

He still has his heart and boots firmly embedded in

the north, where he supported Sunderland F.C
and still talks ardently of last year when he was 'up
for Cup' and his club beat mighty Leeds.

"When we actually met them and they came over

here, we discovered that what they were writing
about was fucking, fighting and drinking. Just
struggling to earn a living. They laughed at our hero
worship.

"I can't tell you how it felt at Wembley when we

won," says Pricey, shaking his head over his lunch.
"I went back with the team to the Cafe Royal for the
celebration and got really pissed. Then I got up on
piano and we went through all the old Animals and
Alan Price Set hits."

"I still get a buzz out of going to see people like

Jimmy Witherspoon perform, because they're real
people singing about real things. After doing seven
days in cabaret up North I drove straight down to
hear him at the Bulls Head near my home, and it
gave me a nice lift. He's in his sixties but the voice
is still there.

After the initial Animals success with hits like

House Of The Rising Sun and Boom Boom Price
became disenchanted with the life of a ten-by-eight
glossy in a teen dream, and after a few flights to
America his fear of planes proves too much and he
just disappeared one afternoon at reception for Bob
Dylan with a bottle of vodka.

"Progressive music just makes me laugh. The

majority of 'good' albums only have a couple of
tracks that you might really dig. So out of twenty or
thirty albums released each week I might find two
albums on which there are four tracks I really like.
That says a lot for how the music has progressed,
doesn't it?

The Animals were already on their plane, but Price

never rejoined them and Dave Rowberry took over.
Alan went home and stayed home.

"All Clive and I wanted to do was tick over and play

to our kind of people working men's clubs and
places where they go for a drink and something to
eat and hear some music.

He played Britain with the Alan Price Set and made

hits of Hi-Lilli-Hi-Lo, and Take Me To The

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"They're our kind of people. It doesn't matter how

noisy they are as long as they enjoy themselves
and don't throw bottles.

Shortly Alan Price is to 'ship' across the Atlantic with

a band of chosen musicians to play his new music
at venues like the Carnegie Hall. It may be the only
Price to go up but stay the same, if you'll pardon the
pun.

"That's all Clive and I are doing with the group, and
frankly I think it's quite an achievement to be in
demand as much as we are without having taken
time off to do four albums a year and milk America.
Clive and I can take people back ten years with our
hits.

Keith Altham, 1973

Alan Price: O Lucky Man! and This

Price Is Right

"Of course we've had a slagging from the critics for

playing garbage, but that's mostly based upon an
assessment of our work as seen and heard from TV
and shows like the Two Ronnies. We do a lot of
other things in our club act but try and find a critic
who has come to listen or see us.

John Morthland, Phonograph Record, October 1973

ABOUT THE ONLY thing these two albums have in

common is that they show a remarkable number of
influences absorbed by Alan Price. After that, you'll
probably like one or the other, but not both, so take
your pick. Me, I got no problems deciding.

"I won't even tell you what we do. If you care

enough you can come and see.

Price played organ with the first, fantastic Animals,

and THIS PRICE IS RIGHT was made shortly after
he left them, while the Newcastle Pale Ale stains
were still fresh on his tee shirt even though he
obviously planned to move on to different things. It
stiffed promptly, but has now been re-serviced in
hopes of picking up some of the O LUCKY MAN!
overflow. Like most everyone else, I missed it
entirely the first time around, but I'm sure glad I
finally caught up with it. Because it's damn fine
music, and whether you first heard it in '66 or
whenever matters not a whit, for time hasn't faded
it.

"I don't need to make any excuses for my music or

what I do because I enjoy it. I'm playing to my kind
of people and I'd rather be top of the second
division, or near the top, than halfway up the first."
But does Price really want to be singing Hi Lilly Hi
Lo when he's sixty?
"They'd have to be mad to want me to sing it when I
was sixty. But if someone in a club asked me to do
it, I know damn well that I'd be glad to get up."

Back before there were singer-songwriters, there

were just solo acts. And if that act couldn't write
enough good stuff by himself, he rightly had no
qualms about putting his talents to work on
someone else's already proven songs. That's what
Price did, and his choice of songs was excellent.
Add to that some genuinely imaginative
arrangements by Price and two cohorts and you've
got a winner on your hands.

And that basically is the working man's defence for

being a professional musician should you feel he
needs one. Personally I don't feel he does.
There is, however, another side of Price's life the
more personal and creative aspects which quite
often reveal those basic truths he feels are so
relative to his own past and present.
There is a strange, 'twisty' humour about much of
his work that's vaguely reminiscent of Randy
Newman but at times more intense and fragile
because it seems to stem from an almost desperate
struggle witthin himself.

Most people talk of this album as a showcase for a

clever new writer named Randy Newman, who is
represented here with five songs. Price fits himself
into Newman's characters with ease and style, and
that makes these items his triumph as much as
Randy's. From the piano-voice treatment on Living
Without You to the much fuller jobs on Simon
Smith and His Amazing Dancing Bear or Bet No
One Ever Hurt So Bad, Price has them covered.

He made me promise to see the film Oh Lucky Man

before I wrote about his music, because it was
woven into the film. I did. And offer you the same
advice go and see it. And listen.

His own songs ain't bad either. The House That

Jack Built and Shame both have the vaguely
surreal lyrics obligatory for the times, but they up
the ante by actually making sense to boot! The way
those Dixielandish horns kick along The House

Price is an artist driven forward by his own nervous

energy, and it's certain we still have to see the best
of him.

1082

That Jack Built is a delight. She's Got Another Pair

of Shoes and Don't Do That Again find Alan
working pretty standard rhythm and blues, but with
an eye toward the cabaret. I Put a Spell on You is
a dramatic version of what was originally more or
less a novelty song, and to make matters even,
Price turns right around and injects some novelty
into Hi Lili, Hi-Lo which was originally a dramatic
song from a musical.

much further. Now that he's got some people

listening to him, it would be a shame to see his
ingenuity frittered away.
John Morthland, 1973

Eric Discovers America

Greg Shaw, Phonograph Record, 1 March 1974

A friend who walked into the room while this was

playing asked if it came from New Orleans, and
that's a real compliment. Its supple rhythms and
sensuous horns give it the feel of a New Orleans
recording. It's also interesting to note that no single
instrument even Price's own keyboards
dominates this album. Instead, it's a tight,
professional studio performance in which everything
emphasizes the songs and Price's own warm,
playful vocals.

Eric Burdon Returns To The Musical

Arena
IT MIGHT SURPRISE YOU to learn that Eric
Burdon is about to release a new album and take it
out on the concert trail after a good three year
absence from the spotlight. It shouldn't though; his
return was only a matter of time. Keep in mind, this
can hardly be considered a comeback attempt, for
Eric Burdon has nowhere to come back from. In ten
years he has never failed, not once, at anything he
tried. Think about that for awhile.

How you feel about the new album probably

depends on what you thought of the film. Price and
band appear in the movie, in several places as a
sort of "chorus" to comment on the story. So the
words and music must be bound to the film even
more than on ordinary soundtrack albums, and they
rise or fall with the movie. Which means that it you
found the film as simple-minded and onedimensional as I did, you'll likely feel the same
about the music. Even if both are alleged to contain
profound insights into corruption modern society.

Those in search of an explanation for his unflagging

popularity need look no further than the compelling
intensity with which Eric Burdon approaches
everything. To be sure, he has a unique and
appealing voice, is one of the most distinctive vocal
stylists rock has produced, and has always
surrounded himself with extraordinary musicians.
But at the core of it all, it's Eric burning presence
that keeps 'em coming back for more. As with all
great singers, his songs serve chiefly as vehicles
for the transmission of his basic persona or, to
use a more fitting Latin term, his animus. And along
with the pure force of his personality, there was an
unquenchable desire that ran through his music, a
thirst for something, that only added its share to the
intensity already present.

The movie is about twice as long as is comfortable,

so it's surprising that even with two versions of the
title song included here, the album comes out under
25 minutes, the maximum feasible time for one
album side. One version of the title song is a polite
rocker, and one is a fullout burst of rumbling guitar
and charging band that shows Price can still do it.
(By the way, guess which version gets all the
airplay.)

The year 1962 found Eric Burdon on the streets of

Newcastle, his home town. Like Liverpool,
Newcastle is an industrial seaport city, and like
Liverpool it had a hot music scene all its own. "It
was incredible," recalls Burdon. "Every night you
could hear different kinds of jazz and R&B, and
Saturday nights it was all jammed together. I'd go
down to my local club and get up and sing the blues
with a horn lineup behind me." He was an ardent
fan and collector of the American blues records that
were brought by returning Merchant seamen,
having developed an instant affinity for the strength
and honesty of R&B music, as well as a fascination
with the Negro experience that was at the core of
his lifelong obsession with America.

After that, there's little here to distinguish it for any

number of other better-than-average LP's from
singer-songwriters. Justice sounds like Price has
been listening to reggae, and a couple other tunes
sound slightly Caribbean; Poor People has a jazz
samba sound and lyrics that would bring a glow to
the heart of such as Richard Nixon: "Poor people
are poor people/They don't understand/A man's got
to make whatever he wants/Take it with his own
hands."
No doubt about it, Price has plenty of talent and has
been in the shadows too long. Even O LUCKY
MAN! isn't a bad album in so much as it is
undistinguished (well, maybe a little lame, even). I
hope that Price chooses not to pursue this route

Before he got a chance to join the Merchant Navy

and see America for himself, Burdon was

1083

sidetracked by another blues enthusiast, Alan Price.

The Alan Price Combo was the most popular of the
local groups, and Price was interested in adding a
fifth member, a vocalist, to allow him to concentrate
more on his organ. Burdon was agreeable, and
soon the Combo (which also included guitarist
Hilton Valentine, drummer John Steel, and bassist
Bryan "Chas" Chandler) had moved from the
Downbeat Club to a permanent residency at the
leading Club A-Go-Go. Because of their shabby
clothes, some say, or merely because of their
leering savagery onstage at a time when matching
suits and politeness were the order of the day, their
fans took to calling them "those animals." The name
stuck, and was officially adopted in 1963.

in front of me would turn around and have a knife

jabbed between his ribs. Someone just stuck him
for the fun of it, and it was really rough. But the
music was fantastic, and Saturday night starting
about 6:00 it went all night 'til the sun came up. The
Beatles would come down there and nobody would
bother them, even at their peak. George Harrison
would spend the night in the dressing room. It was
incredible."
With this fervor for authenticity, it's odd that their
first two singles, 'Baby Let Me Take You Home' and
'House of the Rising Sun', were both taken from the
first Bob Dylan album. But Eric was a fan of Dylan's
and anyway both songs had traditional roots. The
first didn't go far, but 'House of the Rising Sun' shot
to Number One in England in July of 1964, and did
the same in America a month later. Next month 'I'm
Crying', a Burdon-Price Original, was in the Top
Twenty, and the Animals were an official part of the
conquering caravan that swept the U.S. Burdon
brought his R&B scrapbook, and spent his spare
time tracking down American blues and folk singers
to get their autographs, according to the liner notes
on The Animals On Tour.

The Animals were like most British bands of the

time in their reliance on Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley,
John Lee Hooker, and Fats Domino for style and
material. But unlike the majority of them, the
Animals added something extra. Where other
bands doubled and tripled the tempo of the songs,
looking to drum up superficial excitement, The
Animals sought to emulate the authentic
soulfulness of the music. A hard-to-find album on
the Wand label, recorded live in December 1963
when the Animals were backing Sonny Boy
Williamson in Newcastle, sheds light on their early
style. The music is firm and solid, yet relaxed,
intense without being frenetic. Burdon puts himself
into every song, improvising verses and stressing
words as though each tune were his own. An eightminute 'Bo Diddley' becomes more an attempt to
get at the essence of what Diddley, the man and the
image, were all about than a mere version of the
song.

The Animals quickly adjusted to stardom, although

it was some years before they regained their
bearings long enough to realize that they were
being swindled out of all their money by greedy
managers, agents and others. But at least, in the
midst of year-round tours and total hysteria, they
were able to grow musically. Their albums were
packed with great versions of R&B classics, stormy
renditions of 'Talkin' Bout You', 'Around and Around',
'Roberta', 'What Am I Living For', 'One Monkey
Don't Stop No Show' and so on, while their hit
singles, besides 'Boom Boom' and 'Bring It On
Home To Me', tended to be outstanding bluesflavored pop tunes. 'Don't Let Me Be
Misunderstood' and 'We Gotta Get Of This Place'
were both smash hits in 1965, by which time it had
become apparent that the Animals contained no
songwriting wizards in the Lennon/McCartney,
Jagger/Richard league. Their only self-penned hit,
'I'm Crying' was an extremely primitive tune. Their
genius, if any, was clearly in arranging and adapting
others' songs to their own brand of raw spunk.

The Animals were, on reflection, a unique hybrid of

the two schools of British R&B. Later Them, the
Irish group featuring Van Morrison, would follow in
their pattern, but in 1964 the Animals were alone in
their style. On one side were the Stones, Kinks and
Pretty Things, holding forth at London's Marquee
Club with a hyped-up brand of Chuck Berry guitar
rock. And on the other side of the street, at the
Flamingo Club, the jazz and soul fans gathered to
hear Georgie Fame, Graham Bond, Zoot Money,
and Chris Farlowe do their impressions of Ray
Charles, Bobby Bland and James Brown. Although
the Animals went over well at the Marquee, they
preferred the Flamingo, where Price's gospel-heavy
organ and Burdon's gut vocalizing were much in
demand, and the atmosphere was something like
what they imagined American blues clubs to have.
"Those were really exciting times," said Burdon. "I
took Nina Simone to the Flamingo and she couldn't
believe it, as a black American she'd never seen
any club that compared to the Flamingo in its
heyday. I walked in there some nights and the guy

It was to the Stones that they were most often

compared in those days, as both groups offered a
scruff alternative to the polished Beatles, but the
Stones plainly had the edge. They could write, they
had intellectual/art school appeal, and they had at
least three members with genuine charisma as
opposed to the Animals' one. The Animals were
openly contemptuous of them, but in the end artistic
pretension proved victorious over earthy simplicity.

1084

In late 1965, Alan Price left the group to form

another band, one in which his jazz leanings could
come to the fore. He was replaced by Dave
Roweberry, an experienced keyboard man who fit
right in. Their next single, 'It's My Life' was not a big
success. Burdon had balked at recording it: "I didn't
want to sing it, I detested the song, but Mickie Most
insisted. And it did sell. But I still didn't like it." And
he can be excused for this, because at the time he
was working on a song that may well be the most
unusual ever recorded by the Animals.

included hastily selected titles by authors ranging

from Randy Newman to Boyce & Hart, and the
album's purpose could only have been to cash in on
'Help Me Girl'.
I think it was early '67 that Eric and the new Animals
came to San Francisco to see about the
Psychedelic Revolution. They had gone straight to
Haight Street, where someone had given Eric a
hundred tabs of acid, according to the rumors that
made their way around town. That night I was at the
Avalon, I think Quicksilver was playing, when the
Animals made their surprise appearance, played a
few songs, and treated the audience to an
impromptu lecture by Burdon on the beauty of San
Francisco, the grooviness of the Flower Children,
and the glories of LSD. Even then, at the height of
the local visionary moment, it was apparent that
Burdon was over-reacting.

'Inside-Looking Out' came as a real jolt to most

Animals fans. It was a true proto-punk classic, all
screams and pounding guitars, running nearly four
minutes and treading the bounds of sheer
dementia. It was followed by 'Don't Brind Me Down',
a plaintive rocker penned for the group by Goffin &
King, and their biggest hit since 'House of the
Rising Sun'. Even bigger was 'See See Rider', with
its poke at Mitch Ryder ("jenny take a ride, now, ha!
ha!"). By this time John Steel had left, being
replaced by Barry Jenkins of Newcastle's number
two group, the Nashville Teens. Also gone was
Mickie Most. Since the Animals were now virtually
headquartered in America and their records
increasingly geared to the American market, they
took on producer Tom Wilson, who had the twin
qualifications of having produced Dylan, and being
black.

But that was his style. With typical directness, he

dove headfirst into the world of Tim Leary and
incense. He had come to America in search of the
authentic Negro Experience, but was willing to
settle for any overwhelming experience that came
along. Mind you, it was hard to be around in 1967
and not get involved in that stuff. The Beatles
already had their guru, and were working on Sgt.
Pepper. Burdon didn't need any gurus, though; he
could make up his own corny, well-intentioned
platitudes. The cover of Winds of Change was
taken up by a paragraph of large, bold type that
said, in part, "If you feel alone and confused and
unhappy discontented, just know that I (and there
are many like me) love you..." On some level, it
seemed Burdon had identified his white teenaged
audience as the spiritually deprived psychic
Negroes of America perfectly understandable and
actually quite modest hallucination, in the context of
its time. Besides, he hadn't gone totally overboard
the album was dedicated to LBJ and Ho Chi Minh,
among others, so Burdon's awareness of Viet Nam
and the political situation must have been as keen
as his interest in the Love Generation.

Further changes were yet in store. Since 'See See

Rider' the group had been billed as "Eric Burdon
and the Animals." Now Eric announced that the
Animals were disbanding, to be supplanted by a
new group whose musical inclinations were more
compatible with his. Only Barry Jenkins stayed on.
Of the others, Chandler latched onto a scuffling
back guitarist named Jimi Hendrix and managed
him to stardom; later he did the same for Slade.
Valentine made a solo album and is now semiretired in Los Angeles. The whereabouts of Dave
Roweberry are unknown.
The new Animals included violinist John Weider
(who went on to join Family at a later date), guitarist
Vic Briggs, and bassist Danny McCulloch. At least,
that's who was in the group that released Winds of
Change in late 1967. There was, however, an
intermediate album, released not long after the
demise of the Animals, whose jacket bore
suspiciously little information about the origin of its
contents. Eric is Here was obviously not recorded
by the new Animals, and with its weak sound it's
hard to believe the old Animals could have had
anything to do with it. It was produced by Wilson, so
most likely it was an interim attempt to replace the
Animals with session musicians, before the new
group had been brought together. The songs

As for the album itself, it stands today as both good

and bad, but mostly very amusing. The title cut
features a background of sitar and howling winds,
while Eric intones a list of blues singers' names. Yet
it, and others like it, are balanced by songs like
'Paint It Black', a long freakout version of the
Stones hit, and the four singles on the album 'San
Francisco Nights', which is a good production
despite its inanity, 'Good Times', a decent follow-up
to their previous smash single, 'When I Was Young',
'Anything' and 'It's All Meat', which is so ridiculous it
has to be great.

1085

Winds of Change is most notable, however, for its

harbingers of things to come. 'Yes I Am
Experienced' is an early tribute to Hendrix, who
quickly became an idol in Burdon's eyes: "...he had
the biggest influence on me, except maybe for
Roland Kirk. Hendrix gave me the key. I had the
tune, the music in me head, but you can't start
singing 'til you get the key. I thought that Hendrix
was probably the most powerful force in rock ever."
Throughout the remainder of his life, Hendrix had a
faithful disciple in Eric Burdon, and today he exists
in Burdon's mind as an almost mythic symbol of all
that is America. "He was black as well as red, white
as well as yellow, male as well as female, all that
and more in one body." As always, Burdon took no
shame in admitting his indebtedness to any black
source of inspiration on record as well as in
conversation and print.

But Burdon's own form of excess was yet to be

revealed. Side two opened with a psychedelic
arrangement of 'St. James Infirmary', followed by a
nineteen minute opus entitled 'New York 1963
America 1968'. Now this was surely a five-reel
cinemascope Technicolor production set to music.
Except that it didn't come off at all; only the first few
minutes of solid, bluesy singing, before the dialogue
cuts in, bears repeated listening.
By this time Burdon's desire to get into films was as
intense as his compulsion to sing the blues had
ever been. As he explains it, the main reason they'd
signed with MGM was because of the film affilation,
and he tells a frustrating tale of promises and lies
fed to him by the company. The only film he ended
up in was called something like Beach Blanket
Bingo, missing brief opportunities to participate in
both Blow-Up and Zabriskie Point.

Drugs and Hendrix had taught Burdon to open his

mind to all the world's ever-present possibilities.
And like most acid-heads, he was anxious to
experience them all at once. Films had intrigued
him almost as long as music, and now he saw no
reason why he couldn't put a cinematic concept
across in music. Thus, on Winds Of Change we find
'The Black Plague', a rather effectively produced,
stark vision of death and pestilence, no doubt
inspired by Bergman's The Seventh Seal. It was an
indication of more to come.

The last album made by Eric Burdon & the Animals

was called Love Is. It was a two-record set including
mostly long version of other people's songs 'River
Deep, Mountain High', 'Colored Rain', 'To Love
Somebody', even Johnny Cash's 'Ring of Fire'. But
there was the obligatory eighteen-minute cut,
'Gemini-The Madman'. It was all music, though, and
not bad at that; Burdon had evidently realized the
limitations of trying to create cinema with the
Animals even with the new line up, which included
Zoot Money and Andy Summers.

Shortly thereafter, they released The Twain Shall

Meet, a fairly restrained album of comparatively
short songs, with the exception of the hit 'Sky Pilot',
Burdon's first fullblown statement on Vietnam and
a good one it was, with catchy melodies and strong,
convincing vocals. It shared the album with another
hit, 'Monterey' (still more tribute to other musicians),
and six more songs including the sitar-drenched 'All
Is One'.

It was 1970, the year of the guru was over, and it

was time for Eric to seek out something more real.
Like (in case you thought he'd forgotten) the Roots
of the American Negro Experience. By this time he
was settled in Los Angeles, and so after he once
again dumped the Animals, he had no trouble
rounding up a bunch of local black musicians. He
called them War, another reminder for those
forgetful Americans that Viet Nam was still a reality.

The next album, Every One Of Us, led off with a

solid up-tempo single, 'White Houses', moved
through a jazzy instrumental, and into 'The
Immigrant Lad', a folkish ballad in which Burdon
took the part of a character in America's history,
with three minutes of theatrical dialogue tacked on
the end. Closing out side one was 'Year of the
Guru', a surprisingly cynical comment on the follies
of transcendental faddism. It was 1968 and you'd
expect Eric to be caught up in the thick of it, but
then again not really. He was never one for abstract
philosophies; give him something real that he could
touch, take or experience right now. And so he sang
"Got to get a guru, a groovy goo-roo" with the heavy
sarcasm once reserved for the likes of Mick Jagger
and Mitch Ryder.

'Spill the Wine' came about while they were goofing

around in the studio and somebody turned on the
tape machine. It sounded like it, too, and from
anyone else a record of this kind of free-association
nonsense would never be taken seriously. But this
was Eric Burdon. Something about his voice and
they way he spoke was plain fascinating, now as
always, and the record was a smash. He recorded
an album with the group, titled The Black Man's
Burdon, before they parted ways.
Now Eric knew he was headed in the right direction.
He sensed that his greatest potential lay in playing
with black musicians, and it wasn't long before his
real life's dream came true. Through War he had
become involved with Jerry Goldstein a pop
songwriter of more than ten years standing and

1086

mastermind of such groups as the Angeles, the

Strangeloves and the McCoys. Now Goldstein, with
his partner Steve Gold and their fledgling company
Far Out Productions, was getting into black music.
He had produced the War sessions, and his next
project was to produce an album of Eric Burdon
singing with blues legend Jimmy Witherspoon. It
was a well-realized album of honest, authentic
blues, highlighted by the anti-prison number
'Soledad', which combined blues protest with
radical topicality. Burdon must have been in sheer
heaven.

One thing Burdon would like to do is re-record the

old Animals hits. He admits liking some of the old
records, but feels they were badly arranged or
recorded, compared to what he could do now.
"We're performing some of the stuff onstage now,
the way I felt it should've originally been done.
Really early Animals stuff like 'Misunderstood' and
'We Gotta Get Out of This Place' and like instead
of it sounding like it did, we've got that "chickachicka" Shaft-style guitar with really fast tempos on
top and the drummer keeping a straight tempo
there's just more skill there, they're better musicians
than the guys in the original Animals." Some
confirmation of this might be taken from the fact that
Barry Jenkins is currently employed by Burdon to
tune and maintain Alvin Taylor's drums.

It was a one-shot project, though, and if nothing

else it taught Burdon that the blues, even in this
most pure form, was not enough to satisfy him. A
period followed in which he didn't do much of
anything musically. For almost two years he hung
around Los Angeles with his new bride, wanting to
form a new group but unsure how he would go
about it. Then, by a series of coincidences, it all
came together.

If Eric Burdon's hopes and predictions for this group

come true, he'll have years of unparalleled creativity
and success ahead. Co-writing with Aalon helps
him focus his musical ideas more concisely, and
working with this particular group of musicians
offers him a freedom he never had before, what
with the technical failings of the Animals and the
diffuseness of War. He'd like to add a keyboard
man, if he could find one that would fit in, but for
now he's satisfied with the flexibility a three-man
group provides.

Eric is very excited about this new band, which

includes Alvin Taylor on drums, Rodney Rice on
bass, and a guy named Aalon on guitar, and is as
yet unnamed. They've already done a tour of
England, France and Germany, and a few dates on
the west coast, and in January they recorded
material for a double album, the album Burdon has
always wanted to make.

Talking with him, one is impressed over and over

with how much conviction Eric Burdon has in
himself and his ideas, and how much faith he is
placing in this group. You can't help but believe in
him, since he believes in himself so strongly. I
believe him anyway; as I said at the start, he's
never failed before, and besides, we mustn't forget
the smoldering fire in those dark eyes. More than
ever, this feisty punk from Newcastle has the power
to make people be interested in what he does. In
my book, that makes him a Star.

As Eric tells it, "this album was conceived as a

movie. I look upon it as a painting, as a canvas of
the way I see America. It's a view of past, present
and future, related through three men, three
different lifestyles, three different times. There's a
black man, a white man, and a red man, who
symbolically represent America to me. The only
problem I have now is cutting it down....I tend to
over-indulge, you know." He went on to explain that
the album would be accompanied by a special
comic-strip, being designed by an ex-Green Beret,
that will add a graphic element to the music.

Greg Shaw, 1974

The Animals: Before We Were So

Rudely Interrupted (United
Artists)

He has big plans for this group. "When the group is

established and people can recognize it as a viable
rock and roll entity, then I'll create another thing
around it and go out on the road with lights and a
stage director and a dress designer and get into
some really far out things. I think that's the direction
rock should be going." For now, he's spent $30,000
building a stage monitor system with all the effects
available in a recording studio, with plenty of
technical innovations. The whole shebang will be
unveiled on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert in
February.

Simon Frith, Rolling Stone, 10 October 1977

LONG-DEAD GROUPS usually come back for

commercial reasons individual careers are
slipping, the musicians are no longer
recognized in the streets and the results
are
predictably
depressing:
the
new
appearance is the final reminder of the old
death, of glories long gone. The Animals'
"revival" album is a refreshing exception to

1087

this rule and a model for other defunct

groups (take note, Beatles). It is not a new
bid for stardom but a reminder of old
friendships.

we can refresh ourselves at this reminder of where

we came from in order to carry a greater faith into
rock's future.
Simon Frith, 1977

The Original Animals met in a studio last year to

remind themselves of the fun and rigors of playing
together; their joint look back was an energizing
break in their individual moves forward. Bassist Chas
Chandler provided tight, plain production no
orchestras, no electronic whiz-kiddery, no star
friends. And the band left the studio separately:
Chandler and drummer John Steel to their successful
management/production company, Barn; Alan Price
to his well-respected niche in British cabaret pop,
and Eric Burdon to the new possibilities brought
about by the settlement of his years of legal and
financial hassles. (Only guitarist Hilton Valentine's
present career is obscure.)

Animal Tracks - Newcastle's

Brand Of Powerhouse Blues
Tom Hibbert, The History of Rock, 1982

In 1963, the northern beat boom was being

answered further south by a trend, centred on
London, towards a more aggressive R&B: the sort
of music purveyed by the Rolling Stones, the Kinks
and the Pretty Things.
At the same time, groups such as Them in Belfast
and John Mayall's Blues Syndicate in Manchester
were developing individual R&B and bluesinfluenced styles independently of the capital's
flourishing scene. Of these provincial R&B groups,
the most distinctive, and ultimately the most
successful, were Newcastle's Animals.

The Animals made only two albums (and a handful of

singles) with this lineup originally. Their music meant
gracious interpretations of R&B classics, a sound
dominated by Eric Burdon the best British blues
singer of his day, if not the most charismatic and
by Alan Price's churchy piano and organ runs. The
rest of the band served as the rhythm section.

Like other R&B bands of the time, the Animals'

music was, initially, inspired by black American
artists such as Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley and John
Lee Hooker. But whereas the majority of their rivals
relied heavily on a driving rhythm guitar, the
Animals deviated from the orthodox line-up: instead
of a second guitarist they featured a keyboard
player, Alan Price. Furthermore, in Eric Burdon, the
Animals possessed the most raucous and blackest
sounding vocalist of all.

Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted is, as the title

suggests, the third album in the series: a record of
R&B covers, the sound of Burdon and Price. The
rhythm section is as firm and unobtrusive as ever;
Hilton Valentine's excellence is still as a rhythm
guitarist confined to brief, elegant breaks.
Price and Burdon are playing the music of their past
with new maturity and skill. Price's old, rich chords
are rarely used (they emerge with a subtly nostalgic
effect on Lonely Avenue); most of the time he plays
stomping R&B or sophisticated, jazzy, electric piano,
which he manages to hold just this side of tinkly
irritation. His electric piano is at its most moving on
Please Send Me Someone to Love.

The Animals started life in 1960 as the Alan Price

Combo, a quartet made up of Price (born 19 April
1942), bassist Bryan 'Chas' Chandler (born 18
December 1938), guitarist Hilton Valentine (born 2
May 1943) and drummer John Steel (born 4
February 1941). With their well-attended Saturday
night performances at Newcastle's Downbeat Club
a damp room above a warehouse that shook
each time a train passed by on the nearby tracks
the Combo built up a sizeable following. In 1962,
Eric Burdon (born 19 May 1941) was asked to join
and take over from Alan Price as lead singer. With
the inclusion of Burdon as frontman, the band's
stage act became more frenzied and energetic and
this led fans to refer to them not as the Alan Price
Combo but as 'the Animals' a name the group
soon adopted.

And Burdon has never sung better. His voice is rich

and deep; he reaches bass notes few rock singers
would attempt; his emotional effects are derived
from musical skills (he eschews the usual British
reliance on volume, gimmick and ersatz agony). The
Animals always respected their sources, and on a
slow blues such as As the Crow Flies, Burdon's sure
singing captures the dignity and experience of the
blues as well as he ever captured its verve and
excitement.
Not everything here works, though. Jimmy Cliff's
Many Rivers to Cross, slowed to a blues beat, is too
aggressive, too precise, and misses the original's
loose loneliness; the Dylan cover, It's All Over Now,
Baby Blue, drags Burdon does not have the ability
of a singer like Van Morrison to hypnotize the listener
with subtly varied repetition. But the rest is
honorable music, and, like the musicians themselves,

"The name was probably an association with the

kind of music we play earthy and gutty,' said
Burdon in 1965. "It's a sort of animal sound. On
stage we can be pretty wild. No routines just

1088

moments of uninhibited inspiration when we go

slightly potty." However, when the group had first
appeared on Ready Steady Go in 1964, performing
their debut hit 'Baby Let Me Take You Home',
Burdon had told the programmer's presenter Keith
Fordyce that they called themselves the Animals
"because we all look like Animals". Chas Chandler
on the other hand, later claimed that Graham Bond,
the R&B organist, had given the band their name
after witnessing one of their less restrained
performances.

The demo EP sent down to London was greeted

with enthusiasm by promoters and offers of work in
the clubs of the capital began to come in with
increasing regularity. By the end of 1963, the
Animals were appearing in London so frequently
that they decided to move there. They had chosen
the ideal time. Since the Rolling Stones had hit the
charts in July with 'Come On' and again in
November with 'I Wanna Be Your Man', many
record companies had become diverted from
Merseybeat and were anxious, instead, to sign R&B
groups.

Demo A-Go-Go
The image had to be right, of course; whereas the
Liverpool bands tended to follow the Beatles in
donning uniforms and appearing relatively well
groomed, clean and wholesome, the R&B
contingent had to copy the Rolling Stones and go
for an unkempt and unsavoury look. The Animals
were fine on this score, as Alan Price recalled: "We
looked the part in those days. We couldn't afford
smart mohair suits and so we dressed in denim
jerkins and trousers. Pretty shabby they were
people must have thought we were labourers."

By 1963, the Animals had established themselves

as the north-east's top R&B beat attraction and they
had graduated from the seedy interiors of the
Downbeat Club to a residency at the plusher, more
prestigious Club A-Go-Go (to which they later paid
tribute on 'Club A-Go-Go', the B-side of their 1965
hit 'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood').
This growing popularity prompted them to record a
demo in mid 1963 which they hoped might impress
promoters and A&R men in the capital. Four
numbers were chosen from their live set John
Lee Hooker's 'Boom Boom,' Bo Diddley's 'Pretty
Thing', and Willie Dixon's 'I Just Wanna Make Love
To You' and 'Big Boss Man'. Five hundred were
pressed in EP form, some to be sold to fans and
others for dispatch to London (This demo EP was
reissued by Decca three years later under the title,
In The Beginning There Was Early Animals.)

They fitted the musical bill as well and so, while the
Pretty Things were snapped up by Fontana, the
Kinks by Pye and a host of lesser R&B talents by
other labels, the Animals signed to Columbia in
early 1964, to be produced by Mickie Most.
Rising in the charts
Most had been an exceedingly successful pop
singer in South Africa but in 1962 he returned to
England to try his luck in his home country. His
attempts to establish himself as a vocalist in the UK
proved abortive, however, so he decided to turn his
hand to record production work. And he was to
prove himself to be acutely aware of commercial
tastes at his very first attempt, with the Animals.

Meanwhile, the group's increasing stature was

leading to further work backing visiting American
blues singers, and on 30 December 1963 they
appeared at the Club A-Go-Go with the
extravagantly-behaved Sonny Boy Williamson (Rice
Miller). The evening's activities were recorded for
posterity and emerged much later on two albums,
In The Beginning (which appeared on the American
Wand label in 1973) and Sonny Boy Williamson
And The Animals, released in 1977 on the UK
Charly Label.

Deciding that the group should move away from the

raw R&B sound which dominated their live act,
Most selected for their debut release a little-know
blues song, 'Baby Let Me Follow You Down', which
had appeared on Bob Dylan's first album. The lyrics
were altered and the titled was changed to 'Baby
Let Me Take You Home' and, with a neat
arrangement by Alan Price and a strong, confident
production job from Most, there record went to
Number 21 in the UK charts after its release in
March 1964.

The first of these, in particular, bears witness to the

Animals' early brash and energetic R&B leanings,
renditions of standards such as Chuck Berry's 'I'm
Almost Grown' and John Lee Hooker's 'Dimples'
being peppered with Eric Burdon's penchant for adlib lyrics and sarcastic references to the Rolling
Stones, the group's more celebrated rivals.
Burdon's wild vocal performance reached a peak on
the album's closing track, 'C Jam Blues', on which
Williamson replaced John Steel on drums and
pounded away in most unorthodox fashion,
promoting the singer to shriek "You play the drums
so crazy, you might have bust my ear!"

With this first-time success under their belts, the

group chose to follow-up with a traditional blues
song still less in keeping with their driving R&B
inclinations. 'House Of The Rising Sun', recorded by

1089

Josh White in the Forties and resurrected on

Dylan's first album, seemed a decidedly odd choice
for a single, telling a tale of ruin through prostitution.
(The lyrics of the Animals' release were somewhat
cleaned-up for public consumption.) Furthermore,
the seemingly non-commercial aspects of the
number were compounded by the fact that the
group's recorded re-working clocked in at four-anda-half minutes far longer than the two-and-a-half
to three minute norm.

disappointment despite Most granting them ample

room to indulge their R&B passions. It contained
uncharacteristically tame covers of Little Richard's
'The Girl Can't Help It' and Chuck Berry's 'Around
and Around', and versions of 'Boom Boom' and
'Dimples' that had none of the power of their live
treatments on the Club A-Go-Go tapes.
A second album, Animals Tracks, issued the
following May, was similarly patchy. Again, it was
made up largely of stage favourites such as 'Let
The Good Times Roll' and 'Roadrunner', but none
with the honourable exception of Ray Charles' 'I
Believe To My Soul', which featured Eric Burdon at
his most soulful hinted at the excitement of live
performance. It seemed that Mickie Most saw pop
production wholly in terms of singles and viewed
long players as something of a chore. (This theory
is supported by the fact that during the years from
1967 to 1977, Most produced 63 UK Top Thirty hits
far more than any other producer but only one
Top Ten album, which was a 'greatest hits'
compilation.)

The executives at Columbia fought against the

number's release. They thought that 'House Of The
Rising Sun' was not only overlong but also
extremely boring but Mickie Most considered that
it stood more than an even chance of chart success
and, in the end, his argument won the day. Alan
Price had given the song a dramatic, compelling
arrangement, Burdon's vocal delivery was fiercely
emotive and these elements combined to break the
three-minute barrier.
Transatlantic success

On the singles front, however, Most could not be

faulted. In February 1965, the Animals' cover of
'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood', first recorded by
Nina Simone the previous year, went to Number 3
in the UK. Most's astute ear for commercial appeal
maintained the group's chart record throughout the
year. Sam Cooke's 'Bring It On Home To Me',
'We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place' and 'It's My
Life' all succeeded on both sides of the Atlantic.

'House Of The Rising Sun' went to Number 1 on

both sides of the Atlantic in the summer of 1964
(and eventually achieved worldwide sales in excess
of eight million). It soon established itself as a
contemporary classic to be included in the
repertoire of amateur bands the world over.
Ironically, because the song owed much to forms of
American folk music (a fact that could not be
disguised by Alan Price's R&B-tinged organ playing
or Eric Burdon's gruff, urban blues-styled vocal
performance) the Animals now came to be thought
of as a folk-rock group by American audiences who
were unaware of the group's basic R&B approach.
However, amends were made by the third single,
'I'm Crying', which was released in September.
Written by Price and Burdon, 'I'm Crying' captured
all the essential elements of the Animals' live act
the confident drive of Price's organ work, Burdon's
brash, raw voice (which cracked as he strained for
the upper octave) and the aggressive fills of Hilton
Valentine, a much-underrated guitarist.

The Animals were by now a well-established

commercial force, exceeded in popularity only the
Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Appearances in
such pop films as Get Yourself A College Girl
(alongside the Dave Clark Five, the Standells and
Mary Ann Mobley Miss America, 1959) and Pop
Gear (retitled Go Go Mania for US audiences), a
non-stop performance spectacular featuring, among
many other acts, Billy J. Kramer, Billie Davis and
newsreel footage of the Beatles, exposed the group
to an even wider audience.
Shortly after the recording of 'Bring It On Home To
Me', Alan Price left the group (citing fear of flying as
the cause) and his place was taken by Dave
Rowberry, previously with the Mike Cotton Sound.
Following Price's departure, differences between
the band and their producer began to mount; while
Price, the musical arranger, had been reasonably
content to follow Most's direction, Valentine and
Burdon felt less comfortable with the commercial
pop route. Now that Price was gone, they began to
make their objections more strongly felt. Eric
Burdon expressed his discomfiture in television
appearance by mis-miming to and sneering through

In the light of the massive success of 'House Of The

Rising Sun', 'I'm crying' seemed a comparative
failure despite reaching Number 8 in Britain and
Number 19 in the United States. It hardened Mickie
Most's conviction that the group's own composition
should be used only for B-sides and album tracks,
though anyway Price and Burdon were a less than
prolific songwriting team.
The group's first album, The Animals, was released
in October 1964, and proved to be something of a

1090

'We've Gotta Get Out Of This Place' and 'It's My

Life'. At the beginning of 1966, the Animals' contract
expired and, rather then remain in the clutches of
Mickie Most, they left Columbia and signed with the
Decca label.

In 1966, Chandler had gone into management and

production world as the man behind the Jimi
Hendrix Experience. He later signed Slade, for
whom he produced no less than 13 UK Top Ten
singles (including six Number 1 hits) in less than
four years (1971-75). Alan Price, on the other hand,
continued to play and perform after leaving the
Animals, he had formed the Alan Price Set and
soon established himself as a popular, somewhat
middle-of-the-road artist. His solo hits included
Randy Newman's 'Simon Smith And His Amazing
Dancing Bear', 'The House That Jack Built' (his own
composition, both in 1967) and 'Don't Stop The
Carnival', a Sonny Rollins number, in 1968. The Set
broke up in 1968 and apart from a hit with 'Rosetta'
(on which he teamed up with fellow keyboard player
Georgie Fame as Fame and Price Together) in
1971, he was absent from the charts for some
years. Nevertheless, Price consolidated his position
as a popular entertainer through regular television
appearances and solo album work. Price recorded
10 albums between 1966 and 1978, including the
film soundtrack O Lucky Man! and Between
Yesterday And Today, a brave attempt to explore
his northern, working-class roots in song, and a
single lifted from the album, 'Jarrow Song', put him
back in the UK Top Ten.

Tom Wilson, their new producer, granted the group

a greater degree of artistic control and this they
used wisely. Both singles for the new label, 'Inside
Looking Out' (1966), a savage, passionate song of
imprisonment, and 'Don't Bring Me Down' (1966),
an intelligent reading of a Goffin-King number,
became hits and their album Animalisms displayed
a much greater degree of care and effort than
previous attempts. However, discontent within the
group still lingered. John Steel had quit after 'Inside
Looking Out' to be replaced by the Nashville Teens'
drummer, Barry Jenkins, and Eric Burdon was
becoming even more drawn away from R&B roots
towards new psychedelic trends. Shortly after the
release of 'Don't Bring Me Down', the Animals
announced that they had disbanded.
Sandoz and Simon Smith
After the split, Burdon retained the group name
(and the services of Barry Jenkins) and, following a
brief attempt to launch a new line-up in Britain,
moved to California to embrace the prevailing
hippie drug culture. He took with him guitarists Vic
Briggs (formerly with Steampacket) and Danny
McCulloch, bassist John Weider and Jenkins. Billed
as Eric Burdon and the Animals, they secured a
deal with MGM who handled all previous American
releases of the original group.

In 1968, the original members of the Animals had

got back together for a Christmas concert at
Newcastle's City Hall and in 1976 they re-united to
record and album, Before We Were So Rudely
Interrupted, at Chandler's home studio. Sadly,
although Burdon's voice retained the throaty attack
of old, the performances of the remaining musicians
proved to be workmanlike at best. The album was
even more lifeless than the group's first two
Columbia efforts, barely hinting at the power of their
achievements on single with Mickie Most or those
moments of raw R&B magic captured in a dank
Newcastle club more than a decade before.

The new group produced four excellent hippieoriented singles 'When I Was Young' (the B-side
of which, 'A Girl Named Sandoz', was a blatant
tribute to LSD, Sandoz being the name of the
laboratories in which the drug had been developed),
'Good Times', 'San Franciscan Nights' (a Top Ten hit
on both sides of the Atlantic in 1967) and 'Sky Pilot'.

Tom Hibbert, 1982

Eric Burdon: Rocco The Rockist

Eric Burdon continued to pursue his hippie

obsessions with increasing enthusiasm, issuing
baffling statements such as "My whole group is
basically hung up on a sort of religion which has
sort of evolved" and "The drug experience has
taught us that to be deranged is not necessarily to
be useless".

Penny Reel, NME, 27 November 1982

IN THE final frame of Comeback, rock hero Rocco

is shot dead as he leaves a Berlin stage, which is to
begin at the end and a trick I've wanted to play ever
since the time someone leans over my shoulder to
advise "he is sent to Siberia" while sat reading
Crime And Punishment on a bench in Trafalgar
Square.

Burdon disbanded the group in 1969 and his career

since, which included a stint fronting the black
American funk band War, has become increasingly
erratic. His former Animals allies, Alan Price and
Chas Chandler, meanwhile, had been pursuing
more orthodox and successful routes.

Comeback tells the story of a performer who bows

out at the peak of his career during an incident of

1091

mid-tour nastiness. Under the pressure of "a

murderous music industry, he leaves the stage, his
wife, his child, his home, California, the American
dream in which he apparently won everything and
yet lost everything, and goes back to the street."

We talk of his possible return to England, its

changes during the past decade, its aspect of
despondency, the tattoos of its children.
"There's more tattoos in England than anywhere
else in the world except Australia," says Eric.

The street in context being location shots of West

Berlin pavements, including a sequence in the
vicinity of the Wall where Rocco encounters
bluesman Louisiana Red and the pair strike up an
understanding on their mutual agreement of "what a
fucked up world it is, man" and common knowledge
pertaining to the chords of Elmore James' 'It Hurts
Me Too'.

Don't you sometimes wish you were still an ordinary

bloke living in England, in Newcastle?
"I met Brian Matthews the other day and he asked
me the same question, Do you have any regrets?
He said the last time he saw me I was surrounded
by these beautiful women, saying I am the fountain
of life. So I said to him, Would you have any
regrets?"

This Rocco character bears a marked resemblance

to Eric Burdon, right down to the trace of a Geordie
accent and a predilection for very heavy, very
'umble blues-based rock. So complementary the
role, in fact, that the part of Rocco is distinguished
by the presence of Burdon himself.

But, I persist, wouldn't you sometimes like to be this

guy nobody knows, going down the pub and singing
with the local band?
Eric Burdon shrugs. He has nothing to say.

The film's recurrent phrase, eventually daubed on

the wall of Rocco Burdon's squat, is a facile "when
you're dead you're great" that is not without effect.

Penny Reel, 1982

The Animals

Eric Burdon spends much of his time in Berlin at

present, though is unsettled and even talks of
returning to England, maybe. Comeback is written
and directed by Berlin film maker Christel
Buschmann.

Jeff Tamarkin, Goldmine, 1 October 1983

Goldmine: What was the impetus behind this

reunion album and tour? The last time the
original group was together was for the 1977
album, Before We Were So Rudely Interrupted.

So
how
much
of
Rocco
is
Eric?
"I would say it was fairly autobiographical, at least
up to where Rocco leaves America," he talks
between mouthfuls of pate and toast. "I quit the
music, my wife, the States. The only thing different
is I never left my child."
And you also share a taste for the hard bitten rock
in Comeback, such as 'Who Gives A Fuck' and 'Kill
My Body' in addition to the blues of Elmore and
Wolf?

Eric Burdon: I didn't want to do it at first. It took a lot

to persuade me to get involved. As recently as a
week before the tour was to start I wasn't fully
convinced. But we did a show at The Venue in
London and it wasn't our audience it was the
disco audience they have there every week and
we went over. It was just for kids off the street. The
band worked well so I was convinced.

"The band I've got together now are not so much

into the hard blues side of it."

Goldmine: Who was responsible for getting the

ball rolling on the tour?

'House Of The Rising Sun' recently hit over hare

again. Do you still have to go onstage and sing it?

Eric Burdon: It's a mystery. You're going to have to

wait to see the film that we're going to make about
it.

"It reached the point where I wouldn't do it. At the

time I was getting other things together you
remember War? and regarded the song as an
embarrassment. Now I enjoy doing it. Just go out
and have a ball with the song."

Goldmine: You've now released a new album,

Ark on IRS Records. How did you get singed to
that label, especially because they usually sign
only new acts?
Eric Burdon: I met Miles Copeland [IRS president]
when I did a TV special with him not too long ago,

1092

and we talked a little about it then, about me doing

an album. Then the Animals thing came together
and we signed the deal for that. But I don't even
know who approached whom to get it started.

Newcastle in the early '60s? Was there a lot of

music happening?
Eric Burdon: It was dirty, it was filthy, it was wet and
raining all the time. A lot of kids didn't have any
shoes on their feet after World War II. I went to
school between a barnyard, where the smell would
make you sick if the wind was in the wrong
direction, and a shipyard, so you couldn't hear the
teacher half the time because of the rivets going
into the ships. But we had good times and there
were lots of music clubs. Most of those northern
cities were absolute wastelands.

Goldmine: You've released a number of solo

albums in Europe in the past decade but you've
been without a label deal in the U.S. for quite
some time, right?
Eric Burdon: Yeah, the last time was in '73. The
reason behind that is that I got into business
problems, record company related riots. I couldn't
distinguish any more what I was worth in the market
place. So I figured if I just did some European
releases I would know by the import sales in
America what was going on. The imports did very
well. I checked regularly and they were always sold
out, and the stores were reordering.

Goldmine: What was the club scene like?

Eric Burdon: There were several clubs and each
one had its own kind of music. There was a folk
club, a traditional jazz club, a modern jazz club, and
one which featured different music every night.

Goldmine: Wasn't the last album Comeback, the

film soundtrack?

Goldmine: How did you know about rhythm and

blues? Did you have to do a lot of research to
find out what the new records were?

Eric Burdon: Yeah, I thought it could've been much

better, the production of it. It was pretty much
butchered. The project itself failed anyway because
I couldn't tailor the music for the film. The control of
the music was taken away from me and I wasn't too
happy with it.

Eric Burdon: A lot of traveling. I went to Paris for

most of my records. And a seaman who lived
downstairs from me used to bring back records
from the States.

Goldmine: On your last tour of the U.S. you

played with a fantastic band of young guys from
Texas. How does it feel to get back with your old
mates, who you've known for over 20 years,
after playing with a group that's younger? Is it
as satisfying on a musical level?

Goldmine: What was the first music you got

into?
Eric Burdon: The first rhythm and blues record I can
remember hearing was Wynonie Harris doing Don't
Roll Those Bloodshot Eyes At Me. Then there was
Johnnie Ray and Cry. Then came Elvis and I
couldn't distinguish whether he was male or female,
black or white. Then came the period of trying to be
the first kid on the black to be able to dissect the
lyrics of the latest Chuck Berry record. Then it was
down to hanging out in front of the jukebox for
seven hours every Sunday. Then gangs started to
form and kids got stabbed and it turned all weird.

Eric Burdon: It feels pretty strange, pretty bizarre.

You've got to be pretty careful to cater to people's
space and people's attitudes. I'm more at ease and
more flippant and more laid-back with other bands
than I am with the Animals. You don't know who
you're gonna hurt or insult or what memories are
gonna come leaping back. But people want to see it
happen, want us to give a little and maybe get
something back.

Goldmine: Now, instead of hanging out at

jukeboxes, kids play video games for seven
hours straight.

Goldmine: Is it a nostalgia thing for you to get

back together with these guys?

Eric Burdon: Yeah, I think that's a terrible

replacement. Now everybody's a U-boat captain.

Eric Burdon: Not really, no, because some of the

new material is as much of a challenge with this
band as it would be with any band. Alan Price's
strict sense of timing is a good lesson for me.

Goldmine: Did
collection?

Goldmine: Going back to the start, you all came

from Newcastle. What kind of city was

you

have

large

record

Eric Burdon: Quite an extensive collection. As I

said, Paris was the place to get American records. I

1093

remember getting Clara Ward's album from the

Town Hall in New York and that was a treasured
album. So was the live Ray Charles album from
Atlanta. Ray Charles came to Europe in '58 and I
hitchhiked to try to see him. He was in the south of
France, where it was hot, and I figured I'd have the
same night as I hard on that record from Atlanta. It
took me five days to get there and by the time I got
there the show was over. So I hitchhiked back to
Paris and I was fortunate enough to catch him in a
night club there. I was totally into following the vibe
then and that's what was happening.

piano in my grandmother's front room. I learned to

play things like Beethoven by ear. And I could play
New Orleans revivalist jazz because me brother
was obsessed with that. I felt that rock'n'roll was
beneath my dignity. So the big breakthrough for me
was Lonnie Donegan and skiffle music, when every
street had its group.
I was converted to rock 'n' roll by a German who
played me some Chuck Berry. I had a group in
school. I was a terrible homogenous mixture; I also
played Fats Waller type stuff. When I met Eric he
introduced me to the blues. I was brought up in the
church; I lost my father at an early age and was
always surrounded by women so I'm very sort of
emotional, sentimental chap and there's a real
family touch to everything I do.

Goldmine: What did the French people make of

him?
Eric Burdon: It was bizarre because I remember
hanging out at a jukebox in Paris and the French
people and I communicated by saying "Number 39,
Ray Charles." They'd say "Fathead Newman, tenor
sax," and I'd say "Yeah, 'I Got A Woman'." We
became great friends and I remember saying "Keep
an eye out for my name because when I come back
I'm gonna be performing." The Animals later played
the Olympia in Paris and they came backstage and
it was a magic moment. We ended up playing there
a lot; that was one of our favorite venues. I'd like to
work there again. It reminds me of the Apollo in
New York. We played there too.

So I finally found a way of identifying with Ray

Charles and the blues. When he used to cry I
understood and it made me very emotional. I
studied it as though it were a subject. Eric
introduced me to things like Joe Turner and Joe
Williams. I tried to convert my piano playing style by
playing like Albert Ammons and that stride piano
style. What I was very good at was being in a group
so I became, in a sense, Eric's translator, and tried
to form a group to do this all this all with. I didn't
know I was doing it consciously but that's how it
eventually ended up.

Goldmine: What made you decide to make the

switch from being someone who listened to
records to someone who sang and made
records?

Eric Burdon: He was the only guy I knew who could

play the Ray Charles lick on What'd I Say properly.
Goldmine: The original name of the group was
the Alan Price Combo, right?

Eric Burdon: When I got pissed enough and got up

enough Dutch courage to stagger to the front row
and clutch at Mighty Joe Young's pants leg and get
up on stage. I was walking down the street one day
and there was a Methodist youth club on the top of
the hill and I heard Great Balls Of Fire being
played. I thought it was a new recording of Jerry lee
but it was a band. So I walked through the doors of
this youth club and it was empty; there were only
about a half dozen kids. There was a guy playing
piano and a guy playing bass. The guy playing bass
was Alan Price, and then they switched over and he
was 20 times better than this other guy that
sounded like Jerry Lee Lewis. I said "We've gotta
put a band together" and that's how we met.

Alan Price: That one was, but what you really had
was a cross-fertilization between the better groups
of the area. It was like the law of the jungle: the
better groups went on. Eric had a group called the
Pagans before we formed this one. I had met Chas
Chandler, who was much more of an organized
hustler. He really wanted to get on, and he had his
band and his gigs and kept it moving. He had a
group called the Kon-tors, a nonsense name but he
thought it was spunky, an aggressive sort of thing.
We managed to get work and played every hit in the
book, for very small money. I got very bored with all
of this and I'd always had a dream of being a jazz
player because I'd always enjoyed jazz. I like the
fiery kind of thing like Oscar Peterson. And I liked
Thelonious Monk because it was angular and Lionel
Hampton because it was exciting.

Goldmine: Alan, how did you get started in all of

this?
Alan Price: Eric was really instrumental in educating
me. The reason I started playing is peculiar; it's
because I caught yellow jaundice when I was 11. I
was out of school for nearly a year and there was a

Eric had gone to London and when he came back

and had seen what was happening there he was

1094

ready to work because he knew we could get a

band together. So he came up and sang with this
awful little jazz trio I had. Mike Jeffrey, who
eventually became our manager, had two clubs and
he asked us if we'd be interested in forming a blues
group. So we became the Alan Price Combo and
then it had to be more commercial so the name was
changed to the Animals. So I became a part of the
group and then it disintegrated very quickly when
we became professional. We did all the work seven
years before.

Eric Burdon: Yeah.

Goldmine: How much stuff do you have in the
can from those days, if any?
Alan Price: No, I don't think there is any. We were
very sparing.
Eric Burdon: We've never received any royalties for
some of those early club recordings that have come
out since.

Eric Burton: We realized that Chas was a much

better worker than me, that he did the better job.
We manufactured the first flat board guitar in
England, I think.

Alan Price: We're actually taking all of those people

to court.
Eric Burdon: I remember one night with sonny Boy
Williamson and he was so drunk and playing
drums. They put that out as a track saying "Chicago
drums by sonny Boy Williamson". Absolutely silly.
We never see anything for that shit and it's been
released time and time again.

Goldmine: There are a few different versions of

where the name the Animals came from. One is
that Graham Bond gave it to you. Another is that
the fans gave it to you because they said you
played like a bunch of animals.

Goldmine: When the group first came to the

States in 1964, after House Of The Rising Sun
has gone to number one, you took a lot of heat
for your appearance. The Beatles were
supposed to be real clean-cut and then here
came the scruffy Animals. Did that bother you
or did it help because of the publicity you were
getting from it?

Eric Burdon: There was a gang, and unlike the

American
equivalent,
they
couldn't
afford
motorcycles. They got together on weekends and
went around from 80 to 100 strong. We joined them
from time to time but we weren't like full-fledged
killer members. We were musicians and they loved
us. Anyway, they had a leader who was called
Animal Hog. He had just gotten out of serving in the
army and he flipped; he was your actual crazy vet.
John Steel and I, in particular, worshipped him. His
name was kicked around a lot. So one night when
we were sitting around having a pint after a show
and we needed a name, we came up with the
Animals, after him. Graham Bond had a lot to do
with the information being passed down to London
that the band was playing because he came up to
Newcastle and saw us play. He went to London and
told people down there about the band. We
exchanged gigs with the Yardbirds and they
exchanged with us and then we did the same with
the stones. From there it was just a short step into a
recording studio.

Eric Bordon: I was pissed off because we were

actually pruned. We did not need it and we didn't
want it, but somehow we ended up getting it. If the
band had been allowed to be itself it would have
been better. There were times when we had natty
suits that we looked cool in. But mostly we were
subject to some real strange business things that
the people who set up had no business setting up.
As soon as we arrived here we were offered
Wrigley's Spearmint Chewing Gum commercials.
And we weren't even allowed to write the jingles;
they wanted us to sing their jingles.

Goldmine: The first recordings you made were

auditions for Decca, but there are tapes around
of BBC broadcasts you did around the same
time.

Chas Chandler: They were still pushing those

things on us two years later. Then there was one
when we were dressed up as wolves on a TV show,
with Little Red Riding Hood. I remember singing
"The rain in Spain falls mainly on the Plain" with
Sammy Avis, Jr.

Eric Burdon: Yeah, and I just heard some of those

and was surprised at how hot the vocals sounded,
because they were done live; they sounded as hot
as the record.

Goldmine: What about some of those movies

you were in, like Get Yourself A College Girl?
Chas Chandler: (Laughs) Right! Are you ready,
Animals? Get ready, Animals!

Goldmine: The first actual release, though, was

Baby Let Me Take You Home?

1095

Eric Burdon: I guess you could say there was

nobody to blame but ourselves. But that was
normality then. We were caught in sort of a cultural
drift from one era to another.

Hilton Valentine: Mickie Most was talking about

getting it used as the signature tune for Ready,
Steady, Go! because that was on the air every
Friday. Radio wouldn't play it.

Goldmine: Was it strange to have girls

screaming at you? Here you are playing John
Lee Hooker tunes and 11-year-old girls are
screaming at you.

Alan Price: I don't remember it like this at all,

because it was a hit two weeks after it was
released. Its first 10 days of release it got no airplay.
Then it got Ready, Steady, Go! on a Friday and it
was a hit a few days later.

Hilton Valentine: People tried to think of us as

Beatles and we never even met the Beatles. But if
those girls who were screaming knew what we'd do
to them if we got a hold of them, they would've been
screaming for a different reason.

Eric Burdon: We were playing it on a Chuck Berry

tour we did and all the kids came away from the
tour remembering that song. We recorded it midtour. We did it in one take, they pressed it and
shipped it, those fans bought it and it had initial
impact. Then we did RSG, the radio wouldn't play it,
but on Saturday morning it was a hit. The next week
it was number one all the way.

Goldmine: What kind of working relationship

did you have with Mickie Most, your producer
on the early hits?

Alan Price: He was there at all the sessions.

Chas Chandler: Two weeks after that it was number

one in America, two weeks after that it was number
one in Japan.

John Steel: He was a good picker, he picked songs

well. But he wasn't an engineer or a producer.

Goldmine: What was it like the first time you

came over here?

Eric Burdon: He was the first of the new wave of

concept men in the '60s.

Eric Burdon: It was wonderful. I remember within a

few hours after we arrived in Manhattan we were
sitting around this long, round table with a bunch of
men in grey suits in this air-conditioned room. I sat
down and looked at those faces and I thought, "This
isn't what I came here for." So I got up and walked
out of the meeting and went down to the street and
got a taxi and said, "Take me to the Apollo Theater."
When I got up there the show was over, and
everything was closed. It started to rain and the taxi
driver just left me on 125th street. But I came back
the next night on time and it just blew me away; it
was great.

Hilton Valentine: We did all the work and he looked.

Hilton Valentine: A puppet king.

Chas Chandler: We sort of fell for his line: "We're in
this together, lads."
Goldmine: Somebody did their job, because the
records took off.
Eric Burdon: Oh yeah, the band made it in spite of
itself.

Goldmine: Alan, you were the first to leave. Why

did you quit?

Goldmine: Whose idea was it to release House

Of The Rising Sun as a single?

Alan Price: I was tired and confused. I was the first

to give up the struggle between the demands that
were made on us and what we were trying to
experience. We were really enjoying what we were
doing before. Then when we turned professional
and had a major success, demands were made on
us and they never took into account what we felt, or
what we wanted to play, or even what our ideas
were. Decisions were made on our behalf without
our even knowing about it. It had a castrating effect.
If you start in music because you want to express
yourself, and all of a sudden you've done the hard
part and you've got that, and you're still not allowed
to express yourself... it's like when people get

Chas Chandler: We fought our manager and our

producer for weeks to convince them to allow us to
record that. And to give Mickie Most his due, the
day after we recorded it, he rang us back and said it
was the single.
Goldmine: Were you surprised at how well it
did?
Alan Price: I knew it was a monster right away. I
remember Hilton always saying it was definitely a
hit.

1096

married and start out and want a house. They get it

and fill it with furniture and then they sit down and
say to the walls, "Talk to me." That's what I felt like:
a guy in this band who'd gone through all this shit
and made number one, and I still wasn't happy at
all. It went on, and all we did was gigging and
gigging and I hated it. It might have been because
of my conception of what being a professional
musician was. So I bailed out at the first available
opportunity.

and I walked right into Slade. I produced and

managed them for 12 years.
Goldmine: How did you hook up with them?
Chas Chandler: I walked into a club one night and
they were playing. A friend of mine had told me I
ought to see the band so I did.
Goldmine: Why do you think Slade never caught
on in America, although they were huge in
Europe?

Goldmine: John, you were next to leave. Why

did you drop out?

Chas Chandler: America was going through some

hard times then, don't forget, and had lost its sense
of humor. From Vietnam to Watergate. But
everywhere else they were huge. At one time in
Australia, they were one, two, three, four and five
on the singles charts, and one, two, three on the
albums charts. They had a song called Merry
Christmas, Everybody that was number one for
eight months; it was still up there in August!

John Steel: It was '66, I think. I was just pissed off

because it seemed we never stopped touring but at
the same time we never seemed to have a lot of
money. I remember once coming out of the Ready,
Steady, Go! studios and wondering if I was going to
be able to catch the tube home. Then Mickie Most
drove up in his first Rolls Royce, and he rolled down
the window and said, "Can I give you a lift?" I just
said "Piss off!" He looked very perplexed.

Goldmine: Hilton, what did you do after leaving

the
Animals?
Hilton Valentine: I just stayed around London for a
while. I was quite spaced out in those days! I kept
trying to call Eric every time he came back to
England because he owed me some money. I'd
been writing some songs, some peace and love
kinds of things, kind of Donovanish. I went into the
studio to record them and made a solo album. After
that, I had a few bands here and there.

Chas Chandler: Hilton and I dropped out next. It

was the same thing. We were just sitting in a bar
somewhere, I think it was in France, and we said
"This isn't what it used to be." We signed up for
another tour and then two days before the tour
started I met up with Jimi Hendrix and I knew what I
was going to do when the tour finished. When it
was over I just walked away from it.
Goldmine: Where did you discover Hendrix?

Goldmine: John, what did you do?

Chas Chandler: In Greenwich Village, a place
called the Caf Wha. A friend of mine came up to
me at a place called Ondine's and said I had to see
this guy. So I went the next afternoon and he was
playing a showcase with a couple of guys he'd just
met. I had just heard a record by a guy named Tim
Rose, called Hey Joe. I decided when I got back to
England I was going to find someone to record the
song and when I went to see Hendrix that day, the
first song he was playing was Hey Joe.

John Steel: Fled north for about 18 months. Then

we did a one-off reunion for a charity in Newcastle.
By that time Chas had his management company
and he asked me to come and work for him. Then
the two of us concentrated on breaking Slade. I was
with Chas for about 10 years after that.
Goldmine: How did the 1977 reunion album
come about?

Goldmine: Had he developed his act and his

look by then, or was he just some guy playing
great guitar in a bar?

John Steel: That was just a half-hearted one-off

thing. Circumstances were that I was working with
Chas, and Eric came over to Europe for the first
time in a while. Alan happened to be free. I think it
was the head of Polydor Records who dropped the
idea and it took root. We got Hilton in from
California and borrowed the Rolling Stones' mobile
(recording studio). But nobody was committed to
going out and promoting it so we made it and flung
it out there to see if anybody would buy it and then
went back to what we were doing before.

Chas Chandler: He was just playing with this young

runaway named Randy California. He wanted me to
take Randy to London as well, but he was just a 15year-old runaway, so I couldn't quite get him a work
permit. So we just went to England and started
looking for musicians to form a band. I stopped
working with Jimi about a month before he started
Electric Ladyland, intending to drop out for awhile,

1097

Goldmine: It must have been strange to pick up

a pair of sticks after not playing for so long.

Eric Burdon: Right.

Goldmine: Why did you decide to base yourself
in California? Was it because you were attracted
to the hippie scene at the time?

John Steel: No, I'd been playing drums in a good

little group in London even while I was working with
Chas.

Eric Burdon: It was warm. I felt at home in

California.

Goldmine: As a drummer, how do you feel about

the electronic drums that are used on so many
records today?

Goldmine: But you did become pretty involved

in the hippie thing.

John Steel: I don't even know what some of the

electronic stuff does anymore. And some of the
colossal drum kits these guys use; I wouldn't know
what to do with something like that. I think Charlie
Watts and I have a similar attitude about drums and
music; we play simple stuff on small, basic kits.

Eric Burdon: Not really. I jetted in and out all the

time. I made a lot of friends there but I was never
really part of the Frisco scene. I just passed through
it.
Goldmine: What do you remember about
playing the Monterey Pop Festival in '67?

Goldmine: You have a new album out on IRS

Records, Ark. Who's writing the material on it?

Eric Burdon: I remember a lot about it. For me, it

was like religious festival in a way. It was a true high
point of the '60s vision of having a music/religion
festival. You had Ravi Shankar coming out and
telling everybody to put out their joints and they did.
They stopped doing the one thing that they'd come
there to celebrate. I didn't really get a chance to see
too much of the festival because I was involved
checking out what was going on in the hotel. But I
went out front for Otis Redding and it was very
emotional because he'd just gotten into the black
power thing and here he was in front of a white
audience. I understood what he was going through.
When he was on it was pouring rain. I remember I
didn't get cold though. I was standing next a strange
chick, who I later found out was an English actress.
We just held hands. The whole thing was like that; it
was unreal. And Hendrix was unbelievable.

John Steel: Mostly Eric, in collaboration with various

partners he'd worked with.
Goldmine: Will you be doing a video?
John Steel: Eric is very keen on that idea, so we're
going to try to get something together.
Goldmine: How many records is the IRS deal
for?
Eric Burdon: Two; this one and a live album.
Goldmine: Will the live one be all new material?
Eric Burdon: By the time was we get to it it could
be. We have material we didn't put on this album.

Goldmine: How do you feel now about your

Winds Of Change album, and the songs San
Franciscan Nights and Monterey?

Goldmine: You mentioned earlier that you're

making a film of this event.

Eric Burdon: I quite like them. You know, I hear this

jive all the time about being part of flower power,
but yeah, sure, I hung out in Haight-Ashbury and
dropped a lot of acid like a lot of people did. There
were periods when it sort of flopped over into
recording. But in our live gigs we stayed true to
being a rock 'n' roll. The band. We played loud,
psychedelic rock 'n' roll. The bands were quite
good. It got carried away when we got into the
studio. Who doesn't, you know? There's photo of
me lying on the floor of the recording studio with the
microphone cord strangling me, among Barry
Jenkins's drum kit, which was destroyed. And I
thought it was supposed to be peace, love and
brotherhood.

Eric Burdon: Right, I wanted to film the New York

concert but it didn't come together in time. But also
realized we should wait until later in the tour when
the band had fused together more and the material
had been expanded upon. We were up against time
with this last album; I was still writing as we were
going to tape. I'm happy with the result though.
Goldmine: Eric, before we asked everyone what
they did after leaving the Animals. What did you
do right after the original band split up? Did you
form the second version, Eric Burdon and the
Animals?

1098

Goldmine: How did the last Animals break up

and how did you become involved with War?

was hell on the road but I got some good stories out
of it.

Eric Burdon: We just started smoking a lot of dope

and said "This is better than working." We all looked
in our pockets and said we had enough money to
buy dope for the next year so we got a big house in
Belair and we laid back and smoked bales of it. We
made home movies and had a lot of laughs. I
stayed in Laurel Canyon and did naughty things
until I ran out of money. I was living with this chick
and I started her making pillowcases for both of us
to survive. She walked into a record company with
one of her pillowcases and my name came up and
the guy she talked to happened to be Jerry
Goldstein. He had a band called Nite Shift who
were looking for a new singer and we got together
and called it War.

Goldmine: Earlier today you mentioned that

there's no reason you can't still be playing when
you're in your 70s or 80s because people like
Muddy Waters did it.
Eric Burdon: Yeah, but I want to do something
different, man. I think I've given enough time to this
particular form of expression. I don't want to stop
but in order to do something else you must stop for
awhile. The other times that I stopped was out of
sheer frustration and hatred for the business and
because of all the lies that I was told.
Goldmine: When you started out with the
Animals, your purpose was to bring the music
of your heroes the blues players to a new
audience. Now the Animals are heroes to a
generation. Many of the people who came to see
you on this tour have never seen the Animals
and some weren't even born yet when you were
playing back in Newcastle. Then you have
people like David Johansen and Tom Petty
covering Animals songs. How does that make
you feel?

Goldmine: Why did you only stay with War for

two albums?
Eric Burdon: I never intended to be with War for too
long. That's why It was Eric Burdon and War. As
soon as I heard their own music evolving in the
studio I realized it was time for me to move over.
What held me there that long was that the people
who put War together supposedly had a Jimi
Hendrix movie and they told me if I put War
together and had a million selling record, I could
have the movie. But it turned out they didn't even
own it.

Eric Burdon: It's ok. I'd be complaining if they did

bad versions of them. I think the David Johansen
one suffers from lack of rearrangement.
Goldmine: You've rearranged some of your own
songs. When you played last year with the
Texan band, Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood
had a reggae chorus and House Of The Rising
Sun was totally reworked to be spontaneous.

Goldmine: Didn't Hendrix die right after playing

a set with you and war?
Eric Burdon: He came down and jammed with War
on a Monday night and on Wednesday night that
was it. That broke my nerve, it broke my belief in
the business and in everything and everybody.

Eric Burdon: They were new arrangements but

what was good too was that the songs still
meant something to the people hearing them.

Goldmine: One of your solo albums was a

collaboration with blues singer Jimmy
Witherspoon. How did that come about?

Goldmine: And I'm sure they always will. Thanks

for your time.

Eric Burdon: I was hanging out in L.A. getting

stoned and I ran into Jimmy and he said "Let's
make a record together." We played a lot of gigs
together for the prisons in California.

Jeff Tamarkin, 1983

Eric Burdon:

Welcome Home

Goldmine: We're running out of time here, so if

you can boil down your solo career during the
'70s into one highlight, what would it be?

Chris Charlesworth, Melody Maker, 11 August 1973

Eric Burdon: There weren't any highlights. The

highlight will be the book I started then, if I ever
complete it. I wrote about being out there in the '70s
on the road while most people stayed at home. It

THE 'PHONE DOESN'T stop ringing in Eric

Burden's room at the Holiday Inn at Swiss Cottage.

1099

So many people, explains Katie from Island

Records, are just ringing up to say hello because
he's back in town.

that would have a total act with high energy and a

soft edge too.
"It's influenced by Ray Charles at his peak when he
could get country and western and jazz and rhythm
and blues and gospel and fuse it into one. Basically
that's what I'm trying to get over. I spent some time
with a guitar player in Los Angeles called John
Stirling and he wrote some songs for me, and we
do three or four Animals songs and some War
things.

Eric sprawls on the bed and talks and talks and

talks. When you converse with Eric you need go no
further than start the ball rolling. Eric does the rest
and today he's got a lot to talk about. It's two years
since he was in Britain and there's much to catch up
on.
Four years in America and Eric hasn't changed one
bit. Maybe he's wiser now and, of course, he's a
little older, but inside his tough physique is the
same squat guy that came down from Newcastle
eight years ago to sing for his supper. He's still a
trifle scruffy, with jeans and a tee-shirt and
uncombed hair. He could be working in a demolition
gang, juggling with a pick-axe instead of a
microphone.

"We have made some recordings on my mobile unit

in LA just so that we could play it back and see
what, if anything, was wrong. The next thing as far
as I am concerned is to do the same thing visually
on video-tape and look at ourselves. We want to
build a visual act as well."
The new Eric Burden hasn't signed with any record
company. Instead be has plans to form his own
company which will probably be distributed through
UA in the States. "I'm still checking these things out.
I had so much pain with MGM. I don't want to go
through that again so the logical step is to have my
own label."

The broad, deep Geordie accent is still there too.

And the lines on his face let you know that he's
been around, seen some action in his thirty-odd
years. Once a rock and roll singer, always a rock
and roll singer, and rock and roll singers can tell
some tales.

He is full of enthusiasm for the new band to such an

extent that he maintains it's the first group he's ever
been seriously involved with.

So what brings you back to London, Erie?

"To make some money. To make some music. To
see my parents in Newcastle and take my wife up
there to meet them. To fuse the group creatively
and tighten it up," he replies.

"I attempted to be seriously involved with War, but it

didn't work out. I didn't try to be seriously involved
with the Animals because I was drunk all the time
and that was a case of singing for my supper.

The European tour with the group, Eric explains, is

a warm-up period for a big US tour in the near
future. The group Aalon Butler (guitar), Randy
Rice (bass) and Alvin Taylor (drums) are making
their debut over here. They've been rehearsing
together for the past three months in the States.

"The initial blast of the New Animals was nice and I

can look back at the albums and think I would like
to re-record some of the material. I hear good ideas
on them, but musically they're not as tight as I
would liked them to have been. We did so much
work on the road, working to keep the money
flowing in and we didn't have the brains to see it
any other way. I was just a workhorse, trucking
away like a pit poney not knowing what was
happening.

"Aalon has been with Little Richard and Isaac

Hayes and various other groups, Randy hasn't
played with anyone before and the drummer, Alvin,
also played with Little Richard. He's done session
work for Stevie Wonder, Billy Preston and a whole
bunch of others. He was a session man in LA for a
long time and it was hard to get him to knuckle
down and work for me because he was earning
thousands of dollars a week from sessions.

"With my experience with War, I realised after a

while that they were on one trip and I was on
another. They are so unique in their own way that I
can see now how I didn't communicate with them.
The reason I joined in the first place was all part of
my basic search for American blackness.

"I think people are going to be pretty tripped out

with the group. Last night I met Zoot Money and he
was really surprised that it was only a four piece
group. It has a high level output, but the reason I
put it together was to construct a rock and roll group

"The American black that I relate to is more of the

age of Jimmy Witherspoon and John Lee Hooker
than the young American black. To the young black,
blues doesn't mean anything except bad memories

1100

and heartaches of when they were children. Lonnie

Jordan, the organist with War who's the best
musician in the group, first heard the blues when
his parents were arguing and he doesn't want to
relate to that time.

16mm equipment shooting a film about themselves

and they've had an offer from UA to do a TV series
called Ghetto Man, a sort of comedy series based
on the group."
Next week Eric and group are off to Cologne to
record and film themselves in studio.

"To the young English, blues means sensuality,

blackness, sexuality and beautiful pictures but to
the young black American that's bullshit and that's
why War wanted to break away from it. War are
important to the young black in America today for
that reason, they are into a whole new form of
music which isn't the kind I was looking for. So in
lots of ways War and myself were at cross
purposes.

"We will know then what sounds and looks good so

by the time we are on the road in America we
should be able to put on an audio-visual act, like a
theatrical touring company. This trip is a warm-up
as technically we're behind. We're lacking
equipment. I've not got a decent PA system. The
one I'm using is a Mickey Mouse homemade thing
because I didn't have fifty thousand dollars loose to
pay out to buy a PA. Musically and spiritually the
group is together though."

"When I came over with them to do the gig in Hyde

Park and the season at Ronnie Scott's Club, there
were too many bad things on my mind anyway. Too
many friends had died and I was taking too much
dope. There wasn't enough music so that whole
period is now a very bad memory. To get away from
it all, I caught a 'plane to California and went to bed
for a long time."

Eric scoffs at any ideas about the Animals

reforming, and says he hasn't seen his old Animal
colleagues recently.
"I spoke to Chas on the telephone when I arrived.
I'm not interested in any reforming of the group. The
standard of musicians I have gone through since
the Animals leaves them miles behind.

When he emerged Eric went to acting school for six

months. Films have interested him and this was a
positive step to get into the movie business, but he
gave it up when his teachers wanted him to learn
ballet.

"When the Animals arrived, it was part of a unique

explosion of groups. All those groups, the Beatles,
the Stones, the Animals and loads more arrived on
the crest of a wave. They weren't really talented
musicians at the time although many have grown
talented since. The standard of musicianship in the
group now is far above their level and even in War,
where I didn't totally fit in, the standard was far, far
superior to the Animals. But the unique thing we
had going in the Animals could never be re-created.

"Funnily enough right now I am sorry I turned it

down because I wish I had the training in ballet so
that I could do it on stage. The exercise, movement
and control it gives you is fantastic. I may get round
to it again.
"I've always wanted to be in films but it's hard to
make it. I've had offers but I've been jived around a
lot too and it's hard to assess what's real and what's
not. The director of Performance wanted me but it
came to nothing and when I saw the movie I was
glad I didn't. I talked with Antonioni about a part in
Blow Up but he wanted to use me as a prop in a
scene in a club where a group was playing. In the
end the Yardbirds did it. He talked to me again
about Zabriski Point and didn't realise he was
talking to the same guy. He gave me the same jive
all over again.

"To me it would be taking a giant step backwards to

think about reforming the group. The oldies but
goldies attitude is something I could never involve
myself in. It disturbs me if I can't get my new music
across, and if I could get it across I'd stop working."
Jimmy Witherspoon is over with Eric at the moment
playing as guest artist on Eric's shows playing with
a young white jazz group.
"Spoons was going to go back to the States after
the German gigs but the show with both of us
developed too such an extent that I arranged for
him to play the Marquee too.

"I really began to realise how much bullshit there is

in the film business and if you want to get into it
seriously, you've got to study and work hard for
years and control your own statement. I designed
this group with the purpose of being a creative unit
for films as well as stage. We want to create stories
from it. The one influence I left with War was my
interest in films. They're now on the road with

"I pride myself that I can communicate with these

people. A long time ago I managed to communicate
with Chuck Berry who is known as a really mean

1101

uptight guy, but I had a few meals with him and

talked and got on fine."

The set features old and new material, but

inevitably the best reactions come with the Animals
songs. 'Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood' has the
crowd singing along to the chorus, and for the finale
Eric gives us a new arrangement of 'House Of The
Rising Sun', more dramatic than the Animals million
seller but just as potent.

Why did Eric choose to go and live in Los

Angeles?... "Because of the movies. Old Hollywood
might be dead and gone or there might be some
bits of if left, but it's still the only place in the world
where you can turn on television 24 hours a day
and still see movies. You can see All Quiet On The
Western Front at least once every six months, while
in Newcastle I had to wait two years for the Film
Society meetings to show it. That aspect still flips
me out.

And throughout it all Eric sweats up there on the

stage like he did eight years ago. He still sways
against the mike stand in that familiar pose, leering
down at the faces and jerking his body to the left
and right as instrumental passages take over.

"But I intend to come back and live somewhere in

Europe within the next two years, maybe in
Amsterdam. America is too frantic, too hectic and
too violent. After four years I feel it's time to move.
Maybe just being on the road at the moment will
satisfy me. The relative peace that England has is
so nice after the pace of America. When I get back
to California I want to move out to the desert. I've
got a jeep and two hours drive from LA takes me
into the desert and away from everything."

Eric Burden Superstar? With this band he has his

best chance yet.
Chris Charlesworth, 1973

Obituary: Chas Chandler

Keith Altham, Mojo, September 1996

Eric Burdon had the temerity to scribble the new

loggia hed designed for the Animals all over my
virginal blotter. Bass player Chas caught my
petulant sigh and turned his attention to Eric. "Draw
some big ones for him, mon; he cannae get any
impression from the little squiggles." We laughed
and kept on laughing over 30 years.

WARDOUR STREET, the same evening: There are

crowds outside the Marquee Club being turned
away which doesn't happen all that often these
days but tonight sees the return of Eric. Not since
he played a week at Ronnie Scotts in nearby Frith
Street has Eric entertained at home. At 9 pm Eric is
sipping beer in the Ship, Jim Witherspoon is playing
on stage.

Chas (Bryan) Chandler learned management at the

best school in the world, under the tutelage of Mike
Jeffreys (who managed The Animals) and shrewd
producer Mickie Most. He learned where the money
went and how the cake could be carved up more
fairly between the manager and the artist. He
coupled this experience with an unshakeable belief
in his artists, and discovered, managed and
produced both the greatest electric guitarist of the
millennium in Jimi Hendrix and the most
entertaining chart band of the 70s in Slade.

Inside the club, the atmosphere is electric because

everyone knows something is going to happen this
evening, like the return of a prodigal son. It's hot
and sticky and kids are sitting on the floor in the
corridors too lazy to move in the heat. In the bar
Chas Chandler is the only ex-Animal to be seen.
Chas once told me that if any of the old Animals
ever fell on hard times they could always find a
helping hand from one of the others from the group.
That's what years together on the road do for you,
he said.

He was one of those big men with unlimited energy

whod sweep you along with the force of his
conviction. It was this genuine enthusiasm for talent
which convinced him to take the gamble on a
relatively unknown black guitarist called Jimmy
James, who was earning his bread playing in
backing bands, and whom Chas saw performing
solo at the Club Wha? in Greenwich Village, New
York, just as the Animals were disbanding.

There's a huge cheer as Eric comes on looking his

mean, moody self, bare chested under a red
unbuttoned shirt. The band takes off into 'We've
Gotta Get Out Of This Place' and the crowd just
loves it. The music is really fine, tighter than the
Animals or War ever were and controlled in the
extreme. Butler, his guitarist, is a dead ringer for
Hendrix with his Afro-hair and headband, and
drummer Taylor lays down a rhythm with superb
concentration.

"Jimi sat down at a small table with me, wearing a

black shirt, black trousers, black leather shoes and
no socks. He was shy but amusing and intelligent
and when he got up and played Tim Roses Hey
Joe, which unbeknown to him I already had an

1102

obsession with. I knew we were meant to work

together. He played like Clapton with an extra pair
of hands."

because he gave us the confidence that was born

of his own," says Noddy. "He goaded Jim Lea and I
into writing for ourselves and took us through the
bad patches. He was a big man in all senses of the
word and the most persuasive man we ever met."

Chas recognised the pain and anger struggling to

surface though Jimis music. He sold his own guitar
collection and gambled everything on bringing
Hendrix to England in 1965 and setting him loose.
He organised a jam at Ronnie Scotts with Eric
Clapton. Jimi got halfway through Killing Floor and
Clapton left the stage and went back to the
dressing-room. Chas worried that he had somehow
been offended, and found Eric with his head
backstage and a cigarette on red alert. "You didnt
tell me he was that fucking good, did you?" said
Clapton. Chas knew he was well on the way to
establishing Hendrix as the new God.

Chass great dream for his home town was a

10,000 seater auditorium which he part-owned and
conceived and opened as the Newcastle Arena last
year. It is his legacy to fellow Geordies, enabling
them to see the best rock music in the world.
Chas was my friend for 33 years and I miss him like
I would a brother.
Keith Altham, 1996

Grim Reporter - July 2003

Hard drugs were the bane of Chass life, although

hed only flirted briefly with hallucinogens himself.
Hed quickly decided they were mind-destroying
rather than expanding and believed drugs had
ruined the relationship between the Animals. It was
Hendrixs move onto harder drugs that caused their
split after Chas had produced his first three major
albums. "There was this dreadful collection of
hangers-on and dealers who would drift into
Electric Ladyland in New York and I could not deal
with his sense of unreality, so I just walked away.
My one regret is that he was a good friend and I
sometimes wonder if hed still be alive if I had not
gone."

Phast Phreddie Patterson, Rock's Backpages,

July 2003
Phast Phreddie Patterson on those gone but not
forgotten
British record producer Mickie Most (64) died of
cancer in London on May 30. Starting around 1964,
he was one of Englands most successful makers of
pop records for about 20 years.
Michael Peter Hayes was born on June 20, 1938 in
Aldershot, England. He dropped out of school when
he was 15 and was a member of The Most
Brothers, a '50s UK rocknroll act. He married a
South African woman and, in 1959, they moved to
her homeland, where he fronted The Playboys and
scored several hits by covering American songs. He
returned to England in 1962, but his lack of success
as a singer forced him to turn his energies
elsewhere.

There is an apocryphal story, much repeated, of

how Jimi allegedly phone Chas at home on the
night of his death leaving a message that he badly
neede